The Silencer

by mmdaesatra

Summary:

They call me many names.

All of them fit. None of them know me.

Somewhere between the taking and the training, I misplaced my soul. Or perhaps they carved it out, one command at a time.

Now I am the pause before the scream.

The shadow before the end.

The silence that follows.

But silence remembers. And so do I.

Notes:

Hello everyone! I hope you enjoy my attempt at writing. I love playing video games, and one of my all-time favorites is TES V: Skyrim.

Over time, I delved into and fell in love with the game's lore. Just as much as I enjoyed reading fantasy and romance books.

So, I decided to merge these passions and pour what came to mind into this story.

Some dialogue and elements in this attempt are inspired by or directly taken from the original video game dialogues of TES V: Skyrim. These references are woven into the narrative to honor the rich lore and atmosphere of the game.

Please also note that English is not my first language, so there may be some imperfections in the text.

Thank you!

Chapter 1: Chapter 1

---

 

1E, 143

The God of Luck once more flipped the golden coin and kept his gaze fixed on it as it fell. 

As the golden coin fell, a loud cry of a baby filled the room. A room dwemer made, a room in Fahlbtharz. 

“Hush now,” his hopeless whispers were ignored by the baby.

“Give her here, Sai.”

“That never worked before, you know.” He replied to the woman. But the woman was insistent, 

“It worked perfectly, you know.” 

The Lord of Luck fell silent, not speaking anymore. And he let The Lady of The Dreams, Vaermina, wrap the crying baby in her arms. 

To silence her, for four eras to come.

 

---

 

4 E, 187

 

I remember the sun's rays reflecting off the soldiers' golden helmets, their gleam almost magical. I blinked a few times rapidly, enraptured by the sight. My gaze shifted to meet my mother's, and a sudden wave of fear washed over me. One of the soldiers, clad in resplendent elven armor, stepped forward, a sly grin playing on his lips. His bronze eyes bore into me, as if he could see my very soul and was eager to consume it.

At eight years old, I was as innocent and trusting as any child.

"Niolenyl!" My mother's urgent, silent scream made me turn to face her again. Her hand stretched out towards me, her slender frame trembling, as it always did when she was distressed. The fear of upsetting her was a unique burden I seemed alone to carry in our family.

My eyes darted towards the porch and the front door of our tree house, searching for my father or one of my brothers. Suddenly, a cold touch on my cheek halted me. I didn't flinch, but I felt frozen in place.

The unseen hand turned my face in the direction it desired, and in bewilderment, I allowed it.

Fire flickered in the elf's eyes, sending chills down my spine. My eyes widened, but I dared not look away. "What a lovely name," the high elf spoke with an accent that then seemed almost whimsical, and I remember smiling.

"Thank you," I murmured, feeling my cheeks flush with warmth.

"Tell me, Niolenyl," his finger trailed off my cheek as he began, "do you love your mother?" He tucked a strand of my hair behind my ear and held my gaze, expectantly.

His question silently ignited the flame of my first ever doubts and fears. As an eight-year-old, I harbored as many heartaches as any other child.

My thoughts began to whirl, memories of my mother flooding in. There she stood, both in my memory and beneath the gate of our house, with her emerald eyes, always braided long brown hair, and the freckles that graced her face.

I looked nothing like her.

"I do," I replied, my voice trembling.

My answer made the elf's grin widen into a more sinister expression. He straightened, making me look up at him as the sun's rays once again dazzled my eyes.

"Please!" My mother's plea resonated as she took a few hesitant steps towards me and the elf. "She is but a child."

Her words echoed in my mind, filling me with confusion about what she was pleading for. As one of the soldiers behind the leader reached for his sword, my mother continued her advance, undeterred.

She was fearless, as always.

Only when the sword was drawn inches from her nose did she halt. Her gaze momentarily flickered back to the house before returning to the elf leader.

"Please, she will be of no use to you."

The leader raised an eyebrow and turned his piercing gaze to me, his eyes now glowing with an almost demonic intensity. "She is far from ordinary, and you know it," he hissed.

As I stepped back, I collided with what I thought was a wall and stumbled to the ground. It was not a wall but the tallest of the soldiers, standing as still and imposing as a stone tower. It was a woman of ethereal beauty. "I-I'm sorry," I stammered, rising to my feet, but the woman's brown eyes remained cold and emotionless.

"Come now, Niolenyl," the leader extended his hand, his tone now devoid of its former warmth, carrying an air of command and inevitability.

A loud thud echoed behind me, causing the woman to stumble back, her golden winged helmet dented on the left side. 

“Leave her alone!” The voice was unmistakable. Elamoril, my friend—perhaps the only friend I had—stood perched in a tree, a rock poised in his hand.

My heart swelled with warmth. For a fleeting moment, I believed he could scare away the soldiers with mere stones.

 

“Elamoril!” His mother’s voice rang out as she hurried towards us. “Please,” she begged, mirroring my own mother’s pleas, “Forgive us. My son is a troubled child.” She fidgeted with her wrists, avoiding the soldiers' gazes. Her distress mirrored my mother’s.

I didn’t understand much back then. All I saw were the soldiers' gleaming armor, their golden winged helmets, and their elegant steeds. I remember feeling a pang of envy.

That’s right. Envy, as much as an eight-year-old could feel.

“Get him down, now!” a soldier barked, prompting others to move toward Elamoril’s tree.

His mother’s desperate cries echoed through the forest. “Please! Mercy! My lord!”

As the soldiers advanced, Elamoril’s bright smile brought a grin to my face. But his smile soon turned to determination, as determined as an eleven-year-old could be.

He climbed higher into the tree, his fiery amber hair tied back, flickering in the light filtering through the leaves. My gaze followed him until the leaves thickened and he disappeared from view. The soldiers clambered up the tree, breaking branches in their haste. They cared little for the pact we had with the green.

A pact my family and clan lived by. My mother often said that many Bosmer had abandoned their faith in the pact, leaving only a few of us at Isinfier Plains, true to our ancestors' oath.

“Get that vermin down! Now!” another tall elf shouted.

Another thud, and a soldier in the back was knocked down by a rock. Elamoril was toying with them. He had silently jumped to another tree.

For a moment, even his mother seemed to believe he could win.

With a swift jump, he grabbed another branch, but the soldiers’ frustration grew. A silent hiss.

“Enough.”

And then there was fire.

The leader's magic set the trees ablaze with a burst from his wrists and palms. Elamoril leapt from tree to tree, but each was struck by fireballs, damaged beyond repair.

“The green,” my mother sighed in distress as the trees burned.

“Enough with the green, Yvgella!” Elamoril’s mother Sanra was furious. “That’s my son up there!”

My mother’s sorrowful eyes met hers. “I have only one son,” Sanra began, as if revealing a secret. “Unlike you.”

My mother’s face paled.

A crash distracted us as a pine tree cracked and caught fire. Elamoril jumped down with his hands up, and a soldier grabbed him by the nape, causing everyone to gasp.

“Please!” His mother’s plea went unheard by the elves.

Elamoril’s fragile body was thrown at their leader’s feet. After a long silence, the leader smirked, “Impressive,” he said. “Take these two.”

Screams and gasps of the crowd quickly silenced as the leader approached my mother, placing a hand on her shoulder.

“The Thalmor send their gratitude for your donations."

My mother remained silent, but Elamoril’s mother did not. “No!” She managed a few steps before a sword was at her chest. “You can’t take my son!” she begged. “Not because he threw some rocks!”

I pulled at my mother’s hand, but she didn’t look at me. 

“Hers!” Sanra pleaded, gripping the sword. “Take hers!”

“Stand back!” the soldier with the sword warned, but she didn't stop.

“Please! You can’t take my son because he tried to protect his friend!” Tears welled up in her eyes. “Her daughter!”. My mother tensed as the soldiers approached. She swayed aside, and my hand slipped from her grip.

I didn’t know it then, but it was the last time I saw her face. She was indifferent, her face relaxed as the soldiers grabbed me.

“Mother!” I called. “Please! Mother! No!”

But she remained stone-faced, emotionless.

My eyes searched desperately for my father as I was dragged toward Elamoril. “She has—” Elamoril’s mother’s pleas were cut short by the sword's push. Tears trailed down her face, matching my own.

“It’s just not fair!” she cried.

“Mother!” Elamoril shouted. “I will be fine!” He smiled brightly at her. “Just be there for dad and Cassinalda. They need you.”

“Uhh..” one of the soldiers grunted. “Dramatic.”

It was dramatic and terrifying. To be taken so easily as my mother watched. Without goodbyes from my father and brothers. The burden of my thoughts weighed heavily on my shoulders for the first time in my life. 

As they put us in a carriage filled with other Bosmer children, I felt horror. Elamoril’s embrace warmed me, hiding my tears as I wept. 

His cracking voice reassured me as we were taken. 

“I am here. And I always will be.”

 

To be continued...

Chapter 2: Chapter 2

As I looked up, the four towers loomed enormous before me, the Dominion's banners draping ominously from their sides. Our carriage stopped at the gate, and before I could take in the sight, Elamoril pulled me down with a cold glare that cut deeper than any blade.

"Is that all?" an elf at the gate asked, pointing at us—children orphaned for reasons beyond our understanding. Years later, I would grasp why they inflicted such horror on us. In their twisted logic, they believed they were forging us into something stronger.

Leaning toward Elamoril, I whispered, "What are they going to do to us?"

His lips pressed into a thin line as he considered his response. "I don’t know. But as long as we stick together, we can survive and return home."

His naive hope mirrored mine. Maybe, just maybe, if we played along and endured everything, we could earn our freedom.

What we failed to realize was that we had been torn from our home for good. "Donations," the Altmer had called us, and donations were never returned.

I vividly recall our first night in that castle with its four imposing towers. Inside, it was not as dark and foreboding as the exterior suggested. The walls were adorned with dark blue and golden wallpaper, and shelves brimming with books and candles lined the hall. Marble staircases, four on each wall of the hall, glimmered with a golden hue in the soft light. I felt a fleeting sense of astonishment.

We were led down the stairs, and it was then that Elamoril and I were separated for the first time. We were taken down different staircases to a bathhouse as elegant as the hall above. For a moment, I felt a temporary relief from the grief of losing my family. We were given clean beds, fresh clothes, and, surprisingly, separate rooms. After years of living in the small, crowded home with my family, I felt a profound loneliness in that spacious room.

As I surveyed the space, a single tear slipped down my face, its trace cold as winter.

"Get dressed and leave the room in five minutes."

The first command echoed through the hall. The first of many to come. 

We obeyed, and five minutes later, all the doors of the wide hallway swung open. We were given dark blue trousers and white tunics adorned with golden stripes on the sleeves and shoulders. New and comfortable boots and leather gloves we were given also surprisingly became the most comfortable things I had ever worn.

As I looked in the mirror after dressing, I felt like a different person. These clothes were nothing like the rags I used to wear.

We were all taken back to the hall, now filled with children and teens of various ages. They wore similar clothes but in different colors, their faces showing a range of emotions as they stared at us.

Hate, disgust, resentment. I didn't recognize those expressions until I saw them in their eyes.

In the center, on a small stage, stood a rostrum with an elderly Altmer behind it. His gaze held an expression I couldn’t yet name.

As we lined up, I saw Elamoril on the opposite side with other male mer. His smile rekindled my heartbeat, and I couldn’t help but smile back, reminded of my home.

"Welcome to Clamcora," the elder Altmer's voice was deep but devoid of warmth.

"You are here under the order of the Dominion. This is your family and home from now on. You are all descended from the blood of our cousins who re-founded it with us. Today, we once more accept your contribution to our cause with great pride. For many years, you will be trained to serve the interests of the Thalmor and our great Dominion. Be proud of yourselves, be proud of our Dominion.

Now eat, drink, and be in bed at the designated time. For tomorrow, you will begin a journey that will test you, improve you, and make you the best you can be."

As he finished, his eyes gleamed with a golden hue, and his fist clenched around the edge of the rostrum. He knew many of us were too young to understand his words, but he also knew that the more he repeated them, the more we would believe. And then, serve blindly.

From that day forward, my life was never the same.

As I lay on my bed, crying, all I wished for was to return home. To the green. But every time I opened my eyes, all I saw was the endless darkness threatening to consume me.

After that night, I cried each and every night that followed.

The first year was the harshest. We had to get used to eating all kinds of food. Objections were dismissed whenever we were offered vegetables. The Thalmor didn’t care about the pact of the Bosmer outside Valenwood. All that mattered to them was that we ate everything on our plates. Eating vegetables often made most of us sick, but refusing food meant punishment.

We learned what punishment was in our first week when an instructor beat an initiate with his belt for being late. None of us dared to break the rules after that.

We endured hours of lectures about the Thalmor, their beliefs in mer supremacy, and their enemies. But deep down, we knew nothing would change what they had done to us.

I hated that first year, barely catching glimpses of Elamoril during physical and weapon training.

My curse, as it turned out, was the bow.

The Thalmor knew that the Bosmer were unparalleled with the bow. Thus, I was pushed into more intense training to match their expectations. My mother always said that the bow was a weapon that made the Bosmer feared, that it was part of our very essence. I believed her, when I had seen young children wield the bow effortlessly, as if it were an extension of their arm, something innate.

But there I was, unable to draw an arrow.

"Try again," my instructor would always say, keeping me in class long after everyone else had left.

I remember countless days and nights spent training with the bow.

The harshness of the first year perhaps made the following years more bearable. But after a year of denial and futile attempts to find a way out, many of us nearly gave up. 

The second and third years were grueling, with our physical training becoming more demanding each day. Yet, there was some comfort in sharing this burden with Elamoril and the others. Whenever we managed to meet, he would eagerly recount his latest escape plans. I would listen with rapt attention, always fascinated by his ingenuity and relentless spirit. By the end of the second year, Elamoril had memorized every corner of the castle—except for the restricted areas. His meticulous plans were filled with such fervor and optimism that his smile was a rare beacon of warmth in our grim surroundings.

As the years went by, we were introduced to Thalmor magic. To my surprise, I found that channeling and focusing my magic through ice was the easiest for me. It was far easier to control than fire, responding to my commands with a fluid grace. Elamoril’s excitement matched my own when I shared this discovery with him, adding a spark of hope to our otherwise bleak days.

By the end of the fifth year, many of us had been thoroughly indoctrinated, becoming mere instruments for advancing the Thalmor’s interests across Tamriel. I had gained some confidence with the bow, but it still felt foreign, as though it didn’t truly belong to me. I excelled more with melee weapons like short swords and daggers. My slender frame and years of rigorous training made me swift; my body could twist and turn with ease, yet remained resilient. During our rare moments of free time, we were allowed to visit the libraries and gardens, always under the vigilant watch of the Altmer guards. Elamoril and I would seek solace beneath the trees and his hidden spots, reminiscing about our childhood and the home we had lost. Our conversations were a mix of laughter and tears, as we witnessed each other’s growth and transformation over the years.

In our sixth year, we were informed that we would begin active duty. This meant occasionally leaving the castle to carry out the Thalmor’s grim tasks such as interrogations, abductions, theft and more. I could never forget my first active duty, when I was tasked with handing tools to a torturer as he worked on some Nords untill they died screaming. Over time, the ghastly scenes and the ceaseless tide of blood became a grim routine. Each year, the horrors grew more intense, and I wrestled with sleepless nights, my mind plagued by dread of the duties to come.

I often wondered how things could possibly get worse—and then they did.

Hands, countless hands, groped me in the darkness.

By the seventh year, when I was nearly sixteen, I could feel the eyes of others following me as I walked the halls. Elamoril had grown into a formidable figure, his once youthful frame now muscular, his amber hair flowing longer, and his eyes, once ablaze, now tempered with a solemn calm.

In our eighth year, he devised the perfect escape plan. We were assigned to an active duty escorting prisoners to the Cidhna Mine. The Thalmor, ever eager to flaunt their might, always dispatched their soldiers in such missions. Elamoril instructed me to remain close and silent until he had dealt with the rest of the escort and the prisoners. Then, we would seize our chance to flee and return to the land we once called home.

I was seized by terror—not at the plan itself, but at the realization that, after eight grueling years, Elamoril still clung to the hope of returning to a place that no longer felt like home to me.

In the solitude of my thoughts, I replayed that fateful day over and over. Among the myriad horrors I had witnessed, the image of my mother’s cold, lifeless face as I was torn from her side haunted me most. I remembered searching her eyes for a glimmer of love or bravery, but all I saw was the spark of courage that had vanished with the mention of my brothers—her only treasures.

We were outfitted in gleaming golden elven armor, which shimmered with even the faintest light. Looking upon myself in that armor, I felt no thrill. Perhaps, like the others, I was simply too exhausted to feel any excitement anymore. We had become like automatons—crafted to follow orders, to serve the will of our makers, and always at the risk of being discarded for a more refined model.

 

 

---

 

4E, 194

 

“Halt,” the guard called from within the watchtower as we neared the gate of Clamcora.

“What is it, Rohlan?” Elamoril’s voice held an edge of impatience.

“I heard Alhonir sent you and Snowleaf on a babysitting mission.”

Ah, Snowleaf. I missed her dearly.

“That’s not her name,” Elamoril retorted, his voice cold as ice. “And yes, we have duty. Open the gate.”

Rohlan scoffed, dismissing the matter as he moved to raise the gate.

Once reached our meeting point, we joined the group of prisoners and the guards of the Imperial Legion. With another Thalmor. 

“It’s time you joined us,” he said, his voice dripping with condescension. Though only a few years older, he was eager to assert his supposed superiority. “I was getting rather bored with these—” 

“Surely you were expecting better company,” Elamoril cut him off.

The Altmer’s gaze flickered briefly toward me, and I caught a fleeting, fiery glint in his golden eyes before he returned to his arrogant facade. “This will have to do,” he said dismissively.

“I am Ondolemar,” he announced with undue pride. “I have business in the Keep.”

“And we are to guard you on this journey?” Elamoril’s amusement was barely concealed. “It seems rather unusual for an important officer to travel with prisoners.”

I couldn’t suppress a soft chuckle.

The road stretched over two days, and our first night was spent at Fort Sungard.  The Imperials, their faces twisted in thinly veiled disdain, filled the fort’s halls. Three Thalmor in an Imperial fort. At sixteen, I wasn’t naive; if given the chance, the Imperials would have made sure we never left.

“We have only two rooms available for the Thalmor,” a soldier declared with a detached tone after the Imperials retired to their bunks and the prisoners were herded into the dungeons.

“There are three of us,” Ondolemar said, crossing his arms,  frustration etching his features.

“We were informed of only two Thalmor,” the soldier shot back, irritation in his voice. “We prepared only two rooms. Do you want them or not?” His gaze pierced Ondolemar’s before shifting to me.

“Just give me one of the keys,” Elamoril interjected swiftly. "We’ll take one, and you can have the other.” He handed one key to Ondolemar, who took it with a cold, scrutinizing look.

As Elamoril and I made our way to our assigned room, I began to unbuckle the bracers of my armor. The room was basic— a simple bed stood in the center, with a small table by the window.

“Eh,” he shrugged, “we’ve seen worse.”

"Far worse." I agreed. 

He began to shed his armor too, and soon we were lying side by side on the narrow bed.

“Soon,” he whispered, his voice a tender promise. His eyes, green as the depths of our forest home, met mine with unspoken reassurance. “Soon, we’ll return home.”

I wanted to respond, but the words were trapped in my throat, my heart aching with unspoken longing. It was then that I first felt the frantic pounding beneath my chest. 

My feelings for Elamoril had evolved, deepened, and matured as we had. I trusted him implicitly, even though I was no longer the frightened girl he had once tried to save. I still needed him, more than I could admit.

“Are you having second thoughts?” His voice broke through the silence.

“Of course not.”

His lips curled into a knowing smirk. “I can always tell when you’re lying.”

 

 

To be continued...

Chapter 3: Chapter 3

Notes:

Content Warning:

This chapter contains graphic depictions of violence and gore. Reader discretion is advised. The scenes described may be disturbing to some readers. If you feel uncomfortable with such content, you may choose to skip this chapter or proceed with caution.

 

A hasty knocking on the door woke us. As I gazed up at the window, the first light had already washed over Skyrim’s tundras, painting the landscape in hues of soft gold and silver.

“We are leaving in fifteen. The Imperials went to get the prisoners,” Ondolemar’s voice came through, edged with frustration.

Elamoril stirred beside me, his movements slow and deliberate. As he sat up on the bed, the faint light caught in his amber hair, making it shimmer like strands of spun gold. He tied his hair back in a loose bundle, his gaze turning to meet mine.

“Today is the day.” His voice was soft, but beneath the calm surface, I sensed an undercurrent of thunderous determination.

When we resumed our journey on the road to Markarth, a heavy silence settled over our group. No one dared to speak in the presence of the Thalmor. Though I had grown accustomed to their disdain, the sting of their contempt never lessened.

As we passed Old Hroldan, Elamoril’s horse drew closer to mine. The proximity was a small comfort amidst the tension of the day.

“I'll take the front. Stay behind, remember the plan.” he whispered, his voice barely audible over the pounding of my heart. The moment had arrived, and despite my earlier confidence, a wave of silent fear washed over me, chilling me to the bone.

“Wait—” I called for him, but Elamoril had already started moving toward the soldiers at the front.

My eyes darted around. Ondolemar stood on my left, his presence a heavy reminder of the gravity of our mission. I avoided his gaze, focusing instead on the horizon as we neared the crossroad by the bridge. My heart raced, each beat echoing in my ears like a war drum.

Then, a sudden, sharp whistle.

An arrow sliced through the air from the bridge, followed swiftly by another. The second arrow struck the Imperial at the head of the line, piercing his right shoulder and sending him crashing from his horse.

The orderly march dissolved into chaos. I ducked my head, instinctively shielding myself, and looked toward the bridge. There, I saw them—men with strange, unsettling headpieces. Two, maybe three, stood poised with bows, their arrows nocked and ready. My breath caught in my throat. They had the look of predators, and we were their prey.

“Damn Forsworn!” the Imperial soldier spat, his voice sharp with anger. “Get the prisoners!” he ordered, his eyes locking onto mine with urgency.

Moving quickly, I managed to usher the prisoners to the left path, finding shelter behind a large rock. From my vantage point, I saw Elamoril, bow drawn and eyes blazing with determination, taking aim at the Forsworn on the bridge.

As I scanned the area, my heart raced. From beneath the bridge, two Forsworn bandits, clad in their distinctive patchwork armor adorned with feathers and bones, came charging toward us. My hand flew to the hilt of my sword, still unnamed, felt like an extension of my will, a silent promise of protection.

Behind me, the prisoners huddled, their chains clinking softly. I knew they clung to a fragile thread of hope, a desperate desire to return to the families from whom they had been torn because of their faith in Talos. Nords, brave as they were, embodied an unyielding spirit. I knew they wished for our demise, a grim wish born of their longing to escape and the slim chance that the Forsworn might allow them to go free.

“Stay here.” I commanded, trying to mask my anxiety. But my voice betrayed me, trembling with uncertainty.

With a deep breath, I tightened my grip on the sword. With a surge of determination, I sprang up from behind the rock, charging toward the bandits. Despite the cumbersome armor with its unnecessary pieces, I moved swiftly, like a gust of wind slicing through the chaos.

“Nio!” Elamoril’s voice rang out, desperate and urgent, but I ignored it. I couldn’t stop—I wouldn’t. I needed him to see that I was more than a sheltered child, more than someone who needed protection- that I craved his acknowledgment, not his help.

My heart slowed, an eerie calm settling over me despite the chaos. I reached within, calling upon the elemental forces we had been taught to wield. The teachings came rushing back: focus on the essence, harness its purpose.

For me, it was an instinctual pull, a connection as natural as breathing. The ground beneath my feet began to change, the rough earth smoothing into a sleek, glassy surface. Ice spread out from my steps, glistening and treacherous. 

Swinging my sword with all my strength as I slid between them on the slick ice surface and I felt the blade bite into flesh. The sound was a gruesome symphony of a silent creak, followed by the visceral crunch of bone shattering. A spray of blood fanned out in a crimson arc as the bandit on my right let out a guttural scream, his leg severed cleanly from his body.

My heart pounded in my chest as momentum carried me to the lake's shore. I turned to witness the aftermath, the bandit lay sprawled in a rapidly expanding pool of his own blood, the severed limb lying a few feet away. His face was twisted in agony, eyes wide with shock and pain as he tried in vain to staunch the torrent of blood.

With a fluid motion, I spun around, locking eyes with the second bandit. His attention was momentarily drawn to the body of his fallen comrade, a mistake.

Seizing the opportunity, with a quick, practiced flick of my wrist, I sent the blade flying through the air. The dagger plunged into his left eye with a sickening squelch, the resistance of the socket giving way to the sharp steel. The sound was a nauseating blend of wetness and stickiness, accompanied by a gush of dark blood. He staggered back, before collapsing to the ground. His body twitched and then went still, leaving only the echo of his dying breaths in the frigid air.

I stood there, breathing heavily, the weight of my actions settling heavily on my shoulders. The rush of victory was tainted with the grim reality of the violence I had unleashed.

Another silent whistle sliced through the air behind my head as the Forsworn on the bridge drew another arrow to his bow. A pang of hopelessness gripped my heart. As I reached for my own bow, I knew it was too late.

A sudden sizzling sound filled the air as sparks ignited the Forsworn’s skin, cooking it in seconds. His screams echoed as he crumpled to the side, a lifeless husk. I sprinted up the hill, snatching my dagger from the body of a fallen bandit as Ondolemar, with sparks glimmering from his fingertips, unleashed a torrent of energy that struck down the remaining bandits, their bodies convulsing as the magic seared their flesh. 

"Get out of there, now!" Elamoril's voice rang out, commanding and urgent, but my eyes scanned the battlefield. "What the hell are you doing?" He grabbed my arm, shaking me with a fury that mirrored the storm within. "That was foolish. He almost got you."

"Well, I got them first." Ondolemar's arrogance seeped through his words. "Now what?"

I grasped Elamoril's hand, desperation in my gaze. "Don't." My voice was a whisper, a plea to prevent further bloodshed.

"Why?" He retorted, his brows furrowing in frustration. "This is our chance! Two of those Imperials are dead; let's deal with the rest and leave."

A shiver ran down my spine at the unyielding determination in his eyes. "They will hunt us down. They will find us—"

"Then let them!" Elamoril's voice cracked with emotion as he shoved me aside. As he began walking toward Ondolemar, I saw the dark purple sparks once more playing in the Altmer's fingertips.

"Elamoril, please!" I yelled as much as I could. "They will never let us leave!"

"That's true, you know." Ondolemar's tone was laced with arrogance as he conjured more sparks in his palm. "The Thalmor's grip is unrelenting, if they own you once, they own you for life."

Elamoril halted, a flicker of recognition in his eyes as he understood the Altmer's words. Ondolemar, like us, was young and bound by the Thalmor's invisible chains. Elamoril spat, "What do you know of my life, you dog?", drawing his long sword.

“Elamoril!” I begged, my throat burning as if it were aflame. “Please!”

Ondolemar’s gaze flicked toward me briefly, a condescending smirk forming on his lips as he crossed his arms. “If this is your grand escape plan, then you must be incredibly naive.”

“The Forsworn killed us all. That’s the story.” Elamoril hissed, advancing on Ondolemar with deliberate steps.

“And the prisoners who witnessed it? Will you kill them too?” Ondolemar's smirk widened, a mocking glint in his eyes.

Desperation surged through me. I sprinted behind Elamoril, my hand reaching out to grasp his cape, but he surged forward, his body a blur of motion. 

Ondolemar raised his hand, and crackling sparks ignited at his fingertips, ready to strike. Acting on pure instinct, I summoned my magic. The air around me chilled instantly as ice crystals formed, creating a solid wall just in time to intercept the deadly sparks. The magic clashed with the ice, sending shards flying and a wave of frigid air washing over us.

“Stop it!” I called out once more, my voice raw with urgency. “He saved my life!”

Elamoril stilled, his gaze softening but still determined, the fire in his eyes dimming slightly.

“If we escape now, where do you think they will search for us first? The Thalmor, Elamoril—they keep records of everything,” I panted, each word weighed down by desperation. “We can’t return home.” I gently cupped his face, my thumb tracing the freckles that dotted his cheek. “But we can try to be happy.”

“We can’t be happy at Clamcora.” he sighed hopelessly, his eyes a deep, stormy green.

“If you’re with me, I will find a way."

And I knew he was with me. That he would stand by my side until the very end, just as he had promised.

 

“Oh, wonderful,” a voice interrupted, dripping with frustration. The wall of ice I had conjured dissipated, revealing an Imperial soldier with crossed arms and a scowl. “Fancy elf kids throwing tantrums. Just what we need.”

 

---

 

4E, 196

 

As the ninth year of our captivity drew to a close, Elamoril rarely spoke to me, and when he did, it was as if each word was dragged from him with immense effort. It felt like he didn’t truly speak to me until the very end. His silence was a cold, unspoken testament to the distance that had grown between us.

I had always known that Elamoril cherished his freedom above all else, while I was tempted by the notion of remaining as captives in a place where we were kept fed and safe. It was a hollow comfort, but it was comfort nonetheless. I knew I too, was fractured, bent and twisted beyond repair. As much as I loathed the Thalmor, I had grown accustomed to it.

It was almost surreal that Ondolemar remained silent after everything. After we had escorted him to Markarth, and he had sworn a solemn oath never to speak of the incident, he vanished into the shadows, leaving us behind. And so, we went our separate ways.

Trusting a Thalmor we had barely known had been a folly. We had no real reason to trust him, and he had none to trust us. Yet, despite the odds, we were still alive.

 

 

To be continued...

Chapter 4: Chapter 4

4E, 196

 

“Well, well, look at what we have here, Nazir!”

A voice, sharp and unfamiliar, shattered the fragile veil of my sleep. My body tensed as if awakening from a nightmare, though I feared the nightmare was far from over.

"You’ll scare her!" Another voice, softer but no less urgent, whispered.

A warm hand clasped my wrist, its grip tightening briefly before loosening, as if testing to see if I would stir. I fought to open my eyes, but my body refused to obey, a heavy numbness weighing down every limb. 

"She is alive." the voice whispered again, closer this time, tinged with relief.

I felt a gentle pull, and then I was cradled in an embrace that was both foreign and oddly comforting. My legs dangled lifelessly, trembling as the man carried me, the warmth of his body seeping into my cold skin.

Consciousness ebbed and flowed, the world around me fading in and out like the flicker of a dying candle. I caught fragments of their conversation, muffled and distant, as if I were submerged in water.

"Do you think that was wise?" one voice questioned, tinged with doubt.

"What?"

"Taking the girl."

"The girl is coming with us." the other voice replied, firm and resolute. There was no room for argument in that tone.

Darkness swallowed me again, a deep, impenetrable void. The whispers continued, but they seemed to belong to another world, far removed from mine.

I felt something cool and wet on my forehead as I finally stirred again. I blinked, the world around me a blur of shadows and dim light. A feeble fire flickered nearby, casting long, wavering shadows on the rough walls of a cave.

My throat burned with thirst, a desperate, searing need that drove me to sit up despite the pain. My fingers fumbled for the bucket nearby, knocking over a tankard with a loud clatter. I flinched but didn’t stop, plunging my head into the bucket and drinking greedily, the water soothing my parched throat.

"By the void... what—"

The voice startled me, and I flinched again, my gaze darting to the corner where a man stood. His presence, unnoticed until now, sent a fresh wave of panic through me. I glanced around, taking in the unfamiliar surroundings—a cave, cold and damp, its ceiling adorned with jagged stalactites that dripped water onto the stone floor.

"Easy now," the man said, his voice calm, his hands held out in a gesture of peace. "We won't harm you."

But his words only fueled my fear. I didn’t know these people, didn’t know what they wanted from me. Tears welled up in my eyes, blurring my vision. I squeezed them shut, bracing myself for the worst, for the pain, the touching and the blood running down my legs.

"Girl... Elf girl," the man’s voice was gentle, his touch on my shoulder light, but it made me tense even more. I kept my eyes closed, trembling.

"We won't touch you," he repeated, a promise in his voice. "No one will ever touch you without your consent, ever again."

The sincerity in his tone, the compassion, was like a lifeline. Slowly, I opened my eyes, tears spilling down my cheeks. The man before me wasn’t an elf—his skin was dark, his features unfamiliar. A Redguard, I realized, a warrior from a distant land.

A sharp pain shot through my abdomen, and I doubled over, clutching my stomach as my legs curled up instinctively. The pain was like a knife twisting inside me, a reminder of the horrors I had endured.

“Easy,” the Redguard murmured, gently pushing me back onto the bedroll. His touch was soft, careful, as if afraid I might break.

The pain coursed through my veins, a relentless agony that seemed to tear at my very soul. It was invisible, intangible, yet more real than anything else I had ever felt.

“You will be alright,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. Tears glistened in his eyes, mirroring my own. 

Every gruesome detail of what I had endured haunted me, clinging to my mind like a shadow that refused to fade. But these two men that took me to their carriage—they had saved my life.

"Now, repeat after me, Elf girl," the other man, older, his voice tinged with wisdom and experience, spoke up. "Silence, my brother."

I didn’t understand the significance of the words. They felt like a riddle, a password exchanged in secret. The Thalmor had such rituals, codes that unlocked hidden places. What did this one open?

Festus and Nazir, I learned their names eventually. The elderly man and the Redguard. An odd pair, but they hadn’t harmed me. That alone was enough to earn a fragile thread of trust.

"Silence, my brother," I repeated, the words feeling strange on my tongue.

"Well done!" Nazir chuckled from the front of the carriage as I recited the words. His laughter was a brief respite from the tension that had gripped me.

Our carriage passed Falkreath, the dense trees closing in around us as we veered left at a fork in the road. The forest grew darker, more oppressive, until the carriage came to an abrupt halt. Festus was the first to rise, leaping from the carriage with a speed that belied his age.

"Home sweet home," he muttered, a sigh of relief escaping him. "Come on, girl."

I scanned the surroundings, searching for the home he spoke of, but there was nothing but trees and shadows.

Nazir led the way, his steps sure and steady, while Festus and I followed closely behind. We soon arrived at a clearing, and there, before us, stood an entrance. My breath caught in my throat as I gazed at the black door, its surface marked with a handprint, eerie and foreboding.

"Be calm," Nazir said, placing his hands on my shoulders, urging me to stand tall. "And now..."

Nothing happened at first. The silence was thick, almost suffocating. Then, without warning, a voice echoed in my mind, deep and resonant,

"What is the music of life?"

My body trembled, fear clawing at my insides. For a moment, I considered running, fleeing from this place and the horrors it might hold. But where would I go? Home? Without Elamoril? The thought of facing the same monsters that had violated me, of being captured by the Thalmor again, paralyzed me with terror.

Could I ever return to the green of my childhood?

Was there anything left for me in this world?

With a deep breath, I forced myself to stand straight, my eyes hardening with determination.

I uttered the answer, my voice steady despite the fear gnawing at my heart.

“Silence, my brother.”

 

 

To be continued…

Chapter 5: Chapter 5

4E, 201

 

How long does it take to deliver a thousand souls to the Dread Father?

For me, it took four and a half years.

Years that blurred into one another, marked only by the mourning of my only friend.

Not a single day passed without the ache of missing Elamoril.

I believed the only path to healing and forgiveness was through devotion—a cause to fill the void. And that cause was earning my place in the most feared organization in all of Tamriel.

No, not the Thalmor.

A family. Brothers, not bound by blood but by duty and faith.

“Ah, Ashenblade,” Speaker Astrid’s voice echoed through the hall, “Honors the Sanctuary with her presence once more!”

I sighed, catching the undertone of disdain in her words. With a silent nod, I stepped inside and sank into one of the hall’s chairs.

“As usual,” Arnbjorn muttered, unimpressed, as he took a sip of his ale.

I never imagined I’d grow up to be an assassin. But to grow up cold—that, I deeply regret.

“A thousand souls—that’s worth drinking for!” Astrid clinked her wine glass against his tankard, smiling.

“Who’s counting?” I forced a smile of my own as I raised my glass of Jagga wine.

The Sanctuary had become my home, and the assassins within it, my family. Yet I always sensed their doubts about me.

Years of relentless bloodshed earned me some names like Ashenblade and I grew accustomed to this life—the blood, the pleas for mercy, the screams. It all became second nature; to always be a few steps ahead, to hunt my prey, and to vanish into the shadows.

I was unstoppable.

“I heard Nazir is visiting.”

Fen’s soft voice and the gentle touch of her hand on my shoulder startled me, pulling me abruptly from my thoughts. The mere mention of Nazir made my eyes widen. I loved and respected him, more than I could ever express. From the moment we first crossed paths—by some twisted stroke of luck—he had been a beacon in my darkest days.

“Do you know why?” I asked, reaching out for the cheese bread, trying to keep my voice steady.

“I thought you would tell me.” Her voice was laced with genuine curiosity.

“I have no idea, really.” I dismissed her with a casual tone, taking a bite, but the taste turned to ash in my mouth.

“Well, you must be happy to be seeing him again.”

I stopped chewing, my breath catching in my throat.

“I mean—” Fen faltered, her hesitation palpable, “I mean after…” Her voice trailed off into silence as our eyes locked.

I did love and respect Nazir, but I couldn’t ignore the truth gnawing at me. The family he had given me was, in essence, an organization—a machine of ranks, hierarchy, and authority.

Yes, just like the Thalmor.

“You’re right,” I sighed softly, forcing a smile that felt more like a grimace, “I am happy to see him.”

Fen’s tense expression melted away, replaced by a warm, cheerful smile. Her deep blue eyes sparkled faintly in the dim light, just enough to distinguish the blue from black.

An assassin is supposed to be nameless, faceless, hollow—as expected. All the same.

But I knew that here, we were more than that. We were distinguishable and different, each of us carrying our own stories and desires, hidden beneath the veil of duty.

As I lay in my bed, in a room that felt more like a forgotten closet, the weight of exhaustion threatened to swallow me whole. The suffocating walls closed in, but this space—this miserable, windowless box—had become my sanctuary. I chose it, rejected the shared quarters because I knew I could never sleep beside someone I didn’t know or trust.

And after four and a half years, trust remained a distant, elusive thing.

Turning onto my side, the familiar, crushing sensation overtook me—the hands of a thousand souls, pressing down with the force of their collective rage and despair.

Every night, I drowned in the storm of my own conscience and I wondered, in the darkest hours, if the Thalmor would find satisfaction in what I had become. Would they see the twisted irony in it all?

They had seen me many times since my escape. I made certain that each sacrament marked for a Thalmor was mine and mine alone.

Officers, Justiciars, Torturers—I hunted them all, delivering each to the Void with my own hands. It was never enough, not nearly enough to quench the burning desire for vengeance against those who had taken him from me.

And so, I forced myself to sleep, in the dark, trapped between the suffocating walls and the crushing weight of my sins.

“Nio!”

A sharp knock and the unmistakable voice of Nazir jolted me awake, cutting through the haze of sleep. I shot up from my bed, heart pounding, and hurried to open the door. The sight of him standing there brought an unbidden smile to my lips.

After all, he was the one who saved me.

“You look great!” he said, smiling. “You’ve become such a fair lady.”

Before I could respond, laughter echoed down the corridor, drawing both our attention. Nazir’s smile faltered, replaced by a frown.

“A lady?” Astrid’s voice cut through the air as she approached, arms crossed. “An executioner, at best.”

Nazir’s posture straightened, his gaze meeting Astrid’s with a nod of acknowledgment. His arrival here, directly at my door rather than reporting first to the Speaker, as his duty as the Listener, was unexpected.

“Astrid,” he greeted her softly.

She stepped closer, her hand resting lightly on his shoulder.

“Welcome back home, Nazir.”

“I won’t stay long.”

“This still doesn’t explain why you’re here,” Astrid countered, her voice steady, though a smile played at her lips.

“I—”

Before he could finish, a sudden, heavy thud echoed from the far end of the hallway, followed by a series of unsettling noises. The force of it was palpable, a shiver running through the air.

“Dragons?” Fen’s voice, tinged with amusement, filled the hall as we rushed to the source of the commotion.

“Dragons!” Festus’s breath came in heavy, labored gasps, his tone laced with worry. “Just near the Stormcloak camp! The Dunmer had seen them too!”

“He speaks true,” Grodyl scoffed and crossed his arms. With that, the portal that had brought them here vanished, leaving a charged silence in its wake.

“What’s going on here?” Astrid’s voice sliced through the tension, demanding answers.

“The old man and I were scouting in The Pale when it happened,” Grodyl began, voice heavy with a mix of disbelief and certainty. “We saw them. I know it sounds mad, but-.”

“What exactly did you see?” Nazir’s voice was laced with concern.

“Wings,” Festus’s voice trembled slightly. “Two pairs of wings—one ash-colored, the other black as the night itself.”

“Oooh,” a voice entered the hall, dripping with curiosity. Cicero, the Keeper of the Night Mother, walked in with a twisted grin on his face. “And they call me the madman!”

 

To be continued…

Chapter 6: Chapter 6

“I know what I saw, Astrid,” Grodyl insisted, his voice firm with conviction.

The hall buzzed with murmurs, whispers threading through the air like shadows. Some assassins spoke in hushed tones of concern, while others expressed disbelief, their words tinged with doubt.

But I had no doubt. Over the years, I’d met countless people and had learned to recognize the truth when it stared me in the face.

“Great,” Astrid finally scoffed as she moved to her seat at the head of the table. “As if the civil war wasn’t enough, now we have to worry about dragons too.”

Her attempt at a sarcastic cheer couldn’t mask the concern that underlined her words. We all heard it, the subtle tremor beneath her sharp tone.

“We’ll find a way,” Arnbjorn said, his voice a low rumble as he took the seat beside her.

“And how exactly do you plan to do that?” Nazir asked, his question earning him a cold, piercing stare from the werewolf.

“By staying out of it,” Astrid interjected, her voice cutting through the tension. “As we always do.”

“And you think that will work?” I asked, feeling the weight of every gaze in the room shift toward me. “We can scout the war from a distance and keep our hands clean, but how do you plan to scout dragons?”

Astrid stilled, her movements freezing as her gaze lifted to meet mine. Fury burned beneath her brown eyes, a controlled fire simmering just beneath the surface.

“They didn’t attack, and you only saw them, didn’t you?” Arnbjorn asked, his question directed at the witnesses. Both shook their heads, confirming his assumption.

“So?” Nazir interjected, his tone edged with frustration. “We wait and do nothing until they decide to attack us?”

“If they attack us, we’ll deal with them, Nazir.”

“Oh?” the Redguard chuckled, his amusement barely masking his disbelief. “That is a dragon, you fool!”

“Enough!” Astrid’s voice cut through the tension, “We still don’t know if all this is true, it might be a trap, or a trick of the elves—”

I couldn’t help but chuckle, the sound escaping before I could stop it, halting her mid-sentence.

“Whatever it is,” she sighed, her gaze sweeping across the room, lingering on each member of our family, “we will gather information, see what we can find.”

Her eyes finally settled on me. “Since you’re in a cheerful mood, you can look into this, right? Ashenblade?”

I leaned back in my chair, feeling once more the weight of every silent gaze fixed on me.

Astrid was the Speaker—there was no defying her. Well, deep down, I didn’t want to. She had always been a firm supporter of my berserk nature, giving me the freedom to act as I saw fit. But the Black Hand’s authority was absolute, and we were all bound by its grip.

I nodded softly, a slight shrug signaling my agreement.

“Well then, it’s settled,” Astrid sighed, her voice carrying the finality of a closed door. “No more talk of the winged beasts.”

 

---

 

As night approached, the hall grew quieter, though the tables were still occupied by assassins discussing the day’s events. Like everyone else, I was frustrated by the thought of dragons returning. Skyrim was already had a civil war on the horizon, and Astrid was right—each day brought more dangers than the last.

“Nio,” Nazir’s voice pulled me from my thoughts as I stood alone in the secluded courtyard, both haunting and serene, a hidden gem tucked away from the world’s prying eyes.

I greeted him with a smile before turning my gaze back to the sky, filled with countless stars, their light dim and distant. 

“I came back because,” he began, placing a hand on my shoulder, “I need to talk to you.”

I turned to him, curious. “About what?”

“I know you’ve chosen your path,” he sighed, the weight of his words hanging in the air, “but listen to me, just this once.”

There was a note of uncertainty in his voice that I couldn’t quite place.

“Soon, Astrid will make you an offer.”

I nodded, urging him to continue.

“Don’t accept it.”

I raised an eyebrow. “What will she offer me?”

“Something you’ll likely think you deserve, and you—”

“Then I’ll take it.” I cut short, turning my gaze back to the night sky.

He exhaled, the sound filled with frustration.

“Then,” he said, his hand slipping from my shoulder, “you will always be hers.”

I stilled, my mind wrestling with the truth in his words. Deep down, I knew he was right.

From a family that made me, to a family that perfected me, and now, to another that played me like a finely tuned instrument.

I laughed bitterly at my fate in my mind, but a soft chuckle escaped my lips.

I shrugged.

“She is family.”

So was the Brotherhood. I felt like I belonged to it, to its cause and its fate. From the moment I first walked through the Sanctuary's halls, I knew it was my home.

And I served it. So much so that Nazir believed I had gone too far.

“Look, Nio,” his voice dropped to a whisper, filled with urgency, “you’re heading down a path that leads only to darkness. I warned you before, and I’m warning—no, begging you, for the father’s sake, please…”

“I don’t understand,” I interrupted, my brows furrowing in frustration. “Why would you stand between me and something Astrid would offer?”

I crossed my arms, my stance firm.

“After all, you’re the one who brought me here, rather than anywhere else.”

His expression shifted, the concern in his eyes giving way to a flicker of shame.

I knew my words were harsh, but I had never been one to shy away from the truth, whether it was painful or not.

I turned to leave, but his shaky voice stopped me in my tracks. “You know, at first, I pitied you—when we found you that day, in that ragged dress, covered in blood.”

I didn’t turn to face him, but I couldn’t take another step either.

“And then I pitied the owners off those scattered body parts around you,” he continued, his voice a haunting whisper, “crushed between ice spikes that wouldn’t melt.”

His words dragged the memories to the surface, vivid and raw. I could still see the twisted remains— splintered and torn, the ice piercing through them like spears. The sight had once filled me with horror, but now, it was a memory tainted with a dark satisfaction.

I tried to move forward, but his gentle grasp on my arm held me in place.

“Then I adored you, Nio,” he said, his tone softening. “You were such a naive soul, forced into malice.”

I froze again, my mind replaying the scene he described. The truth was, when he brought me here, he thought he had saved a victim, someone who needed to be mended. But what he didn’t know then was that I had spent most of my life training to cause suffering.

Over the years, as he had learned everything about me, I knew he understood the gravity of his mistake—to have brought me to the perfect place to unleash it all. I could smell his regret that clung to him like a foul stench.

“But now I—” he hesitated, as if the words were too heavy to speak, “I just fear you.”

“I’m sorry,” I whispered, my voice barely audible as I took a step forward, freeing myself from his grip. “It’s too late for me now.”

 

 

To be continued…

 

Chapter 7: Chapter 7

The bathhouse of the sanctuary was a serene room, its centerpiece a carved pool filled with hot water from the healing spring beneath. The warmth eased every ache and tension, though it could do nothing for the turmoil in my mind.

I sat in the pool, letting the water soothe my strained muscles and wash away the day, but Nazir's words and the tremor in his voice still echoed in my head.

“Ah, Niolenyl, I’m sorry—” Astrid’s hesitant voice jolted me from my thoughts. I looked up to see her standing at the entrance, her back turned. “Sorry.”

“It’s fine,” I sighed, trying to shake off my unease. “You can come in.”

She hesitated, then slowly turned and made her way towards the pool.

“Sometimes, even I forget the rules I set.” she chuckled softly, shedding her towel before stepping into the water. I averted my gaze, focusing on the ripples around me, my reflection distorted by the steam.

“Are you leaving tomorrow?” she asked, her voice quieter now.

“Yes,” I replied, leaning my head back and closing my eyes. “To The Pale, for the dragon investigation you forced me into.”

“Well, let’s hope you find out that the dragons are still very much dead.”

“They are not.” My voice was cold, and it cast a heavy silence between us.

“Before you go, Niolenyl,” she said, her voice drawing closer. When I opened my eyes, she was standing directly in front of me. “I want to talk to you about the foundation of our family. The Black Hand, as you know it.”

”In the bath?” I tilted my head to the side. 

Her eyes gleamed with intensity as she continued, “Speakers like me are the four fingers, and Nazir, the Listener, is the thumb.”

I nodded, though I couldn’t shake the feeling that there was more to this than a simple lesson in tradition.

“And fingers have nails, don’t they?” She smiled, a smile that felt unexpectedly genuine. “The Silencers.”

I arched an eyebrow, the term unfamiliar and unsettling.

“The rank itself is kept hidden from the rest of the brothers and sisters,” she said with a casual shrug. “No one really knows who the Silencers are.”

There was something in her tone—anticipation, maybe—that made Nazir’s warning resurface in my mind.

“But I’ve known mine for some time now.” Her smile deepened as she stepped closer, the space between us shrinking.

“You’ve given me a thousand souls.” She whispered, tucking a strand of my hair behind my ear. “You’ve proven yourself.”

My cause.

Don’t accept it.

Despite the recognition, my brows furrowed. “What do you get in return?”

“You.” She said it with a cheerfulness that made it sound as if she were asking for something simple.

You will always be hers.

“Do I even get to say no?”

She faked a pout. “Why would you?”

“Am I not already your errand girl?” I asked plainly, watching as her expression hardened.

Her playful facade slipped away as she pulled back, her tone deepening, “Skyrim is on the brink of civil war, as you well know. And you were right—we can only keep our hands clean for so long.”

She sighed, the water tracing silent paths down her collarbones as she chose her words carefully, “The thought of dragons has everyone here on edge…”

After exhaling a long, measured breath, she continued, “I need a sister I can trust, Niolenyl. The others... they-”

Sensing the weight of what she was asking, I interrupted, “You don’t trust the rest of your brothers and sisters? Arnbjorn?”

“Do you?” She countered, a slight smirk playing on her lips as she made her way across the pool.

I kept my silence, contemplating the implications of her offer. 

If I accepted, would it bind us together, forever? 

“You don’t have to give me an answer now,” she said, her voice softening with a hint of sympathy as she leaned her head back, “I don’t want you to rush it.”

 

---

 

In the quiet solitude of my room, I was wrestling with my thoughts as I meticulously packed my bag. Potions and poisons clinked as I arranged them alongside worn maps. 

I slipped into my deep red leather armor, the supple material embracing my form like a second skin. The armor’s long skirt, with a daring slit running along the leg, allowed for swift, unhindered movement. I tugged on my high knee boots before securing my dagger snugly against my thigh with a leather strap. I fastened my black fur mantle around my neck as I opened the door to leave. 

The sanctuary was eerily still as I made my way through the hall. The first light of morning filtered in, casting long shadows that seemed to cling to the walls. The silence was thick, almost oppressive, but it felt fitting for the tension that coiled within me. As I approached the black door, I saw Astrid leaning against the rough stone wall, spinning the Blade of Woe in her hand. Beside her stood Grodyl, his expression unreadable. When they noticed me, both sets of eyes locked onto mine.

"Well, let’s get it over with, shall we?" Grodyl muttered, his voice breaking the silence. He moved quickly to open the black door, stepping out into the cold morning air. I followed, with Astrid close behind, though the unspoken tension between us felt like a physical presence.

Throughout the night, my thoughts had been consumed by Astrid's offer, and by the memory of Nazir’s desperate plea for me to refuse it.

His voice had been full of fear. Making me wonder, how far did he think Astrid would go?

The questions had mounted, pressing down on me until I felt suffocated. Yet, despite all the hours I spent contemplating, I still had no answer.

“Take Shadowmere,” Astrid said, her voice unexpectedly gentle. She offered a soft smile, “I know she likes you more than she likes me anyway.”

Her simple gesture managed to bring a fleeting smile to my own lips, though it did little to ease the turmoil inside.

“Take care out there,” she added, her voice quieter now, almost tender. “And write to me.”

“I will.” I replied, the words escaping as little more than a whisper.

My attention turned to the portal that shimmered with an ethereal glow of blue and green. With a sharp whistle, I called for Shadowmere. The air seemed to ripple as she emerged from the shadows, her coat dark as the void, her eyes glowed with a deep crimson. I secured my bag to her saddle, the leather creaking softly under my touch. I mounted her with practiced ease, the familiarity of the action a small comfort amidst the uncertainty.

Before leaving, I turned back to Astrid, my gaze lingering as I searched for another figure. But Nazir was nowhere to be found. I didn’t know if he had left after our last conversation or if he was avoiding this moment, but his absence stung more than I expected.

With a resigned sigh, I turned Shadowmere toward the portal, its shimmering light promising both a new path and new dangers.

Pulling my hood over my carefully braided hair, I reached down to stroke Shadowmere’s head, feeling the warmth beneath her inky black fur. “Come on, girl,” I whispered as I urged her forward.

With that, she stepped through the portal, and the landscape beneath her feet transformed into a thick, powdery blanket of snow. The biting wind hurled snowflakes against my skin, stinging and relentless.

Winter in the south had been manageable, a chill that was cold but gentle. Here, in the far reaches of Skyrim's north, the air was merciless, cutting through me with its icy sharpness.

Ahead, the imposing silhouette of the College loomed against the horizon. It stood as a testament to its grandeur, the first light of dawn casting a halo around its towering spires. Even with the signs of collapse and decay evident in its structure, it remained majestic.

As Shadowmere trembled beneath me, my senses sharpened and with a reassuring hand, I patted her neck.

Cloaked in darkness, a stranger loomed like a specter against the first lights of the dawn.

Drawing nearer, I could make out the stranger’s attire—a high-collared leather armor, adorned with intricate patterns. Yet, it was the aura of mystery enveloping him, like a shroud of shadows, that captivated my attention.

I brought Shadowmere to a halt, her breath forming frosty clouds in the cold air. My eyes locked onto the figure before me— a man who stood resolute at the crossroads of fate.

His silver blonde hair fell in wild, untamed strands, framing his face with pale, almost glass-like skin and a sharply defined jaw. 

“Who are you?” 

My question hung in the cold air, but the stranger’s only response was a smirk—a smirk that danced on his lips like a flickering flame in the darkness.

“Answer me!” I demanded, my voice trembling with both fury and determination.

The stranger's response was a slow, deliberate motion as he folded his arms, his gaze lifting to meet mine. His eyes were a study in contrast—one a calm, icy blue, the other a burning crimson.

"Is this how you greet all your brothers?" he asked, his voice a melodic blend of mockery and amusement.

I arched an eyebrow and dismounted Shadowmere, my gaze again sweeping over the stranger’s attire. There was no mark, no sign that would tie him to the Brotherhood—no indication of who or what he was. And yet, something about him felt inescapably familiar, as if he belonged to a world I had only glimpsed in shadowed dreams.

“I don’t wear cheap leather,” he quipped, his voice a smooth blend of arrogance and dark humor. His smirk grew beneath the veil of tousled platinum locks, a glint of mischief dancing in his mismatched eyes. “I’m allergic, you see…”

But I wasn’t here for games.

His words washed over me like the chill wind, unheeded. With a swift, almost feline grace, I closed the distance between us, my eyes locking onto him as if I could see straight through to the core of his being.

He didn’t flinch when I pressed my dagger against the side of his torso, the blade biting just enough to remind him of its presence.

“What is life’s greatest illusion?” I asked, my voice barely more than a whisper, yet each word was laced with a desperate intensity.

Somehow, I wanted to believe him to be one of us—an assassin from Dawnstar Sanctuary. A part of me clung to that hope, yearning to spare him the edge of my blade.

Cold.

The touch of his blade sent a shiver down my spine, the icy steel pressing gently beneath my chin, lifting my face to meet his mismatched gaze. There was a spark, a flicker of something in those eyes that made my pulse quicken.

His voice was a soft murmur, barely more than a breath against my skin.

“Innocence, my sister.”

 

 

To be continued…

Chapter 8: Chapter 8

My breath hitched as the stranger’s blade skimmed my skin, leaving a searing trail in its wake. A crimson ribbon of my own blood, trickling down my neck in a silent testament to my vulnerability. In that moment, I couldn't help but wonder how I, the hunter, had become the hunted.

He exhaled softly, the sound brushing against my ear like a whisper, his lips parting with deliberate slowness. His tongue darted out, wetting his bottom lip in a gesture that felt more intimate than it had any right to be. Panic surged within me, screaming at me to flee, but the blade pressed harder against my throat, a cold promise that I was going nowhere.

Without a warning, his tongue traced the trail of my blood. The sensation was overwhelming, a mix of heat and cold, of violation and something darkly thrilling.

This wasn’t how it was supposed to be. I wasn’t supposed to feel anything—especially not this.

Yet, a soft moan escaped my lips, the sound trembling between disgust and a reluctant, undeniable arousal.

His eyes, dark and smoldering, locked onto mine, drinking in my reaction with satisfaction. His smile was wicked, almost feral, as if he had peeled away every last one of my defenses and found the most vulnerable part of me exposed, trembling, and at his mercy.

"Cold," he whispered against my neck, his voice a haunting melody that sent a delicious shiver down my spine. "Yet hot."

His breath ghosted over my skin, a chilling contrast to the heat that pooled in my core, and before I could fully comprehend the intoxicating mixture of sensations, he pulled back. The dagger slipped back into its sheath with a practiced ease, leaving me gasping.

Instinctively, my hand flew to my neck, fingers brushing over the still-warm trickle of blood. The sting was real, grounding me, but it did little to erase the lingering imprint of his presence.

I frowned as I looked up, searching his face for any hint of the emotion that had just passed between us, but found that the intensity of a moment ago buried beneath a cold, calculating gaze.

“I’m Amon,” he said, his lips curling into a smile that was almost too perfect, too polished. As he dipped into a soft bow, his pale hair cascaded across his forehead, revealing pointy ears adorned with silver rings that caught the faint light. The piercings glinted against his almost ghostly complexion, marking him unmistakably as an Altmer, though one unlike any I had encountered before.

“What did you just do to me?” I demanded, my voice trembling with barely contained fury.

“Tasted you, simply,” he replied, with an indifferent shrug that only served to enrage me further.

“Is this how you greet all your sisters?” I spat, my voice sharp with disgust. “Stopping them in the middle of nowhere just to get a taste?”

“Stop you?” he repeated, feigning innocence, though the mocking lilt in his voice was unmistakable. “No, no, dear sister. I was merely deciding which way to go.” His gaze flicked nonchalantly to the crossroads ahead, as if it held any real significance for him.

“Cut it,” I snapped, refusing to let his game continue. I stepped closer, my eyes narrowing with suspicion. “What do you want from me?”

“No fun, are we?” Amon attempted to sound disappointed, though the smirk on his lips betrayed his amusement. When I refused to answer, he continued, “Well, I’m the new initiate. Colymna told me I’d learn a lot from you. The famous, Ashenblade.” His words were laced with a subtle challenge, his eyes glinting with mischief.

I sighed in frustration, my expression betraying my irritation. Colymna, the Speaker of the Dawnstar Sanctuary, had always been a thorn in Astrid's side. She aligned herself too closely with the Stormcloaks for Astrid's liking, and her decision to send this vampire to me made little sense.

“Why did she send you?” I asked, my tone edged with suspicion.

“I think she hoped you’d finish me off. The woman has issues with us mer. And she doesn’t like vampires.” He sighed, his shrug almost careless.

“Or maybe it’s because you annoyed her too much.” I quipped, a mischievous smile tugging at my lips as I watched his smirk falter.

“How did you find me?” I pressed, my curiosity tinged with unease. His sudden appearance was far too convenient, and the fact that he knew exactly where to find me was unsettling.

“Too many questions and too little fun, don’t you think?” Amon deflected, his voice laced with impatience.

I found myself increasingly vexed by the sudden burden of this forced encounter.

Amon, with his ethereal beauty, carried an air of decay that made my skin crawl. 

With a subtle gesture, he summoned a magnificent black steed from the shadows, and the sight snapped me back to reality.

“I don’t care of your nature. Just keep your distance from my neck, or I…” I began, my words a low hiss as I mounted Shadowmere.

“Or what?” he interrupted, his mocking tone a challenge, daring me to finish the threat.

“…or I drive a stake through your heart.” I spat, my eyes narrowing as I met his gaze, refusing to be intimidated.

“Oh dear,” he chuckled softly as he too ascended his steed, his voice a dark melody laced with amusement, “I assure you, I have none.”

 

---

 

4E, 180

 

"What took you so long?" Sai's voice cut through the stillness, his tone sharper than intended. The Dragon Lord of Time met his gaze with an enigmatic smile, a knowing glimmer in his ancient eyes.

“I suspect we both share troubles when it comes to our progeny,” Auri-El murmured, his voice like the whisper of the first dawn.

He glanced down at the slumbering infant, brushing a finger tenderly across her brow.
“So, what do we do then, other than turning to our daughters?”

“Spare me the riddles, Akatosh,” Sai interjected, his tone sharp.

Auri-El’s expression softened, the timeless wisdom in his eyes deepening. “Do you wish for her to awaken, or not?”

Sai straightened, the weight of his concern heavy upon his shoulders. “That’s why I’ve prayed, day and night, to the worthless Divines.”

The elder gods lips curved into a smile, his gaze shifting from the baby in his arms back to Sai. “You should know, old friend, the Divines only intervene when our beloved Nirn is in danger.”

Sai’s frustration simmered, his brows knitting together. “What are you implying?”

“We have her though,” Auri-El continued, his voice a soft melody of inevitability, “our beloved daughter.”

“She’s not yours!” Sai retorted, his voice laced with a rare intensity, each word cutting through the ethereal silence.

“She wasn’t yours either,” Auri-El replied, his tone as gentle as the dawn yet unyielding as the march of time. “Not until your mistress placed her into that dreamless sleep.”

Before Sai could muster a response, before the torrent of questions could escape his lips, Auri-El moved with the precision of ages. He reached out, pressing a finger to the infant’s forehead, the divine touch brimming with a power beyond mortal comprehension.

“Now, she will be exalted above all, favored like my sons.”

The Dragon God smiled, a serene yet final expression, as he spoke the word that would bind her destiny, sealing it with an utterance that resonated through the fabric of the world.

“Dovahkiin.”

 

To be continued…

Chapter 9: Chapter 9

 

“So, what’s the plan?” Amon’s voice broke the silence as we secured our steeds in the stable, his tone carrying an edge of curiosity that irritated me more than I cared to admit.

I was still lost in thought, the ache on my neck a persistent reminder of the encounter that had unsettled me. But I had to focus on my purpose—investigating the dragon sightings.

“We’ll start by talking to the locals, see if they’ve heard anything about the dragons. Then—”

Amon’s sudden chuckle interrupted me, unexpected and annoyingly smug. “Oh, that’s why you’re here, isn’t it?”

His words only added to my frustration as he continued, “Bold of you, considering your men fled with their tails between their legs.”

“Have you seen them?” I demanded, my curiosity piqued despite my irritation.

Amon's eyes gleamed with amusement. “Of course! The Dunmer and the old man. How could I miss them?”

“No, Amon,” I sighed, exasperated, “I meant the dragons. Have you seen them?”

He tapped his chin thoughtfully, his gaze distant. “The wings, the eyes filled with fury and blood…”

I rolled my eyes, unable to suppress my irritation.

“Yes, I think I’ve seen them,” he finally admitted, his tone light as I turned and began walking towards the Frozen Hearth.

“And?” I prompted, hoping for something more concrete.

“And I ran, like everyone else!” He replied with a laugh, strolling beside me as if the entire situation were a game.

I shot him a sharp look, but his nonchalant demeanor only underscored the challenge of our task. As we approached the inn, I steeled myself for the difficult conversations ahead. 

As we entered the inn, the warmth of the hearth enveloped us, a stark contrast to the biting cold outside. 

“Ouch!” Amon’s voice cut through the murmur of the inn as he took a few steps back, feigning surprise at a little girl who had collided with him while running. Her wide eyes and flushed cheeks revealed her fright.

“Careful, darling,” Amon said softly, giving her a reassuring smile.

“I need to hide!” The girl’s voice was high with panic as she clutched at Amon’s leg.

“Hide from what? Are you alright?” I asked, stepping forward to inspect her.

The girl looked up with a pout. “There aren’t many people left in Winterhold, and I only have Assur to play with, and sometimes he’s mean.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Mean?”

“He always wants to play ‘Hunt the Elf!’” she exclaimed, her gaze shifting to Amon, who gave a small, knowing nod. “And he makes me be the elf.”

Amon cleared his throat and moved towards the counter. I leaned in close to the girl and whispered, “Next time, just kick him between the legs.”

As I joined Amon at the counter, I could see the sly grin on his face.

“Good advice,” he murmured. “Explains a lot.”

I frowned, puzzled. “What does it explain?”

“Why you’re still a virgin,” Amon replied, his gaze piercing and unapologetically direct.

My heart raced, blood rushing to my cheeks as I struggled to maintain composure.

“Are you not?” His eyes locked onto mine, his question demanding honesty as if lying was simply not an option.

“How can I help you today?” The innkeeper, a woman with amber-colored hair and tired eyes, asked, her voice heavy with exhaustion.

Before I could answer, Amon stepped forward, his gaze lingering on me with an unsettling intensity. “A room, if you please. We’ve traveled through the night.”

I raised an eyebrow at his choice of words, but kept my silence.

“Certainly.” The innkeeper handed him a key, accepting the gold in exchange.

“Thank you,” Amon said, his smile both warm and chilling as he glanced at me, a silent invitation veiled in his cold eyes.

The room was modest, its dim lighting casting shadows that danced over his chiseled features as he began to unfasten his armor.

“What are you doing?” I asked, my voice betraying a hint of frustration.

“I need to sleep.” he replied curtly, his fingers deftly working to remove his armor.

“You can’t travel in daylight, can you?” I pressed, frustration edging into my tone.

“No.” he answered with a firmness that left no room for argument.

I crossed my arms, trying to contain my irritation. My plans to leave Winterhold that day and ride to Fort Kastav were now on hold for someone I barely knew.

As he disrobed, his skin gleamed with a ghostly sheen, pale and flawless, unmarred by any blemishes or scars. The sight was both mesmerizing and unnerving. I quickly turned my gaze away, struggling to ignore the strange heat rising in my cheeks.

“When should I wake you?” I asked, my voice steadier than I felt.

“We,” he said, stepping closer, his movements deliberate and confident, “will wake at sunset. I wouldn’t want you to be tired on the journey.”

The implication of his words, of sharing such close proximity, was unsettling. 

“You’re crazy if you think I’ll sleep next to you.” I said, striving for firmness.

Amon’s lips curled into a knowing smirk, his eyes glinting with amusement. “Oh no, darling, you’re free to get your own room.”

With that, I stormed out, slamming the door behind me with enough force to make it reverberate through the small inn.

“I need a room.” I demanded sharply.

The innkeeper handed me a key, and I took it with a hasty, frustrated motion. As I entered the small room, I leaned against the door, my mind a whirlwind of conflicting thoughts and emotions.

Amon was right, the only person I had ever imagined sharing such intimacy with was long gone. And after his loss, I vowed to never seek it again, in anyone else, resigning myself to the hollow ache in my chest.

The sting of the wound on my neck only served to amplify my frustration. The sensation of the vampire’s breath on my skin had awakened feelings that echoed the forbidden pleasure Elamoril had once ignited in me—elusive and maddeningly seductive. 

I tended to the wound with quick, practiced motions, wrapping it in a clean cloth to soothe the persistent ache and try to banish the unwelcome feelings it had stirred.

Lying on the bed, my eyes traced the barren walls, Astrid’s mocking laughter seemed to fill the silence in my mind, mingling with the shame and confusion I felt. 

Sleep eluded me, as much as I longed for its embrace. The midday sun, though hidden behind Winterhold's perpetual clouds, kept me awake with its dim light filtering through the window. I rose from the bed, frustration gnawing at me, and began dressing, taking more time than usual to braid my hair. The strands slipped through my fingers, as if even they resisted my attempts to find some semblance of peace.

As I gazed out the window, I wondered whether Amon could travel under such a sky—clouded, but still touched by daylight. But a deeper part of me recoiled at the thought of speaking to him again. 

I pulled my hood up as I left my room, my steps light as I made my way through the inn. The gazes followed me, their eyes full of suspicion and disdain, but I kept my head down, avoiding their stares as I sat on one of the stools.

“Can I get you breakfast?” the innkeeper asked, his voice devoid of warmth but polite enough.

I nodded, turning slightly to survey the room. A table of Stormcloak soldiers drank heavily, their laughter coarse and loud. In a corner, an elven mage in dark blue robes sat alone, his eyes fixed on a book. A few other Nord men lounged around the central bonfire, their faces flushed from the heat and their mugs of ale.

Nords and their ale, no wonder the Stormcloaks were struggling as they did—lost in their cups rather than their cause. 

As I turned to meet the gaze of the man behind the counter, I was greeted by a fair-haired Nord whose icy stare mirrored the frigid winds outside.

“If you've business with the College, you're welcome to stay here,” he said, his tone indifferent, though his eyes flicked toward the elven mage sitting in the corner. “Just don’t experiment like that one over there. The smell is—” He wrinkled his nose in disgust. “—horrible.”

“I do, in fact,” I replied softly, keeping my tone measured. “I have to see the Arch-Mage.”

The man’s curiosity was piqued, his eyes narrowing slightly as he placed a plate of cheese and bread before me. “The Arch-Mage?” he repeated, the words heavy with a mix of respect and suspicion. “Must be something important, then.”

I nodded, “Hard times are coming.” My words hung in the air, and I could sense the concern they sparked within him. “The Arch-Mage should be informed of the return of our doom.”

The Nord inhaled sharply, his rough exterior momentarily cracking as a flash of fear crossed his face. “Dragons.”

Suppressing a smirk, I asked, testing the weight of my next words. “Have you seen one?”

“Me? No, the Divines forbid,” he said, shaking his head vigorously. “But one of the Stormcloak soldiers was going on about a sighting the other night.”

I glanced over at the table of soldiers, their boisterous voices filling the room. When I turned back to the Nord, I pulled a wedge of cheese from my plate, taking a deliberate bite as I prepared my next question.

“And the Jarl?”

He huffed, crossing his arms with a mix of frustration and disdain. “Korir? That prideful idiot never asks for the College’s help,” he muttered, lowering his voice as if sharing a well-known grievance.

Winterhold, one of the Old Holds, was deep in Stormcloak territory, and so was its Jarl. They hated us, the mer, simply because we had taken their god from them. Their resentment ran deep, a bitter wound that festered with every passing day.

I understood them all too well. 

During my time with the Thalmor, we were not only indoctrinated into its agenda but also shown the depths of its methods—specifically, what they had done to Ulfric Stormcloak.

Despite having half the country rallying behind him, he could never truly break free, not after all the torture and the relentless agony. The techniques used to fracture his will were coldly dissected in the pristine classrooms of Clamcora, where we were taught to wield them without mercy.

"I’m glad to hear the Empire is still taking action," the man whispered, his words almost hesitant as they reached my ears, drawing my gaze to meet his.

Even as I carefully braided and concealed my hair, its silver-white strands still shimmered faintly in the dim light. He probably assumed I was an Imperial asset, sent here to deliver urgent news about the dragons.

Ancano, the true asset, was likely already entrenched in the Arcaneaum, his invisible strings wrapped tightly around Arch-Mage Savos. Whatever action the College might take against the rising threat of dragons, it would ultimately serve the Thalmor’s purpose. To compare them to the Brotherhood was absurd. Feared though we were, our influence paled in comparison to the Thalmor’s mastery of manipulation. They didn’t seek fear for its own sake; they turned loathing into leverage, disdain into power.

I knew the moment I set foot on the College’s bridge, they would recognize me—not for any overt ties to the Brotherhood, but for the whispered legends of the Ashenblade. The mer who had, over the years, claimed the lives of their own. The irony, of course, was that I had only taken the life of a single mage from the College. Those students who had vanished? Their fates had nothing to do with me.

A small, knowing smile played on my lips as I watched the innkeeper, his eyes alight with a naive hope.

But I had no intentions of strolling openly through the College’s halls. The Brotherhood had its own ways of gleaning secrets, its own eyes and ears within those ancient walls. Grodyl whispered the College’s darkest secrets directly into Astrid’s ear.

“Dagur!” A woman’s voice cut through my thoughts, drawing the innkeeper’s attention. I recognized the woman from earlier, her amber eyes clouded with concern as she approached the counter. “Eirid's been playing 'Hunt the Elf' again,” she complained, her voice laced with frustration.

Dagur’s smile faltered, replaced by a look of embarrassed resignation. He nodded, stepping closer to her as they spoke in hushed tones. The rest of the inn might not have heard them, but I caught every word.

"It's just children playing, Haran. No need to fret.” Dagur said, though his voice carried an edge of impatience.

"I'm not 'fretting,’” Haran retorted, her tone sharp. “I don’t want Eirid playing those sorts of games!"

"All right, all right. I'll speak to her."

As I maneuvered through the bustling inn, my ears strained to catch snippets of conversation, hoping to uncover something useful.

"I can't believe it—of all people, you got the escorting job. Total bullshit if you ask me." one grumbled.

"Bjarke deserved the honor, you know that, Ulrar." another chimed in, his voice tinged with resentment.

"Not every day a Jarl gets an audience with the High King!" a soldier added, though his words dripped with cynicism.

"Torygg is no damned king!" spat a voice, brimming with disdain.

Near the warmth of the fireplace, I found a spot, subtly positioning myself within earshot of the soldiers.

"Easy, Bjarke," one of the others cautioned, sensing the growing tension.

"Why should I? Brother?" Bjarke's voice rose, loud enough to draw glances. "There are no Imperial dogs here! They're too scared to leave their fort!"

The air around me grew taut, the tension thickening as the Nords, emboldened by their ale, grew rowdier. I kept my gaze fixed on the flames, trying to blend into the shadows as my mind swirled around the implications of this meeting with the High King. Was the audience requested by Ulfric?

But then, with brutal clarity, I felt a sharp tug at my hood, the fabric slipping away to reveal my silver hair and pointed ears.

Fuck.

 

 

To be continued…

Chapter 10: Chapter 10

"An elven bitch!" The shout from behind me was followed by a chorus of laughter and jeers.

I rose to my feet, my stance unwavering. The rage within me simmered, a crimson haze threatening to consume my vision. I was ready to paint the ground with the blood of the man behind me as I turned slowly, locking my gaze onto his.

"Say that to my face.” I challenged, my hand slipping silently toward the hilt of my dagger.

Come on. Say it. 

In that moment, duty was forgotten.

Astrid was no stranger to the trouble I brought to the Brotherhood. Countless times, brothers and sisters were dispatched to clean up the messes I'd made. Yet, she never truly banished or punished me for murdering outside the confines of a contract like Nazir did. She simply chose to turn a blind eye to my berserk rages.

Perhaps that’s why.

As the man’s mouth opened to retort, another voice rang out from behind the table.

"Don’t, Nels."

The tall figure of Nels towered over me, his expression twisted with disdain, though beneath it, I could see the flicker of a hidden, burning desire.

It was a familiar look, one I'd seen countless times in men who laid eyes on me. My distinct appearance was an advantage, and I used it, it made the collection of a thousand souls all the easier when faced with weak-minded men.

With his friend’s warning, Nels hesitated. I knew at least one of them would match my appearance to Ashenblade’s—the snow-white hair and ashen eyes as cold as death.

"Come on, Nels, listen to your friend." Another voice cut through the air, this time belonging to an elven mage.

Frustration flashed across Nels' face. He let out a heavy sigh before spitting down at my feet, the glob landing just between the tips of my boots. Then, with a look of disgust, he turned and walked away—choosing to live another day.

I shifted my attention to the mage, but he had already turned his back to me as he walked back to his table, the matter clearly of no further interest to him. Determined, I wove through the throng of patrons, the murmur of voices fading as I approached his secluded corner.

His dark hair fell loosely around his angular face, its sharp features marred by the shadows of sleepless nights. Hollow eyes, pale blue and unsettling, seemed focused on the pages of a book in his hands, refusing to acknowledge my presence.

"You get used to it," he finally mumbled, his gaze still fixed on the words before him.

"Are you from the College?" I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.

"No." His reply was curt, "I left Winterhold some time ago. Now I stay here at the inn."

There was a bitter edge to his words, a contempt I couldn’t quite place. Dagur's complaints about the smell crept into my thoughts.

"Because they don’t like what you’re experimenting with?"

His eyes snapped up from the book, which he closed with a rough flick of his wrist.

"And why would that be your concern?" His voice was cold, each word deliberate, as if testing my intent. "Shouldn't you be off, killing someone?"

Sensing my hesitation and the flicker of confusion in my expression, he leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a whisper that barely breached the space between us. "You’re not here for me, are you?"

I shook my head firmly as I cast my gaze downward, fixing it on the worn surface of the table between us.

"I just wanted to know if you’ve heard anything about the dragon sightings.” I murmured, my tone as quiet as the grave.

"I know what everyone else knows."

I lifted my gaze, "And what is it they know?" 

His gaze didn’t waver as he leaned forward, placing his arms on the table, "There was only one of them," he began, his voice a low rumble, "black as the void and colossal in size."

I tilted my head slightly, my curiosity piqued as I countered, “The witnesses say they saw another pair of wings."

"The soldiers swear the second one appeared out of nowhere," he continued, his tone growing darker, “from sand and ash, born of the very earth itself."

His words painted a vivid, haunting image that sent a ripple of unease through me. My brows furrowed as I tried to make sense of it. "How is that possible?"

"Unfortunately," he said, leaning back into his chair with a resigned air, "understanding this phenomenon is beyond my expertise."

Such a mage.

"Thank you…" I hesitated, but before I could ask, he offered his name.

"Nelacar." he introduced himself softly, the name slipping from his lips like a secret, and I nodded in acknowledgment.

---

The walls around me seemed to close in, my thoughts scattered by the raucous laughter and drunken shouts echoing through the inn. The noise made it nearly impossible to focus, to come up with any plan that could salvage the situation. 

The day refused to end, as if mocking my growing sense of failure. This wasn’t my way. I wasn't accustomed to wasting time in an inn-usually, a few hours of restless sleep were enough to carry me through a full day, so long as I kept my head down and avoided trouble.

But here, in the unforgiving north of Skyrim, trouble was not so easily avoided anymore.

“Long way to The Pale!” A soldier’s gruff voice broke through my thoughts, drawing my attention. I watched as he and his men including Nels walked out, avoiding my gaze, their boots crunching in the snow as they descended the stairs of the porch. 

The group was likely headed to the Stormcloacks camp in The Pale, the very place where dragons had been sighted. I knew this because Grodyl had spoken of their latest scouting mission over the Stormcloak camp, describing how they’d perched on a rocky hill overlooking the Great Lift of some ancient Dwemer ruin. His finger had traced eastward on the map, stopping near Fort Kastav. Where a ragged legion of soldiers were dreading the night when the Nords would cross the lake.

My plan was straightforward—to gather information, sifting through whispers and rumors while cloaked in shadow. 

Being recognized by the Stormcloaks had been a mistake. But I knew I couldn’t kill my way into obscurity. In the end, the dead served Father, and the survivors served my name.

As I waited for sunset, I wandered through the ruins that haunted Winterhold, my mind was a tempest of anxiety, churning over Nelacar’s words.

A dragon, rising from sand and ash.

The mere thought sent a shiver racing down my spine as I gazed down at the ruined houses and buildings, remnants of a forgotten past that the Sea of Ghosts had slowly claimed over the years.

Dragons were a terrifying unknown—an inscrutable threat that twisted my insides with fear.

It seemed almost cruelly ironic.

For the past four and a half years, my life had been devoted to the embrace of the void, serving the very essence of uncertainty that now, seemed to paralyze me. 

Lost in my thoughts, I barely noticed the first snowflakes drifting through the cold air. Their descent was hypnotic, a slow, graceful dance that seemed to echo the swirling chaos in my mind. 

A Khajiit’s voice, thick with a familiar accent, cut through the silence,

“Much snow in Skyrim, enough snow,”

My heart raced as I snapped my gaze up to the Khajiit, who had been nothing more than a whisper—a shadow of doubt or a trick of my imagination the last time I heard his voice.

Now, he stood before me, his fur a mix of tawny and white, his golden eyes locked onto mine.

His whiskers twitched as he finished,

“M’aiq does not want any more.”

 

To be continued…

Chapter 11: Chapter 11

4E, 196

 

"Ladies and gentlemen, esteemed guests, and the valiant souls who stand before me today, the graduating class of this era’s 196th year. As we gather for this momentous occasion, we honor the exceptional journey that has led us here, culminating in the ultimate test of strength, strategy, and survival – the final trial."

High Instructor Alhonir's voice resonated through the grand hall of Clamcora, each word weighted with significance. The solemnity of the moment hung heavy in the air as we stood, uniform in our navy blue robes adorned with intricate silver and gold buttons.

Elamoril was positioned on the opposite side of the hall, among the other males. His gaze, as it had been since moment we arrived at the hall, avoided mine, a silent tension lingering between us.

"In the heart of the shadowed forest lies the arena where destiny itself awaits. Within its depths, ancient weapons and arcane powers slumber, waiting to be claimed by those bold enough to seek them. This trial is not merely a contest; it is a crucible, where you will prove yourselves not just as competitors, but as warriors, facing the formidable challenge of combat and conquest."

I held my breath, the weight of the words pressing down on my chest.

"As you've been taught throughout these years, our strength lies in unity. This is why we are granting you until tomorrow to form your teams of six."

High Instructor Alhonir’s voice took on a sudden gravity, a spark of intensity igniting in his eyes.

"Choose wisely, for these comrades will be the ones with whom you forge your strategy, as you face the unknown menace lurking within the forest."

Once again, I silently pleaded for Elamoril’s gaze, but his eyes remained elsewhere, fixed on anything but me. Over the past year, our brief exchanges had dwindled to nothing, a painful reminder of his disapproval. He hadn’t forgiven me for my choice to return here—to this place—when we could have gone home.

"At first light, the final trial will begin. Until then, eat, drink, and cherish these final moments with your friends," High Instructor Alhonir announced, his voice briefly wavering, a rare glimpse of emotion crossing his stern features. "For tomorrow, you will graduate."

A wave of applause rippled through the hall as we dutifully followed his cue, but my hands moved mechanically, the sound hollow in my ears. My body trembled, the chill of uncertainty gripping me tighter with every passing second. Despite all our training, the unknown that awaited us filled me with a fear I could scarcely admit to myself.

As the evening deepened, the dining hall buzzed with the nervous energy of last-year students, each eager to finalize their teams before the dawn brought the trial’s commencement. The room was ablaze with the warm glow of candlelight, casting flickering shadows across the stone walls, as hushed conversations blended into a steady murmur.

Elamoril sat at the far end of the long wooden table dominating the center of the hall, his copper hair falling over his brow as he engaged in lively discussion with a group of others. His laughter, once a source of comfort, now seemed distant.

My heart ached with a quiet, persistent pain, the loneliness of the moment settling in as I sat in isolation.

"No team?" The sudden voice startled me, breaking my melancholy thoughts. I looked up from my empty goblet, only to be met by Brellin's hazel eyes, warm and inquisitive.

I shook my head, a small motion that caused Brellin to arch an eyebrow. He glanced over at Elamoril and his group, their animated conversation continuing without pause, before turning back to me.

"Me, Tadriel, and Meldor are forming a team," he said, a hint of hesitation in his voice as he took a seat beside me. "We’d be honored if you joined us. We could really use a swordswoman of your skill."

Brellin was a skilled mage, his talent in elemental magic well-known among our peers. Tadriel, another mage, excelled in the art of regeneration, able to mend wounds with a mere touch. Meldor, however, lacked significant combat prowess; his obsession with alchemy made him more of a scholar than a warrior, though his potions had saved us on more than one occasion.

"And you thought she'd join the loser team?" A sharp voice cut through the air behind us. "Such a fine match for the Snowleaf."

Fara, her hazel eyes gleaming with mischief, stood with her arms crossed, a smirk playing on her lips as she mocked Brellin and me.

My brows knit together in frustration, but I held my tongue, refusing to rise to her bait.

"Don’t be upset, Fara," Brellin shot back, his tone dripping with mockery. "There’s still room in our team if you’re feeling left out."

"Hah!" Fara scoffed, a sarcastic laugh escaping her lips. "I’m the finest archer in this class. Do you really think I’d waste my time with the likes of you?"

"I’d like to join."

The familiar, soft voice made me freeze. Elamoril’s eyes were locked on Brellin, his tone measured and calm. "If there’s room," he added, his gaze briefly flickering in my direction before settling back on Brellin.

Brellin’s face lit up with a glimmer of hope, his nod deliberate and eager. "Of course!"

"Gods," Fara scoffed, rolling her eyes at Elamoril, "Really? Codell and the others were certain you’d join us."

"There’s no place for Nio on that team." Elamoril’s words sliced through the air like a blade as he took the seat beside me, his presence commanding the space.

"Sadly," Codell remarked as he stepped up behind Fara, his tone measured but with a hint of disappointment. "But you aren’t leaving, are you? We’d have been unstoppable with a pair of archers as skilled as you two."

"Fara is certainly the superior archer," Elamoril responded, his voice steady, eyes never wavering from Codell’s. "She alone is more than enough to carry your team." Yet, at the end of his sentence, he allowed a small, proud smile to form as he glanced at Fara.

Codell sighed, nodding in reluctant agreement. "Well, that much is true."

"Still, Elamoril," Fara leaned forward, planting her palms on the table, her gaze locking onto his with an intensity that sent a shiver down my spine. "I’d choose you, if you asked me to."

“Wait—" Codell began, only to be silenced by the cold, cutting glare Fara shot his way, forcing him to back down.

"What happened to not wasting your time with us?" Brellin sneered, his voice dripping with mockery.

"I would never," Fara retorted with disdain, her voice low and dangerous. "But you need a sixth, don’t you?" Her gaze drifted back to Elamoril, lingering on him with a boldness that made my blood simmer.

I remember a sudden urge flickering through me—a desire to carve those eyes out of her head.

"I don’t recall saying yes.” I finally muttered, my voice soft yet sharp, catching Elamoril’s attention like a snare tightening around its prey.

But I kept my focus on Brellin, "I’m sorry." I whispered, beginning to rise from my seat. But before I could fully stand, a familiar hand clamped around my wrist, pulling me back down with a force that startled me.

I tried to yank my hand free, but Elamoril’s grip was unyielding, his fingers pressing into my skin with a possessive intensity.

"What are you doing?" he hissed, his voice a low, dangerous whisper.

"Let me go." I demanded, each word deliberate, my voice trembling slightly as I met his gaze.

With an unwillingness that I could feel in the very air between us, his grip finally loosened, and I pulled away, rising from the table and leaving the hall behind.

I knew I needed to find a team—and I would, eventually. But I refused to sit there, enduring his silent dismissal of my presence while he played the hero by joining my team, ensuring our victory as though I couldn’t manage without him.

After everything. 

My steps carried me toward the library, the dim light of the corridors a welcome escape from the stifling tension of the hall. I felt a sudden, harsh grip on my waist. Before I could react, I was pulled into the shadowy aisle between the towering shelves, my back pressed firmly against the cold wood.

Elamoril stood before me, his eyes ablaze with something fierce, something raw that I had never seen in him before.

“Where do you think you’re going?" His voice was sharp, each word laced with a possessive edge that sent a shiver down my spine.

"Away, from you.”  I breathed, struggling to keep my voice steady, to maintain the coldness I desperately wanted to project. 

I knew he could sense the fear simmering just beneath my defiance, just as I could sense the hesitation in his grip. For a moment, we were locked in that charged silence, the air thick with unspoken words.

“Isn’t this what you want anyway?” I finally snapped, pushing his arms away with a force that surprised even me. He didn’t resist, his hands falling to his sides, though his eyes remained fixed on mine.

He was silent, but I refused to be. The words I had held back for so long surged to the surface.

“You left me,” I spat, my voice trembling with the fury that had been brewing within me. My eyes burned, the tears I had fought so hard to suppress threatening to spill over. “You left me in the middle of a mess that I made.”

“I know, I fucked up.” The words burst from me, stronger than I intended, “I know I failed you, that I ran from what we could have had if we had escaped. But you never gave us a chance to be what we could have been if we had stayed.”

“Nothing, Nio, we would have been nothing.” he replied, his voice a steady whisper, yet carrying a finality that stung.

I gave a bitter, sarcastic smile, nodding in mock agreement. “Right, just like we are now.”

I took a deliberate step closer. “It’s not just the Thalmor. It’s all because of you, because you wanted us to be nothing.”

The intensity in his gaze faltered, the blazing fire in his eyes dimming into something softer, more familiar. The raw edge of his anger smoothed into a quiet, steady flame. 

He was back.

“I never wanted us to be nothing,” he said quietly, his own step bringing him closer. “I only wanted to take you back home.”

The pain in his voice was palpable as he reached out, gently cupping my cheek. “I hated seeing the way they treated us,” he murmured, his touch tender and almost reverent. “The way they treated you.”

I placed my hand over his, the warmth of his touch mingling with my own. “You,” I whispered, “you became my home.”

A flicker of something soft and vulnerable appeared in his eyes, the fire within them momentarily dimming as my gaze drifted to his lips before returning to his eyes.

“Nio,” he breathed, his voice trembling with a mix of regret and longing. It was more a plea than an address, his arm sliding around my waist with a tenderness that seemed to bridge the gap between us. “I told you that—”

“That you would always be here,” I finished for him, my voice steady but laced with the pain of unmet promises. “And you weren’t.”

As he pulled me gently into his embrace, my feet moved involuntarily closer, closing the distance between us. His hand slipped from my cheek to cradle the side of my face, his fingers tangling softly in my hair. His thumb brushed lightly against my skin, a tender caress that sent a shiver through me, igniting something deep within.

“No matter what happens tomorrow, I want you to know that—” His eyes softened, revealing a vulnerability that made my heart ache. “Nothing can change my love for you. I will always love you.”

My eyes widened, a flush of heat rising to my cheeks as I searched his gaze, silently pleading for him to understand.

Can you love me the same way I love you? After everything?

“Yes,” he whispered, his voice barely audible over the frantic beating of my heart. “The same way you love me.”

As his lips descended upon mine, I clung to him, my hands finding their way to his shoulders, anchoring me to the moment.

The intimate bond we shared had always sparked curiosity, since we were kids, a silent awareness between us that had gone unspoken—until now.

His lips were soft against mine, his breath a gentle caress that mingled with my own. In that fragile space, I remember surrendering.

It was more than curiosity, more than a fleeting desire. For me, it was a kiss that bound my soul to his, a sealing of my heart, forevermore.

 

To be continued…

 

Chapter 12: Chapter 12

I took a step toward the Khajiit, his form still and unmoved as his gaze followed my every movement.

“What does that mean?” My voice trembled slightly as I advanced closer. “Who are you?”

But Maiq remained silent.

“Oh my Bal.” Amon’s scoffing voice startled me, and I turned to face him, irritation prickling at the edges of my patience.

When I looked back, the Khajiit was already gone. “Are you talking to yourself now?” Amon’s tone dripped with mockery, laced with a feigned concern that made my skin crawl.

“The Kha—” I stopped myself, biting back the words that would only fuel his ridicule. “Nothing.”

“Are you sure?” His voice carried a dangerous hint of mischief, as if he found delight in my unease.

I met his mismatched eyes with a sharp glare. He stood a few feet away, arms crossed over his armor, exuding a smugness that set my nerves on edge.

“You are awake.” I sighed,  “That means we can finally go.” I brushed past him, our shoulders grazing ever so slightly as I made my way toward the inn.

“Gather your things. We’re leaving in ten.”

As I packed my belongings and secured the mantle around my shoulders, my mind swirled with thoughts that threatened to overwhelm me. Dragons, an unknown company, and now, hallucinations?

This wasn’t the life I envisioned within the Brotherhood.

Maybe choosing one family over another was a grave mistake.

“Let’s go.” Amon opened the door without so much as a knock, his composed demeanor unsettling me even further.

“Don’t you know how to knock?” I snapped, narrowing my eyes as I grabbed my backpack.

“You said ten minutes.”

I rolled my eyes, brushing past him once more. Our shoulders touched again, the contact deliberate, though I couldn’t tell if it was meant to provoke me or offer some twisted reassurance.

“Ouch!” A child’s cry of pain pierced the air, pulling me from my thoughts.

“That’s what you get!” A little girl’s voice responded, laced with a wicked satisfaction.

I glanced over, noticing the boy doubled over, clutching his crotch in pain—the girl’s handiwork, no doubt. A smirk tugged at my lips as I patted her on the back before stepping out of the inn.

The cool evening air carried a weight of anticipation as Amon and I rode side by side, the road beneath us leading to Fort Kastav. The horizon was ablaze with the fading hues of sunset, the deep orange slowly giving way to the creeping darkness.

“So,” Amon’s voice broke the silence, a curious edge to it. “How does it feel to be an assassin of the Brotherhood?”

“Hollow,” I replied, the word slipping from my lips like a sigh, filled with a silent resignation. My eyes remained on the horizon, unwilling to meet his gaze.

“Rather grim, don’t you think?” he remarked, his tone tinged with amusement, as if he found pleasure in my discontent.

“More than it should be,” I mumbled, straightening in my saddle as I fought to maintain my composure. “But that’s what we do.”

His silence unsettled me, and the longer it stretched, the more it gnawed at my nerves. “If you are thinking of leaving,” My voice cut through the stillness, sharp and accusatory as I turned my gaze on him, a fierce glint in my eyes. “I could dismember you right here.”

Amon’s lips curved into a silent chuckle, the sound low and mocking. “Like you did last time?”

He was right. If I hadn’t underestimated him in our first encounter, perhaps things would have turned out differently. My hand instinctively touched the cloth around my neck, a reminder of that failure, before I forced it back down.

I refused to give him the satisfaction of a reply, choosing instead to let the silence stretch between us as we continued southward. 

As the watchtowers of the fort came into view, the night had fully embraced its shroud of darkness. The kind of darkness I could easily exploit.

“Amon!” I called out, alarm rising as I noticed him striding purposefully toward the gate of the fort. “What in the Oblivion are you doing?”

“Aren’t we here to gather information?” he replied, his tone casual, pulling up his hood as he continued toward the gate, undeterred by the four guards standing watch.

“We can’t just walk through the front door!” My hand shot out, grabbing his arm with a firm grip. “This isn’t our way!”

He stopped, his eyes gleaming beneath the shadow of his hood as he turned to face me. There was a dangerous amusement in his gaze.

“Oh yeah?” his lips curled into a smirk that sent a shiver down my spine. “And how did you manage to reach a thousand?”

“I don’t murder my way in.” Each word was deliberate, carrying the weight of my resolve.

He crossed his arms over his chest, leaning in just slightly, enough to invade my space. “An assassin who cares about lives and innocence?”

A soft chuckle escaped his lips, the sharp points of his teeth catching the dim moonlight as they glinted. “You are, darling, quite intriguing.”

Heat flooded my cheeks despite myself, and I cursed the reaction. “You mean to just barge into a fort full of imperials? These aren’t some bandits.”

His question came suddenly, his gaze piercing through the night to lock onto mine. “So, those are the people you hunt down? The bad guys?”

“Who goes there?” the silent night was shattered by a man’s voice.

“We need to go.” My whisper was more a command than a warning. Without hesitation, we moved together, slipping into the shadows toward our steeds. The faint glow of a torch followed us for a while, before it turned back, leaving us to the safety of the dark.

"Stay here." I commanded again, my voice brooking no argument. Amon’s brows furrowed in defiance, but before he could protest, I cut him off, my tone swift and unyielding. "I will handle this as I always do, and you will not get in my way."

My gaze locked onto his, fierce with determination, daring him to challenge me.

"I’ve wasted enough time with your games." I added, my voice laced with finality.

Without waiting for his response, I turned and slipped into the shadows as I always had—alone, and on my own terms.

Climbing the craggy face of the mountain that the fort nestled against, I moved with a predator’s grace, each step calculated, every breath measured. The shadows clung to me like a lover, concealing my presence as I ascended. As I reached the lip of the guard tower, I paused, surveying the scene below. The night was thick with the scent of pine and the distant murmur of soldiers.

I leapt onto the tower, landing softly beside two guards, their conversation masking the sound of my approach. The first never saw me coming; my elbow struck with brutal efficiency, and he crumpled to the ground, unconscious before he could even gasp.

The second guard spun around, his mouth opening in a silent scream, but my blade was already at his throat, pressing just enough to stifle the sound. His eyes bulged with terror as he stared into mine, and I could almost taste his fear.

“Where are the commander’s quarters?” I demanded, my voice a deadly whisper.

“Please—” he choked out, his breath ragged.

I tightened my grip, the blade biting into his skin. “If you speak another word that isn't giving me directions, I’ll end you.”

His fear won the battle with his instincts. “B-b-beneath the east tower,” he stammered, his voice trembling. “Second floor, the door at the end of the hall.”

“Good.” My voice softened, a mocking lilt creeping into it as I eased the blade away from his throat. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

Relief flickered in his eyes, but it was short-lived. I moved with the swiftness of a serpent, wrapping my arm around his neck and choking him into unconsciousness. As his body sagged, I let him drop to the stone floor, where he would remain until morning—if he was lucky.

With the guards dealt with, I slithered along the bastions of the fort, my movements fluid and soundless. Reaching the second-floor balcony, I peered into the dimly lit hall beyond, where a lone soldier stood vigil outside the commander’s quarters.

I stepped inside, drawing the soldier’s attention immediately. He eyed me with a mixture of suspicion and curiosity, his gaze lingering on the curves of my figure.

“I’m here to see the commander,” I stated flatly, all pretense of warmth stripped from my tone.

The soldier’s lips twisted into a lecherous grin. “You? At this hour? I thought he liked them younger.”

My jaw tightened, but I held my composure, masking the revulsion that simmered beneath my skin. “Are you going to question his orders?”

He snorted, waving me past with a dismissive hand. “Go in, then. Just don’t expect him to be gentle.”

I pushed open the heavy door and entered the room, my senses immediately assaulted by the scent of oiled leather and burning incense.

The commander stood behind a grand wooden desk, his silhouette framed by the flickering light of a single candle. He was a large man, his presence dominating the space, yet the lines of weariness etched into his face betrayed his true state.

“Ashenblade,” he greeted, his voice a deep rumble, tinged with something akin to disdain. “To what do I owe the honor?”

“I’m here for information.” I replied, taking deliberate steps closer to his desk. “About dragons.”

His body stiffened, a flicker of fear crossing his face. I leaned in, my gaze locking onto his. “Tell me what happened that night.”

His breath hitched slightly, the fear in his eyes betraying the bravado he tried to maintain. “We were awakened by a horrific scream,” he began, his voice thick with the memory. “The soldiers ran to the towers and saw it—a creature with wings as black as the void.”

“Just one?” I pressed, my gaze piercing through his.

His head shook violently. “No. Another rose from the very earth, tearing its way from the ground as if the land itself had birthed it.”

“Rose from the earth?” I repeated, incredulity lacing my tone.

“I know it sounds insane, but I swear on the Nine it happened.” He swallowed hard, his hand trembling slightly as he recalled the horror of that night. “The first one came from the north, I think. We didn’t see it until it was too late, until it was already upon us.”

“And after that?” I prompted, sensing the depth of his terror. “Did they attack you?”

“No.” he admitted, the word almost a sigh of relief. “They ignored us completely, as if we were nothing.”

I straightened, the tension in the room thick enough to cut with a knife. “Thank you, Commander.” I said, pulling back from the desk, my voice laced with false gratitude.

He smiled, a weary, bitter smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Don’t thank me. This information is worthless. We’re all doomed, no matter what Astrid does with it.”

I turned to leave but hesitated, a dark thought creeping into my mind. “One more thing, Commander,” I said softly, my voice dropping to a whisper as I asked, leaning in towards him. 

“How young were they?”

His face blanched, confusion and horror swirling in his eyes. “Who? What are you-“

My blade flashed in the dim light as it sliced across his throat. The words he might have spoken died on his lips, replaced by the gurgling choke of blood.

The crimson stain spread across the desk, a stark contrast against the polished wood. I watched as his life ebbed away, his eyes wide with the realization of his fate. As he slumped forward, I rifled through the drawers, finding a sealed parchment that might hold something useful. I tucked it into my belt and turned to leave, my steps unhurried. As I reached the door, it burst open, the guard from earlier barging in with his sword drawn, his face a mask of panic.

“By Ysmir!“ his eyes scanned the room, “Commander!” he gasped, his eyes darting between me and the bloodied corpse slumped over the desk.

”You little…” His voice was a strangled mix of horror and fury as he raised his sword. I met his charge head-on, my movements a blur of deadly precision.

He swung wildly, his form sloppy and unbalanced. I sidestepped his first strike, then ducked under the second, my body moving with fluid grace.

With a swift movement, I planted my back against his, using his own momentum to pull him off balance. As he staggered forward, I drove my blade into the nape of his neck, severing the spine with a sickening crunch.

His body went limp, collapsing at my feet in a graceless heap. I wiped the blood from my blade, my breath steady as I surveyed the scene.

“Oh, right,” Amon’s voice drawled from the shadows behind me, dripping with sarcasm. “This is not our way.”

To be continued…

Chapter 13: Chapter 13

 

Legate Rikke,

I write to inform you of a matter that demands immediate attention. On the eve of the last day of Rain’s Hand, while overseeing the fortifications of Fort Kastav, I witnessed a sight that challenges our understanding of this world and threatens the very security of Skyrim. Two dragons—beasts of legend—appeared in The Pale.

One descended from the heavens whereas the other rose from the earth itself, as though the ground had split open to release it. Their size and power were beyond anything our soldiers have ever faced, and their presence alone was enough to shake even the most seasoned among us.

The men are deeply disturbed by these events, their morale strained as we grapple with the implications of such creatures roaming our lands. The threat they pose to Skyrim and the Empire is incalculable. In the face of this new danger, it is imperative that we maintain unity and strength within our borders.

In light of these extraordinary circumstances, I must urge you and General Tullius to consider a course of action that, while drastic, could secure the future of Skyrim and the Empire. Ulfric is a symbol as much as he is a man—eliminate him, and the Stormcloak Rebellion will crumble into disarray.

With the dragons now a pressing concern, a prolonged civil war would only divide and weaken the land and The Empire cannot afford that when we face such a formidable enemy.

The impending audience between Jarl Ulfric Stormcloak and High King Torygg offers us a unique opportunity. A calculated, covert action during his journey could save countless lives and bring this conflict to a swift and victorious end.

The safety and stability of Skyrim and the Empire depend on decisive action, and I believe this is our moment to act. Fort Kastav stands ready to execute any orders you deem necessary, Legate.

I submit this report for your consideration and stand ready to act in service to the Empire.

Yours in duty,

Commander Cassius Marcellus

Fort Kastav, The Pale

 

“So, it was true.” The words slipped from my lips, barely a whisper as my eyes lifted from the parchment, the weight of its message settling like a stone in my chest. “He’s going to meet him.”

The realization felt like a dagger twisting in my gut, but before I could fully process it, Amon’s hand shot out, yanking the paper from my grasp with a speed that made my breath hitch.

“You murdered a patriot, you monster,” he quipped, his voice laced with a dark humor. His lips curled into a smirk, that knowing, infuriating smirk, as he handed the parchment back. I snatched it from him, tucking it securely under my belt, trying to ignore the way his fingers had brushed mine.

“Let’s go,” I ordered, my voice a shade too sharp, betraying the turmoil swirling within me. I mounted Shadowmere in a swift, almost desperate motion and without waiting for him, I urged my steed southward, my mind a storm of conflicting thoughts as we followed the path the Commander had described.

Amon’s voice broke through the rush of wind and the pounding of hooves. “You know, when the world is on the brink of ending beneath the crushing power of dragons and the boots of drunken men, I’d rather have a talkative companion.”

”I am not your companion.” I shot him a sidelong glance, forcing a sardonic edge into my reply. “And sure, why don’t we prattle on about the collective doom we’re all about to face?”

From the moment we met, Amon’s careless demeanor had grated on my nerves, his mocking tone like nails on a chalkboard. His reckless behavior on the gates of Kastav grated on me, like a pebble in my boot. Yet, there was something in the way he effortlessly invaded my space, something unsettling that gnawed at the edges of my resolve. The sting on my neck, lingered—a stark reminder of how close he dared to tread.

He scoffed, urging his horse forward until he was riding beside me, his gaze burning into me with an intensity that made my pulse quicken. I kept my eyes fixed ahead, but I could feel him searing into my consciousness.

“I know we—”

“We?” 

“Hmpf,” Amon grunted, his lips twitching into a faint, almost begrudging smile. “Fine.”

For the first time, I turned to fully meet his gaze. My pulse quickened, not from fear, but from the aggravation that always seemed to accompany him. “I know we didn’t exactly get off on the right foot,” he continued, a rare sincerity coloring his tone. His eyes, usually veiled with mockery, glinted with a sincerity that caught me off guard.

For a moment, I could sense a shift in him, a crack in his usual facade. But the bitterness inside me wouldn’t allow his words to land softly. “Not unusual for you,” I shot back and  turned my gaze back to the road ahead, the tension in my chest tightening. “Especially if you forcefully ‘taste’ everyone you see.”

His silence stretched between us, heavy and charged, as if he were searching for a way to respond without igniting my temper further.

When he finally spoke again, his voice was quieter, almost introspective. “It was not what I had intended,” he murmured, crossing his arms over his chest as if trying to contain his thoughts. “But then you—” He hesitated, “You had the nerve to approach a vampire with a dagger.”

A smirk tugged at his lips, and despite myself, I felt a frown forming on my own. 

“I’d heard stories about you,” he continued, his gaze drifting toward the sky as if recalling distant memories. “The Ashenblade, the Harvester, the Silent Death… all that.”

Each name felt like a dagger in my side, a reputation that had become both a shield and a prison. But hearing them from him, spoken with a strange mixture of respect and curiosity, made them feel like something else entirely. “My reputation precedes me,” I sighed.

“Indeed.” Amon’s smirk widened as he met my gaze, his eyes glinting with that familiar mix of amusement and intrigue. “I just haven’t decided what to call you yet.”

“Niolenyl would be sufficient.” I replied, my voice faltering ever so slightly as I uttered my true name.

As we rode further, the ground beneath us began to shift, the rough texture smoothing out in a way that felt almost unnatural. When I glanced down, I noticed something strange—the earth was a mix of snow and sand, an odd fusion that seemed out of place, even in this unpredictable land.

“Look,” I said, drawing Amon’s attention to the ground. “This should be the spot.”

I dismounted Shadowmere with caution, the tension in my body growing as I took a few steps forward. The earth beneath my boots felt different with each step, the snow-covered grass and stone, gradually giving way to a mixture of snow and sand.

The darkness of the night enveloped the area, but under the pale glow of the moon, I could see it clearly—a circle etched into the earth, the very spot where one of the dragons had risen. The air was thick with an ancient energy, a power that made the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end.

As I stood there, the weight of the investigation pressed down on me like never before. The landscape, the letter, the whispers of the looming threat…

As I turned back, I saw Amon kneeling in the strange mix of sand and snow, his hand sifting through the grains with a slow, deliberate motion.

“Ash.” he murmured, his voice heavy with realization.

A cold weight settled in my chest as I watched him. All along, I had clung to the small hope that Astrid was right—that this was all some elaborate scheme, a deception we could unravel. But the truth was undeniable now, pressing down on me like a vice, squeezing the air from my lungs. The fear I had glimpsed in the eyes of Festus and Grodyl was no illusion.

I couldn’t stand it. With hasty steps, I made my way back to Shadowmere, my mind racing. I needed to leave, to escape this suffocating truth, to ride back to the Sanctuary and deliver the news to Astrid. Maybe then, the weight would lift, even just a little.

“Hey!” Amon’s voice cut through the night, but I didn’t stop, didn’t let his words anchor me. I climbed onto my steed, my movements rushed, driven by the urgency to flee.

“Where are you going?” he demanded, frustration etched in the furrow of his brows.

“Go back to your Sanctuary,” I ordered, my voice sharp, laced with the firmness of duty. “Deliver the news to Colymna. The Black Council will gather soon.”

The words left my lips with a cold finality, and it wasn’t until after they hung in the air that I felt their weight added to the burden already on my chest.

Will I ever see him again?

“Colymna already knows,” Amon retorted, his tone tinged with irritation. “Where do you think I ran to the night I saw the dragons?”

I shrugged, feigning indifference, though inside, a silent storm raged. “Well then, since my duty here is over, I will return home. You should do the same.”

With that, I turned Shadowmere southward, toward Morvunskar.

“Niolenyl!” Amon’s voice, calling my name, pierced through the darkness. Part of me wanted to keep riding, to let the night swallow me whole, to be alone as I always had been, unbound by others and their expectations. But another part of me, the part that had hesitated when I spoke my name earlier, made me pull on the reins and turn to face him one last time.

He took a few steps closer, his eyes, a sapphire and a ruby, gleaming with an intensity that matched the moonlight. “Let me come with you,” he pleaded, his voice earnest, “I want us to have a new start.”

His words hit me like a tidal wave, threatening to sweep me away.

A new start? With him?

The very idea seemed absurd, yet… the look in his eyes made it feel like something more, something I hadn’t dared to consider.

“A new start. My name is Amon,” he began, his voice steady but tinged with something heavier. “I am a vampire, I like killing and I—” He paused, a sigh escaping his lips as he shook his head, as if trying to find the right words.

“Well, Colymna hates me and everyone else in the Sanctuary. I can’t go back there, not after she dismissed me so easily.”

I searched his tone for the slightest hint of mischief or mockery, any sign that he might be deceiving me, but found none. Amon’s voice, for once, lacked its usual edge. It was unsettling, almost disarming. His words hung in the air between us, laden with a vulnerability I hadn’t expected. My eyes locked onto his, searching for something, anything that might make me doubt him, but there was nothing to find. Maybe part of me didn’t want to find anything, didn’t want to uncover a reason to push him away.

“I know I’ve crossed the line,” he continued, his voice faltering. “More than I should have. I mean, I—”

“You shouldn’t have acted recklessly at the gates?” I cut in, my voice laced with the remnants of old anger, though it was softened now, almost teasing.

”I shouldn’t have called you a virgin-” 

“Well I am not.” The words escaped my lips with a tremble that I couldn’t contain, “So it doesn’t matter.” 

He nodded eagerly, his words tumbling out in a rush. “No more of that, all right?”

There was something in the way his eyes pleaded, something that made my cheeks flush with a warmth I wasn’t prepared for. Amon, the reckless, maddening vampire who had done nothing but irritate me from the moment we met, was now asking to stay by my side. He could just go anywhere else if he didn’t want to return to Dawnstar.

But his plea stirred something within me, a long-buried ache that I hadn’t acknowledged in years. The thought of having someone by my side, even someone as infuriating as Amon, was oddly comforting.

A consort to my loneliness? A friend, perhaps—like Nazir, who had always been there, just like the others I had eventually lost. Each one leaving a void that I had tried to fill with duty and perfection. Or someone like Astrid? Who had forced me into an impossible choice?

What would Amon be to me, if he were to stay?

The question gnawed at my mind, twisting and turning with no clear answer. It unsettled me in a way I hadn’t anticipated, like an itch beneath the surface of my skin that I couldn’t scratch.

“I’ll ride back to the Falkreath Sanctuary. I suppose you are free to entail.” I said finally, my voice carefully measured, though the tremor of uncertainty laced my words. The truth was, I wasn’t sure if I wanted him to follow, or if I was too afraid of what that might mean.

When he smiled, it was as if the moonlight itself softened, casting him in an ethereal glow that made my heart skip a beat. I looked away quickly, the intensity of his gaze too much to bear. With a swift motion, I turned Shadowmere southward, urging her into a brisk pace, hoping the ride would shake off the emotions swirling within me.

The hours of the night dragged on in silence as we rode past Morvunskar. The landscape shifted around us, dark and unforgiving, yet familiar. By the time we reached the bridge at Fort Amol, the first light of dawn began to creep into the sky, bleeding soft hues of pink and red across the horizon. 

But even the dawn’s beauty did little to quell the storm inside me.

My thoughts spun in a chaotic whirlwind. Astrid would demand an answer from me, and the weight of that decision pressed heavily on my shoulders. The thought of sinking deeper into her schemes, of becoming more than just her tool, sent icy tendrils of fear through me. I had always been an instrument of hers, shaped and honed to perfection, but now the blade was turning, and I wasn’t sure where it would land.

Amon rode in silence beside me, his presence a constant, unspoken tension. He didn’t speak, yet his silence was anything but empty. It was as if he were waiting, giving me the space to think.

As the endless tundra of Skyrim began to glow with the first light of day, the world around us transformed. The pale colors of winter painted the landscape, the sky a vast canvas of soft pastels. The wind tugged at my hood, pulling it free, and my hair streamed behind me, wild and untamed. I lifted my gaze to the sky, its endless expanse so bright and clear, and for a moment, I allowed myself to breathe.

It was beautiful—an untouched moment of serenity in a world on the brink of chaos. Even though I was not born in Skyrim, it was the only place that had ever felt like home. Its harsh, unforgiving land, its endless skies, and its fierce people had shaped me into who I was. I loved it in a deep, abiding way, but not with the boisterous enthusiasm of the next drunken Nord. My love for Skyrim was quieter, more in the way it had become a part of me.

As the sun began to rise higher, its insistent rays washed the land in a growing palette of colors, from pale pinks to golden yellows. The day was claiming the night, and with it came the realization that we would soon need to stop and make camp.

When we turned further south, Amon pulled his hood tighter around his head, shielding himself from the sun's relentless rays. The journey through the night had been long, the roads unforgiving, and I could feel the toll it was taking on both of us.

Just above the Embershard Mine, with Lake Ilinalta shimmering below, I halted Shadowmere. Exhaustion clawed at me, the weight of a sleepless night bearing down as I dismounted. My legs nearly buckled beneath me, but I steadied myself.

The looming presence of Mount Hrothgar above us offered a strange comfort. The mountain's dark, jagged silhouette cut against the sky. It wasn’t the most inviting of places—a high-altitude camp beneath the Throat of the World—but it would suffice. A few hours of sleep and a meal would have to sustain me before we continued our journey to the Sanctuary.

With calculated precision, I ignited the fire using the barest flicker of flame from my fingertip. Fire was always tricky for me, alive and unpredictable, slipping through my control like water. Yet, I managed, coaxing it to life until the warmth of the flames licked at the darkness, casting our shadows against the cave walls.

“Get some sleep, I’ll keep watch,” I ordered, my tone brokering no argument. My stomach growled as I rummaged through my bag, pulling out a dried rabbit leg. The sight of it made me grimace, but hunger gnawed at me, leaving me with little choice. I took a small bite, the taste as dry and unsatisfying as I’d expected.

“You should sleep,” Amon’s voice interrupted my thoughts, soft yet firm. He placed a bedroll near the fire, his gaze lingering on me in a way that made the space between us feel smaller. “I know you didn’t sleep at all in that inn.”

His words froze me in place, how did he know? 

“I did.”

Amon’s brows furrowed as he let out a frustrated huff. “Sure,” he shrugged, his tone dripping with irritation, “and was that before or after those drunken men called you an elven bitch?”

His words struck me silent. The piece of dried rabbit in my hand suddenly tasteless. My heart pounded, unsure whether it was anger or disbelief that gripped me.

”May Harbor have mercy on them.” He finished with a soft shrug as his voice deepened. 

“You…” I hesitated, swallowing hard, trying to find my voice. 

“I saw them on the road to their camp, when you were busy in the Fort…”

I stared at him, searching for some hint of his usual mockery, but his expression was unreadable, save for the flicker of something dark in his eyes.

“And they tasted like,” he hesitated, his voice tinged with disgust, “Bad mead.”

My breath caught in my throat as I stepped closer, the words trembling on my lips. “Why?”

“Why?” He repeated, his tone instantly cold, almost offended, as he crossed his arms over his chest, “No one calls you that and walks free.”

The darkness of the cave concealed most of his features, but the glint in his eyes shone brighter against the shadows, stark and unrelenting.

A part of me, a dark, twisted part, couldn’t deny the satisfaction that flickered in my heart. The thought of Nels and the othersi meeting their end at Amon’s hands was disturbingly comforting. But witnessing how far he was willing to go for something like this made my heart race beneath my chest. It felt like it wasn’t just about survival or some twisted game—it was about me.

A tension, thick and palpable, hung between us as the silence stretched, broken only by the faint crackling of the fire. I searched his eyes, looking for a way out of this labyrinth of emotions, but found none. Instead, I found only the truth staring back at me—raw and undeniable.

And in that truth, I saw the reflection of my own heart, twisted and conflicted. 

“Amon, I-” I whispered, the word barely escaping my lips. But the emotion in my voice betrayed me, revealing the turmoil that roiled beneath my surface.

“Get some sleep.” his voice was softer now, almost tender, as he moved toward the shadows at the entrance of the cave.

The darkness swallowed him, leaving me alone with the echoes of his words and the storm of thoughts that seemed to churn with a maddening intensity.

I laid down on my bedroll, the hard terrain of the cave pressing uncomfortably against my back. The sharpness of the stones beneath me was a cruel reminder of the bed I had refused earlier, a comfort I now regretted denying.

My mind was a labyrinth of tangled thoughts—anger, confusion and the silent ache on my neck which, this time came as a slight comfort, rather than an irritation as I stared at the caves cold ceiling.

To be continued…

Chapter 14: Chapter 14

 

The dull ache in my stomach roused me from sleep. As I turned on my side, the relentless sunlight filtered through the crack at the entrance, driving away the darkness.

Hunger gripped me. Although Amon was not satisfied with the flavor, he was full, thanks to Nels and his men.

I pushed myself up from my bedroll and noticed him across the fire. His silver hair spilled messily over the edges of his bedroll, his face calm and serene. I stood up with the intention of reaching Riverwood for a proper meal. The southern regions, more welcoming to mer than the north, promised fewer difficulties—at least, that was my hope.

I pulled my hood over my head, stepped out of the cave where we had camped, and began my descent. Heading north towards Riverwood, the midday sun warmed the path before me.

Silent steps carried me into the Sleeping Giant Inn, a hollow space that felt almost oppressive in its emptiness. A single drunk Nord huddled in a corner, his desolate presence amplifying the room’s silence.

Behind the counter stood a woman I recognized, her fair hair cascading around her shoulders and her blue eyes sharp and penetrating. She carried herself with an unyielding pride that seemed almost too grand for an innkeeper.

I took a seat at the counter, my gaze dropping to the worn surface as if to hide the pangs of hunger I couldn’t ignore.

“Meat. Any meat. And quickly.” I ordered, my voice barely more than a growl, as if my ravenous stomach was speaking for me.

“Of course.” she replied with a trace of amusement, before turning to the cooking pots behind her. As I waited, I surveyed the inn once more. The ongoing civil war had clearly impacted Riverwood, a small town vulnerable to the conflict's reach, lacking the defenses of larger cities.

The clatter of a plate brought me back to reality. I glanced up to meet her gaze once more. Her eyes held mine for a fleeting moment, searching as if seeking something in my own weariness.

I quickly turned my attention to the plate before me, my hunger surging as I devoured the rabbit stew with an almost desperate ferocity. Each bite was a visceral relief, tearing through the emptiness inside me, offering a brief escape from the turmoil surrounding us.

“From the North, are you?” she asked, her voice firm with an undercurrent of suspicion.

“No.” I replied tersely, taking another bite of stew.

“You carry the air of the North about you.” she said, leaning closer to the counter. “Bad news, I’m afraid.”

My spoon paused mid-air before I placed it back on my plate and met her gaze. “What news?”

Her blue eyes flashed with the clarity of the morning sky. “Dragons.” she whispered, her words cutting through the silence and resonating deeply in my mind.

“What do you know about them?” I demanded, my curiosity piqued.

How could this woman have such knowledge? I hoped the rumors had not spread so quickly.

A faint, knowing smile curled at her lips. “I know they are deadly, vicious creatures.”

“Go on,” I pressed, my tone growing colder. It was clear she wasn’t going to reveal much easily.

“And that they are coming to hunt us all down and end the world.”

“That much I already know.” I said, shrugging slightly as I returned my focus to the plate before me.

“There must be a way.” she said, her voice tinged with desperation as if she needed my attention. And, in truth, she had it.

I remained silent, hoping my quiet would prompt her to elaborate, but she just fixed her gaze on me, unyielding.

“How?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.

“Not how,” she replied, her breath steady and unhesitant, “but who.”

I raised an eyebrow, skepticism mingling with a fragile thread of hope. “And who might that be?”

Her blue eyes faltered for a moment, dropping to the counter as she grappled with her thoughts, struggling to articulate the answer.

“I—”

“Delphine!” a man’s voice interrupted, calling from behind her.

“Don’t go,” I whispered, my voice barely audible but thick with desperation. I clung to her words, longing for the answer that might offer a sliver of hope.

Her eyes lifted from the counter to meet mine, a flicker of sorrow in their depths. “Perhaps some other time,” she murmured, her voice almost tender, “when we meet again.”

With that, she stepped away from the counter.

“Wait!” I wanted to scream, my silent plea bursting with urgency and frustration.

“I’m coming, Ognar! Stop yelling all the damn time!” she shouted back, her voice fading as she left.

Her cryptic message left me in a storm of emotional turmoil. Could there truly be someone who could counter the dragons' threat? The notion of a savior was both exhilarating and tormenting, feeding a fragile hope that gnawed at me with equal parts anticipation and fear.

Who could it be?

The question burned in my mind, the uncertainty of whether hope was just a fleeting dream or a tangible chance for salvation.

As the inn’s door creaked open and a few Imperial soldiers entered, I pulled my hood tighter and lowered my gaze. It was time to leave. I left a coin on the counter and slipped out the door, careful to avoid any recognition.

As I made my way back to the cave, I saw Amon standing by the fire, his figure cast in stark shadows as he focused intently on sharpening his blade. The moment I entered his sphere, his eyes flicked up, the dagger in his hand flipping with a practiced ease before being sheathed with a deliberate, almost provocative finality.

“Where were you?” His voice cut through the air, laced with a demanding edge that bordered on possessive.

“At the inn, I-” I blinked, and suddenly his mismatched eyes were inches from mine, his proximity sending an electric jolt through my senses. His movement had been so swift and startling that it left a lingering warmth in the space he had just occupied.

Vampires and their unnerving speed.

“You went to Riverwood alone?” His voice dropped, each word laden with a concern that felt almost intimate.

I raised an eyebrow, taken aback by the sharp edge in his tone, "Why not?” I responded, meeting his gaze with steady defiance.

His jaw tightened, his presence radiating tension and intensity. “I woke up and found you gone, with no trace of where you’d been.” There was a quiet rage in his voice, though I couldn’t decipher its source.

I crossed my arms, stepping back, as if to underscore my resolve. “I go where I want, and you should get used to it.”

“How about you get used to us?” His voice was firm, his step forward resolute.

Us?

We were strangers. Riding together in silence or staying in the same inn for a night didn’t change that truth. We didn’t know and didn’t trust eachother. Why did it infuriate him to think I might abandon him?

”Hearing the names they call me doesn’t mean you know me.” I said, my voice cool but laced with challenge.

His jaw relaxed, his gaze shifting to a calm that was oddly comforting.

“No,” he replied, his tone softer, “I thought you were gone for good. Your belongings are still here, but I know—” He hesitated, causing my eyes to widen slightly. “—to you, nothing or nobody is too valuable to leave behind.”

He is right.

I despised admitting it. I could abandon anyone, as those I valued either died or left me in other ways. I could also leave behind anything, carrying only what I needed to remain unburdened. Astrid had taught me that being too attached to possessions was contrary to an assassin’s way.

“Let’s just say my trust isn’t easily earned.” I muttered, trying to silence the storm of thoughts in my mind and averting my gaze.

He killed them. 

I passed him deliberately, my shoulder brushing his lightly. As I made my way to my bedroll, the silence between us felt heavier than ever. For the first time, I longed for even the smallest sound to break the oppressive quiet. He moved toward the fire, choosing to remain silent as well.

I could just leave, knowing that he wouldn't be able to follow. Yet, the ease with which I had slept through the night next to a stranger, made me realize how much his presence had become, in its own twisted way, a comfort. Trusting him, a vampire, felt like a leap into the unknown, one I wouldn't have taken with my brothers or sisters.

Untill sunset, I spent my time packing my bag and cleaning the blood stained parts of my gear. Pulling my bedroll into a tight row and securing my backpack on my shoulder, I headed toward the cave’s narrow entrance, each step heavy with the weight of the silence pressing down on me.

Say something.

A dull ache crept into my neck as I glanced back into the cave. Seeing Amon extinguishing the last flickers of the fire brought a fleeting sense of relief.

Stepping outside, the sun was setting softly over the pine trees, its light painting the lake with hues of gold and amber. With a whistle, I called for Shadowmere. She approached with a graceful urgency, as if she, too, yearned to go home. I mounted her, and behind me, I heard the soft shuffle of leather as Amon prepared his own steed.

As we rode through the enveloping night, the silence felt more oppressive than before. The indifference I had carried yesterday had dissolved, replaced by an unbearable tension. Each tree that passed us and every stone beneath the hooves seemed heavy with unspoken dread.

“At the inn,” I ventured into the silence, “the innkeeper spoke of dragons.” Just voicing it seemed to lift a fraction of the oppressive weight from the night, making the darkness feel a touch less menacing.

“It’ll take a day or two for the news to reach Markarth.” he responded, his gaze sharp and his crimson eye glowing faintly, adding an edge to the quiet.

“She mentioned that there’s someone, that might be able to end all this.” I continued, my voice trembling with the weight of my fears and hopes.

He exhaled heavily, the sound a mix of resignation and contemplation, as he looked away from me, focusing on the winding path ahead. “Another legend,” he said, his tone dripping with a touch of disdain.

My curiosity sparked, and I prodded further, “You knew about this?”

He shrugged, his gaze never leaving the road as if searching for answers in the dark. “Well, I am old.”

Old? The term seemed vague, and I found myself growing more frustrated. He appeared only a few years older than me, but his ageless demeanor suggested a lifetime of untold experiences.

“How old?” I pressed.

“Just old.” he muttered, finally meeting my gaze. His expression was one of resignation, met by my furrowed brow.

I sighed, my determination breaking apart, “What legend?”

“A hero of the Nords,” he replied, his voice softer, almost wistful. “The ultimate dragon slayer of the Blades, and the daring ambition of unfortunate Varen.”

His words felt like fragments of a broken dream. We were told that the Blades had been eradicated by The Thalmor, their legacy now nothing more than a shadow of the past.

“Just tell me what this really means.” I demanded, my voice now a mix of urgency and weariness.

“A warrior with the body of a mortal and the soul of a dragon.” he murmured, his gaze steady, as if daring me to grasp the enormity of what he was saying, his crimson eye was deep, shining like a flawless ruby.

I struggled to reconcile his words with everything I knew about dragons and the teachings of the Thalmor, a flicker of doubt and suspicion began to gnaw at me. Could Amon be spinning a story just to get on my nerves?

“And what is this warrior’s destiny?” I asked, my voice trembling with a blend of frustration and vulnerability.

His gaze met mine briefly before he turned back to the darkened forest. “Whatever the warrior chooses.”

Before I could react, the rhythmic clatter of hooves grew louder. Amon spurred his steed forward along with his gaze, startling Shadowmere and vanishing into the night with an almost desperate haste. Suddenly, I was alone.

I pressed Shadowmere forward into the thickening gloom, my heart pounding as I scanned the forest for any sign of Amon. The darkness enveloped me, hiding every detail, every hint of where he might have gone. As I neared a clearing, I saw his dark steed standing alone, its serene presence a stark contrast to the encroaching night.

A rush of suspense surged through me, making my breath quicken. I dismounted Shadowmere with a sense of urgency, my eyes desperately searching the shadows.

The clearing was bathed in the dim light of the moon, but beyond it, the forest remained a wall of inky black. I opened my palm, conjuring a small flame that cast a trembling light over the clearing. Shadows danced ominously on the trees, and the only sounds were the anxious breaths of the horses and the distant rustle of the night. The solitude felt almost tangible, a heavy weight pressing down on me.

He was gone, just as I was starting to think I could get used to us.

 

To be continued…

Chapter 15: Chapter 15

 

As he came to a sudden halt mere inches from me, the abrupt rush of air from his movement snuffed out the tiny flame flickering in my palm. His unnerving speed once more causing my brows to furrow. 

Beneath Skyrim’s muted sky, his crimson eye glowed with an eerie, otherworldly light, casting an unsettling sheen across his face. His lips curled into a grim smile, only to be swiftly concealed as he wiped his mouth with the back of his wrist, erasing the trace of blood.

I blinked, trying to make sense of the turbulent emotions that had just surged through me.

Was it relief?

“Sorry,” he said, his smile fading as he noticed my perplexed expression. “Just needed a quick bite. We can move on now.”

His tone was nonchalant, almost practiced, as though he sought to erase the incident as if it had never happened. He brushed past me with deliberate casualness, his shoulder brushing against mine before he made his way to his steed.

“Who did you kill?” I demanded, my voice trembling with a barely restrained fury.

“It doesn’t really matter,” he replied with a dismissive shrug. “If it helps, he was a bad guy.”

He continued to his horse, his shoulder pressing against mine in a gesture that felt oddly intimate as he mounted.

“It matters,” I said softly, my voice wavering with a fragile vulnerability. “Mother’s invitation—we—”

“And we deliver. Yes, yes,” he interrupted, shaking his head as if to brush off the concern. “Soon, we’ll all be gone anyway,” he added, casting a sideways glance from his saddle. “Uninvited.”

His words cut through me, freezing my heart with their chilling certainty.

The reality of dragons rising unpredictably from the earth, with no guarantee of safety, painted a grim picture. Their previous non-aggression offered no assurance against future attacks.

I mounted Shadowmere, guiding her close to Amon’s steed, I asked with a sudden murmur, “Do you think there is a way to stop it?”

For a fleeting moment, his eyes locked with mine, and I thought I detected a glimmer of something—perhaps doubt or realization.

“If you want to cling to tales of heroes saving Tamriel, you’re welcome to.” he said, his voice as cold and unyielding as the night itself. “I don’t see any hero here.” His gaze swept across the forest briefly before returning to mine. “Do you?”

I struggled to maintain my composure, his words shattering the fragile hope I had clung to. The prospect of a war against dragons seemed increasingly inevitable, but if there was any chance of avoiding it, I felt it was worth every effort to pursue.

“I’ve always enjoyed reading,” I said, my words catching him off guard. “Heroes, legends, Daedra…” I allowed a faint, wistful smile to touch my lips. “Tell me more.”

His eyes widened, moving from my smile to my gaze, as if struggling to reconcile the hopeful glimmer in my eyes with the bleakness of our situation.

He nudged his steed forward, and I followed, the distance between us shrinking as his voice took on a somber tone. “Dragonborn. The warrior who will save us all.”

“There have been many,” he continued, his voice heavy with weariness. “Emperors like Septim and traitors like Miraak.”

Tiber Septim—the man who transcended mortality. My heart quickened at the thought. “A mortal soul who can shout with the power of a dragon.” he explained, his tone tinged with a hint of disdain.

His words ignited a flicker of fragile hope within me.

“Anyone too determined can achieve it.” he said dismissively. “Wasting your life just to summon a gust of wind,” he shrugged, a cold mockery in his voice. “I wouldn’t spend a second of my eternity with those ancient relics up there.”

High Hrothgar loomed in my mind, its seven thousand steps a constant reminder of the seekers of enlightenment.

“We don’t have time.” I said firmly, my voice tinged with desperation.

“Well, that brings us back to where we started,” he said, his smirk widening into something almost cruel. “We’re all going to die.”

I pressed forward, struggling to cling to any semblance of hope. “This Dragonborn,” I asked, my voice trembling with intensity, “if anyone can achieve it, what makes this warrior so special?”

He looked at me with a mixture of amusement and concern, as if my questions were both intriguing and troubling. “What sort of libraries do your people have?” he inquired, “The Dragonborn carries the soul of a dragon. Shouting becomes second nature to them.”

Second nature.

“Do you believe such a person exists?” I asked, my voice barely a whisper, laden with yearning.

“I don’t.” he said abruptly, his tone cutting through the air like a dagger.

His finality was a crushing weight on my chest. The question lingered, heavy and unresolved.

What if?

Until we reached the fork in the road near Falkreath, my thoughts were consumed by the idea of the Dragonborn. The possibility of such a figure, destined to wield the power of a dragon, filled me with a mix of hope and dread.

My knowledge of dragon lore was steeped in the doctrines of the Thalmor. They had drilled into us the belief that Tiber Septim was no divine being but a mere mortal who ascended through sheer will.

According to their teachings, Septim’s deification was a fabrication, a falsehood designed to legitimize his rule. We were conditioned to view his followers as heretics, to be apprehended and silenced.

Now, the thought of the Dragonborn emerging once more was also troubling one. The Thalmor, with their relentless zeal, would pursue this warrior with an intensity that matched their efforts to eradicate the legacy of the Septims. I shuddered to think of what they might do to someone with the power of a Dragonborn.

As the rhythmic clatter of our steeds’ hooves echoed through the night, a thick shroud of anxiety settled over me. The Black Door loomed ahead, its dark presence a silent reminder of the unknown.

Amon’s gaze shifted to me, his expression a mix of patience and expectation. He tilted his head slightly, breaking the silence with a command as soft as a whisper but carrying an undeniable edge. “The words, please.”

The Black Doors were infamous for their selective nature, their riddles were gatekeepers, requiring the correct incantation to grant entry. While I knew the phrase for the sanctuary in Dawnstar, Amon was expected to know the words for the Falkreath door.

The two sanctuaries, each home to two of the four Speakers, were locked in a perpetual struggle—caught in the storm of enmity between two formidable women.

“Colymna didn’t tell you?” I asked, my voice tinged with both curiosity and frustration.

Amon’s expression hardened as he stepped forward, his eyes revealing a trace of bitterness. “I told you,” he said, his voice laden with resignation. “She sent me to you hoping to be rid of me. She hated me since the day I joined the Brotherhood.”

I crossed my arms, the weight of suspicion settling heavily on my shoulders. “What really happened?”

He sighed deeply, shrugging as if the effort of explaining was too much. “I wanted to be included and she agreed. But she despised me from the very beginning.”

I gave a slight nod, signaling him to continue.

With another weary sigh, he confessed, “Before the dragon incident, she had ordered me to go to the College.”

“The College?” My curiosity was piqued, unable to restrain the question that bubbled to the surface.

Amon took a step closer, a flicker of guilt marring his features. “She wanted me to find the mage who was researching a cure for vampirism. When I encountered the dragons, I-” he sighed, “I didn’t know what to do.” 

“I saw your men,” he said, taking a deep breath. “I hoped I could talk to one of them, but they were too busy scrambling to their portal.”

As the reality of our situation sank in, I felt a profound sense of revulsion. 

“I knew one of you would come back,” he continued, stepping closer and lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “And you did.”

So, another game?  A way for him to avoid returning to Dawnstar? The tinge on my neck made the it all more unbearable than it was by the second. 

“Why did you lie to me?” I demanded, stepping back and piercing him with a glare.

“I—” He shifted his gaze, “I heard about you, your reputation. The Snake of the South—”

“Enough with the damn names,” I cut him off sharply, my voice slicing through the air. “Your plan was to escape?”

“Escape?” A silent, cruel laugh escaped his lips, his teeth glinting in the moonlight. “And come to yet another Sanctuary?”

“No, no, sister—” He shook his head lightly before stepping closer. “You see, I enjoy killing. That’s why I joined the Brotherhood.”

A smirk curved his lips. “Just like you.”

Nothing like me.

“And you really thought Astrid would accept you just because you came here with me?”

“I hoped so,” he shrugged with a hint of a smile. “Given that I behaved in the second half, I thought I might have earned it.”

His touch on my elbow startled me. I uncrossed my arms, not darning to take another step back. His mismatched eyes showed a fleeting amusement that gradually faded into silence. “Come on,” he whispered, his voice soft. “The words.”

“Silence, my brother.”

Fen’s familiar voice cut through the air, her tone carrying an edge of command. Her eyes locked onto us, a sly smirk curling at the corners of her lips as she deliberately closed the distance between us.

Not now, Fen.

Her gaze lingered on me with a knowing intensity before she asked, “Why deny him the chance?”

 

To be continued…

Chapter 16: Chapter 16

 

4E, 196

 

“What is she, Nazir?" The woman's voice tore through the air, sharp and cutting, just like the blades she surely wielded. Her brown hair framed a face twisted in fury, and her deep red armor—a haunting reflection of the blood she had undoubtedly spilled—seemed to pulse with the heat of her rage. Her eyes, wide with a mix of trepidation and something darker, bore into me as if I were a creature from the depths.

Nazir, standing beside me like a shield against her wrath, tried to speak, his voice a calming murmur, “Astrid, please—"

But the woman—Astrid, I learned—would not be swayed so easily. She cut him off with a venomous hiss, "Something is wrong with that girl." There was an edge to her words that I could not understand then. Now, looking back, her tone seemed heavy with the weight of her then new role as the leader of the Falkreath Sanctuary.

Nazir’s plea was softer this time, almost as if he were speaking to himself, “She means no harm... For the Father, Astrid, look at her!” His words wrapped around me like a fragile barrier, but even I could feel the desperation in them.

Astrid’s eyes roved over me, taking in every detail, every scar and bruise, as if she was trying to piece together the puzzle of who, or what, I truly was.

I remember the way the shadows twisted and writhed under the flickering torchlight. The skulls embedded in the walls were the worst of it—those empty, hollow eyes watching my every move, silently judging, as if they knew I didn’t belong.

I stood there in the remnants of my Thalmor uniform from the day of the trial, the fabric burned and torn, still stiff with dried blood. It clung to me like a second skin, a grim reminder of the horrors I had endured. Yet, despite its ragged state, I couldn’t help but think I looked better than the first time Nazir had found me—barely more than a ghost of a girl, hanging on to life by a thread.

Thanks to him and Festus, I had been able to eat, to sleep, to cling to the edges of survival. They had given me a chance, pulled me back from the edge, but the scars of that ordeal were still etched into my flesh. I had managed to clean myself in the cold waters of the nearby lake but the bruises that marred my neck and the side of my face were refusing to fade.

Under the dim light of the hall, they stood out like dark stains on my pale skin, a testament to the violence I had survived. Every time I caught sight of them in a reflective surface, they reminded me of the pain, the fear, the helplessness.

The farm.

I could feel Astrid’s eyes lingering on those bruises, but there was no pity in her gaze, only a cold, calculating assessment, as if she was weighing my worth—or my danger—to the Brotherhood.

"I had no other choice." Nazir pressed, his voice tight, as he opened his hand in a gesture of frustration.

"Well, you had options." Festus's voice cut through the dimly lit hall, emerging from the shadows with a disapproving glare, his arms crossed in a judgmental way. Nazir stiffened at the sanctimony in his tone, a flicker of anger flashing in his eyes.

"Shut up, old man." Nazir snapped, his patience fraying. "You know the state we found her in. Have you forsaken all mercy?"

"Mercy?" Astrid's voice was sharp, almost a hiss, as she turned her steely gaze on Nazir, then on me. "We don't do mercy." Her words were cold, cutting through the air like a blade.

"If you can't accept her," Nazir hissed, his voice steady as his gaze swept across the faces of his comrades, finally resting on Astrid, "then I'll leave. This isn’t a family." His words hung in the air like a challenge, daring anyone to oppose him.

With that, he touched my shoulder, a gesture that both reassured and terrified me, and together we turned toward the black door. The murmurs of discontent began to ripple through the crowd, a low rumble of unease.

"You can't leave just like that," Astrid's voice rang out, sharp and commanding. "Remember the Tenets, Nazir."

"The Tenets!" Nazir’s retort was a fierce, biting declaration that made me flinch at its intensity. "The first one tells us never to disobey the Night Mother, does it not?"

Astrid hesitated, her confidence wavering as his words struck a chord. "How am I disobeying her, when you’re the one who brought an outsider here?" Her tone was defensive, but there was a flicker of doubt in her eyes, a crack in her hardened exterior.

"The Night Mother embraces all who are faithful," Nazir replied, his voice unwavering, every syllable steeped in conviction, “and she is faithful to the Mother.”

No.

The words left my lips with an unwavering certainty, reverberating through the chamber.

"My mother is Y'ffre and her alone."

I felt the weight of every gaze upon me, the assassins' eyes burning with a mix of anger and something else—curiosity, perhaps. But Nazir... Nazir’s eyes were filled with silent sorrow.

"Enough!" Astrid’s voice cut through the air like a blade, the sound of her weapon being drawn sending a chill down my spine. She moved toward me with purpose, her steps heavy with the intent to kill.

She was a killer, and I was just another target—another intruder who had crossed into their world. I could see it in her every move.

"Stop it, Astrid!” Nazir’s voice broke through the tension, and suddenly, he was in front of me, shielding me from the danger I knew too well. There was a desperation in his tone that made my chest tighten, a plea that felt like a lifeline.

"Move, Nazir. We know nothing of her!” Astrid argued, seeking the crowd's support.

"Astrid is right," a voice rang out from the back. I felt a chill as a man, in strange clothes stepped forward, his eyes locking onto mine with a gaze that seemed to pierce straight through to my soul. "The void stares back.” he murmured, his words laced with an unsettling crypticness.

"Step aside, Cicero.” Nazir’s warning was sharp, but Cicero paid him no mind. His focus was entirely on me, and I could feel the weight of his scrutiny. “Be pragmatic, Astrid,” Nazir pressed, disregarding the jester entirely. “We found her surrounded by the corpses of at least a dozen men.” He turned to Festus, seeking validation.

“True,” Festus confirmed gravely. “She has some disgusting wounds too.” Nazir’s expression twisted in distaste, but he kept his gaze fixed on Astrid.

“We don’t know what she is, but she has potential.” Nazir continued, his words creating a ripple of unease among the gathered assassins.

“Weak, that’s what she is.” Astrid spat, her resolve unshaken as she advanced on me once more.

I had heard enough.

Weak?

It was clear that Astrid wouldn’t be convinced by mere words—she needed proof, something tangible. Without hesitation, I slipped my hand to Nazir’s belt and deftly seized his blade. In a fluid motion, I darted behind him, my steps silent and swift, closing the gap between myself and Astrid. The air shifted around me as I moved, a cold breeze tousling Astrid’s hair as I melded with the shadows.

Astrid swung her blade at me, but I was quicker. I sidestepped, causing her to stumble slightly as I pushed her off balance. Regaining her balance with ease, she turned, fury blazing in her eyes, and swung again—only to slice through empty air. In an instant, I was behind her, the tip of my blade barely touching the delicate skin of her neck.

The room collectively gasped, the tension visible.

"I believe you’ve proven yourself, Elf." a man’s voice cut through the tension, though I could hear the concern laced in his tone. "Put the blade down."

"So your mistress can slay me?" I shot back, my words cutting through the silence like a blade. "I am not naive, werewolf."

The man’s eyes widened, surprise flickering across his face. But I wasn’t finished. "I’ve slain enough dogs to recognize the stench of a dead one."

Gasps of disbelief rippled through the room, the assassins stunned by my audacity. I was, after all, a product of relentless training and ruthless conditioning, engineered to be a perfect war machine.

In the end, I survived the trial.

"My name is Niolenyl. I was trained long and hard enough to end your finest assassin with ease."

The room fell into stunned silence, the weight of my declaration settling heavily in the air. The astonishment was palpable, not only from the gravity of my words but also from the precision and confidence that defined my movements. I dropped the blade, releasing Astrid from my grasp.

Nazir appeared particularly unsettled by me, the girl he had just defended. He had spoken of my potential, but witnessing that same potential wielded with such grace as I held Astrid at knifepoint seemed to leave him visibly shaken.

“Astrid, was it?” I asked, my voice slicing through the quiet like a blade. “Perhaps I am an outsider, but weak?”

I turned to the crowd, watching as they recoiled, stepping back from my presence. “I am skilled at killing, if you can’t tell. Isn’t this what you need? Bloodlust?”

“It’s not bloodlust, Niolenyl,” Nazir’s voice emerged from the shadows, steady and calm. Yet his words seemed to linger in the air, as if questioning their own validity.

“For they are faithful,” another voice intoned, low and resonant, carrying a weight that seemed to chill the very air around us. The room was suddenly plunged into darkness as the candles extinguished themselves, their flames snuffed out as if by an unseen hand.

I remember the air turning cold and heavy, pressing in from all sides. It was as though the very walls were breathing, the darkness pulsing with a life of its own. From that impenetrable void, a voice emerged—ancient, unfathomable, and filled with an authority that transcended the mortal realm.

“To me.” it whispered, but the words echoed with the force of a command that could shatter worlds.

The assassins reacted as one, their hands moving instinctively to their hearts, their postures falling into a reverent bow as they recognized the presence that now dominated the room. The atmosphere was suffused with a sense of awe and dread, the kind that one might feel when standing on the precipice of something vast and unknowable.

“Dread Father!” Cicero gasped, his voice trembling, almost breaking under the weight of his devotion.

“Hail Sithis!” they all murmured in unison, their voices barely above a whisper, as if to speak louder would draw the full attention of the void upon them. The name, Sithis, hung in the air, heavy with the weight of eons, a name that carried the promise of death and the inevitable return to the void.

I knew who he was. The Thalmor had taught us the knowledge of all the forbidden deities and their powers, beyond the mortal realm.

He was the void, and the void was him, a vast and endless expanse of nothingness that threatened to consume everything in its path.

“He is not with the void.” the voice whispered, a murmur that seemed to echo from within my very soul, as if no one else in the room could hear it but me. “The boy with the fire hair and the axe.”

At his words, a wave of weakness crashed over me. My legs buckled, refusing to support me any longer. I stumbled back, and suddenly, I felt someone’s hands grip my shoulders, steadying me. The touch was unfamiliar—Astrid, keeping me upright, forcing me to face what she couldn’t perceive, even though she was oblivious to the voice that spoke to me alone.

“He is to be never touched again.” the voice voice whispered once more. I struggled against Astrid’s hold, trying to break free, but she tightened her grip, keeping me in place.

Our eyes met, and to my surprise, her gaze held a warmth I had never seen before. It was as if she wanted me to know that she understood, that she could relate to the turmoil I was experiencing.

But how could she? Could she really understand?

“A soul that I may never envelop in my darkness is a soul worth a thousand.” the voice continued, its words resonating deep within me, filling me with a sense of loss and reverence.

As the voice faded, the sense of loss and reverence lingered, leaving me with an unsettling mourning. 

Suddenly, I felt the grip on my shoulders release, and I struggled to regain my composure. Eyes filled with fear, contempt, and anger were fixed on me, reminiscent of the way I was regarded when I first walked through Clamcora’s door.

“He spoke to her! The Father spoke!” Cicero’s voice rang out, cutting through the tension and drawing some of the hostile glares toward him. “A chosen!” He seemed almost certain he had heard the voice that spoke to me.

“Father already has his chosen ones,” Astrid was quick to interrupt, her gaze no longer warm. 

“Have it your way, Nazir.” she added, turning to face him before her attention shifted back to me.

Nazir’s gaze lowered to me, a silent smile tugging at his lips—a small, glimmering spark of hope.

“Welcome to the family.”

Family.

The notion of family once caressed my heart with promises of a warm home and a place of safety, filled with love and laughter—much like the first one I had known, before it was swallowed by the encroaching darkness. Before everything was taken from me. 

“Welcome!” A sudden voice startled me from behind. I turned to see a striking Nord woman, her dark hair and blue eyes resembling the icy glaciers of Skyrim. Her gaze was steady and inviting.

I nodded softly in response, and a smile curved her lips. “Come, I will show you around.” she said warmly, extending a gesture of hospitality in this new, unfamiliar place.

 

 

To be continued…

Chapter 17: Chapter 17

Amon’s mismatched gaze flickered over to Fen, who responded with a mischievous smile that only deepened the unease gnawing at me.

As the door creaked open, granting us entry, I could feel the rage simmering within, threatening to consume me. But why? Was it the lie he had woven about himself, or the realization that his appearance at the crossroads had been a calculated maneuver? The uncertainty clawed at me as I trailed behind Fen and Amon through the dimly lit hall of the Sanctuary.

“Ashenblade,” Astrid’s voice took on a suspicious edge as her eyes briefly flicked over Amon, “You’re back early, and with company?”

“The most unexpected!” Cicero’s voice was a near-silent hiss, but it drew a cold gaze from both Astrid and me, causing him to shrink back into his chair.

Taking a step forward towards Astrid, Amon introduced himself with a soft yet steady tone, “I am Amon, Speaker. It’s a pleasure to finally meet you.”

The words hung in the air, but the tension in my body only intensified. My jaw clenched involuntarily, the dull ache in my neck fueling my frustration. Astrid’s gaze lingered on him for a long moment before shifting to me, her eyes probing, searching for an explanation.

It was the same look she’d given Nazir when he first brought me here—a look that demanded answers, that questioned the intrusion into her sanctuary, our sanctuary.

“Well?” Her voice was a quiet, cold echo, devoid of warmth or welcome.

“He wants to join Falkreath,” Fen’s voice interjected, unbidden. “A fugitive from Dawnstar.”

The words hit the room like a spark. Cicero’s sharp gasp echoed behind us, filled with a mixture of disbelief and outrage.

“A fugitive?” Astrid’s eyes snapped back to Amon, her gaze now piercing, challenging him to reveal the truth behind Fen’s statement.

“Degrading, don’t you think?” Amon stepped closer to Astrid, a silent grin playing on his lips. “I prefer to be known as a powerful asset for you and your sanctuary. If you’ll have me,”

Astrid remained still, her gaze locked with his, unflinching as he whispered, “I am yours.”

Before she could respond, the heavy thud of approaching footsteps interrupted the moment. Arnbjorn, clearly roused from one of his drunken slumbers, stormed forward. “Back off.” he growled, his voice thick with both irritation and warning.

Amon’s eyes flicked to Arnbjorn, lingering just long enough to convey a faint disappointment, as if the werewolf’s interruption was nothing more than a mild annoyance. He looked back to Astrid, but whatever he was about to say was cut short as she took a step back, her expression unreadable.

“Colymna knows about this?” Astrid’s eyes darted toward me, the weight of her gaze sending a silent shiver down my spine.

Forced to repeat the truth I had been fed, I crossed my arms in frustration. “She sent him off to the College, that’s it.”

“The College?” Astrid echoed, her tone laced with suspicion.

“Well, yes,” Amon interjected smoothly, cutting through the tension before I could respond. “She was rather faint-hearted when she learned of my true nature.”

Arnbjorn’s heavy steps reached Amon, and he loomed over him like a towering shadow. Disgust twisted his features as he spat, “A vampire.” His eyes then snapped back to me, filled with accusation. “She brings a vampire to the Sanctuary!”

“How are you any different?” The words slipped from my lips before I could stop them, my brow arching in defiance.

“Enough! Both of you!” Astrid’s sharp voice cut through the rising tension, filling the hall with her authority. Her frustration was palpable as she turned to her husband. “Take him down to the dungeon.” she commanded.

With a grim satisfaction, Arnbjorn reached toward Amon, clearly eager to carry out the order.

“Dungeon?” Amon’s voice carried a hint of indignation, as if the very word was an affront to him. He took several steps back, his gaze flicking between Astrid and Arnbjorn.

“You,” Astrid’s eyes locked onto mine, the intensity of her stare nearly knocking the breath out of me. “You owe me an explanation.”

“Come here, you pale monster,” Arnbjorn growled, his strength evident as he lunged for Amon. But Amon was quicker, sidestepping his attempt with a fluid grace. In a blink, he was behind Arnbjorn, swirling around on his heel before making his way back to Astrid.

“Speaker!” His voice dripped with wicked amusement, his smirk dark and unsettling. Sharp fangs, glimmering ominously under the dim light of the sanctuary as he darted forward with his unnerving speed.

In that split second, the memory of my own moment of vulnerability crashed over me. I could almost feel the cold steel of a dagger pressed against my skin, the mismatched gaze that pinned me in place, and the ghost of those fangs grazing my flesh. The way the taste made me feel.

The taste.

Will he do the same?

“Stop!” My voice rang out as I stepped forward, my heart racing. Amon stood mere inches away from me and Astrid, his weapon drawn. The tension in the air was thick, and Arnbjorn’s frustration deepened as he watched the scene unfold, his hands twitching with the urge to intervene. 

Amon's eyes flicked toward me, something unreadable passing through them. The room held its breath, teetering on the edge of violence, as if the entire sanctuary was poised for a single misstep.

“You bloodsucker!” Werewolf’s growl reverberated through the hall as he took a step closer, only to be stopped by Astrid’s icy gaze.

“If keeping him here will unsettle Colymna, then he’s more than welcome,” Astrid declared, her words laced with a calculated defiance that sent a shiver down my spine. “But he stays in the dungeons. Nowhere else.”

“My love—” Arnbjorn began, but Astrid’s sharp retort silenced him instantly.

“Enough, Arnbjorn!” Her voice rang out, commanding and unwavering, causing him to lower his gaze. She turned back to Amon, her eyes narrowing with cold determination. “You are mine now, and your place is the dungeon. Take it, or leave.”

Amon’s smirk faded, replaced by a glare that simmered with barely restrained fury. His eyes—one dark, the other unsettlingly bright—traveled over Astrid, lingering on Arnbjorn, and finally settled on me. The intensity of his gaze made my blood run cold.

“I accept.” he said, his voice dripping with venom.

What?

“Good.”

“As if anyone cares,” Arnbjorn muttered, stepping forward, but Amon moved with unnatural speed, positioning himself beside the werewolf in an instant.

“Touch me, and I’ll end you, dog.” Amon hissed, his voice low and lethal.

“Husband!” Astrid’s warning was the final word, her tone brooking no further argument. With a begrudging growl, Arnbjorn relented, leading Amon toward the dungeon. The vampire cast one last, lingering look at me before disappearing into the shadows, leaving a cold, unsettling silence behind.

Astrid’s voice sliced through the air, cold and commanding. “Out, Fen. Cicero, now!” The words left no room for argument, and both figures scurried out of the hall, their hurried footsteps echoing as the heavy doors closed behind them.

It was just the two of us, the silence in the hall pressing in from all sides, making the space feel smaller, more suffocating with each passing second. Astrid moved with deliberate grace, turning on her heels and making her way toward the table where a pitcher stood. She poured the golden liquid into two chalices and without a word, she slid one across the table to me.

“Honey wine.” she offered softly, sensing my hesitation.

I took the chalice, swirling the liquid thoughtfully before bringing it to my lips. The taste was sweet, but the tension in the room lingered like a bitter aftertaste.

“So,” Astrid began, her voice laced with a mixture of curiosity and caution, “tell me about this vampire of yours.”

“He is yours.” I countered as I settled into one of the chairs, leaning back as I propped my feet on the table, crossing them casually. “He was just… there,” I added, taking another sip of the wine, this one deeper than the first. “He witnessed the incident with the dragons too.”

“And?” Astrid pressed, her gaze sharp.

“And they are very much real.” I answered, lifting my chalice in a mock toast.

“Cheers,” she responded with a sarcastic smile, raising her own chalice in kind.

The sister in her stood before me, not the Speaker, not the leader—just Astrid. The heavy bags under her eyes were visible under the dim light of the candles on the table; she was exhausted. I knew the Brotherhood was not faring well in Skyrim with the civil war tearing the land apart, but the toll it had taken on her was stark and heavy. For a moment, I dared to pity her.

“There are a lot of witnesses other than him,” I added, the weight of my words hanging in the air as I reached into my belt and pulled out the rolled, unsealed letter. I slid it across the table toward her, watching as she set down her chalice and began to read.

As her eyes scanned the parchment, her expression grew more severe. When she finished, she took a large gulp of her wine, clearly trying to process the implications.

I hated to add to the burden on her shoulders, but being a leader meant to take up such responsibility didn’t it?

“We can’t stay out of it anymore,” I said, my voice earnest, though her icy glance in response told me she wasn’t so easily swayed.

“And pick a side like that fool Colymna?” Astrid’s tone was sharp, her frustration evident as she continued, “Risk the lives of my family for someone else’s lost cause?”

She refilled her chalice, the wine pouring out in a steady stream as her brow furrowed in thought. “No,” she said firmly, “we need to be careful about this.”

I couldn’t help but notice the contradiction, and before I could stop myself, I remarked, “You weren’t so careful with your decision making earlier.” Her gaze snapped to me, cold and piercing. I held it, undeterred. “You weren’t so welcoming of the last stranger brought to this hall.”

Her eyes narrowed, the weight of her authority pressing down on me like a vice, but I held my ground. The silence stretched between us, thick and heavy, until finally, Astrid sighed, setting her chalice down with a deliberate thud.

“We do what we must to survive,” she said, her voice quieter now, tinged with a hint of vulnerability she rarely showed. “And survival sometimes means making difficult choices.”

“And those choices?” I asked, leaning forward, “Are they just for survival, or something more?”

Astrid didn’t answer right away. Instead, she lifted her chalice once more, taking a slow, thoughtful sip. When she finally spoke, her voice was measured, almost resigned.

“They are for the family.” she said, her eyes distant, as if seeing something far beyond the walls of the Sanctuary. “Always for the family.”

The finality in her tone left no room for further argument. I took another sip of the honey wine, letting the silence settle around us once more.

Family was the last thing I wanted to talk about with Astrid.

“There is a rumor, a legend—" I hesitated, gathering my thoughts to share what I knew. "Someone called the Dragonborn."

Astrid's eyes sparked with interest for a brief moment before she turned to me. "A tale!" she scoffed, rolling her eyes. "One of those silly stories Nana would tell us." She shrugged, bringing the chalice back to her lips.

“We need to find a way.” I hissed, the frustration boiling within me. I was tired of my hopes against the dragon war being crushed by everyone.

"We can only dream," she sighed softly, "that Father will take us into his arms before it all worsens."

I rose from my chair, turning to leave, but her voice followed me.

“Have you thought about what I offered you?”

“I haven’t had time to consider,” I replied, glancing back at her. “Since we're all going to die sooner or later, does it even matter?”

Her silence was all the dismissal I needed. I left the hall, making my way through the dim corridors to my small room—my haven.

When I reached my small room, the first thing I did was tear off the cloth that covered my neck. The sight of the small, vertical slit that refused to heal was unbearable.

As I undressed and crawled into bed, the familiar warmth of my pillow offered a small comfort, a fleeting solace against the turmoil that gnawed at my mind. But sleep, as it had been lately, evaded me, slipping through my grasp like sand through fingers.

How could Astrid accept Amon into the Sanctuary so easily? Was she truly so naive to believe the bars of our dungeons could restrain him? She called it survival. Survival in a dragon war meant power. To Astrid, power was everything, and in Amon's nature, she must have seen a potent ally—one she could bend to her will. But power, I knew, was a treacherous thing, and Amon wielded it with a subtlety that was far more dangerous than raw strength. I couldn't fathom why he had chosen to remain in the Sanctuary, despite the indignity of being forced to sleep in the dungeon. This stubborn acceptance gnawed at me, fueling my unease. What was his true game, and why couldn't I escape the unsettling feeling that there was more beneath his calm facade?

I turned onto my side, but his silent, mocking smirk flashed in my mind, an unbearable taunt that twisted the knife of doubt deeper into my heart. If I hadn’t stopped him, would he have done to Astrid what he did to me?

Would he taste her? Would she tremble as I did, lost in that same intoxicating darkness?

A shiver of heat raced down my spine, pooling in my core, and my legs tensed, my knees pressing tightly together. The faint tinge in my neck, once a mere memory, now coiled around it like a serpent, tightening its grip until it felt as though I were suffocating.

I gasped, my breath catching in my throat, as the sensation dragged me deeper into that dark, forbidden pull. I despised it with every fiber of my being, yet it felt so dangerously easy to just surrender.

The possessiveness in his eyes—

“How about you get used to us?”

The growl in his voice—

“No one calls you that and walks free.”

That damned smirk on his lips—

“You are, darling, quite intriguing.”

I bolted upright, heart pounding in my chest, my brow furrowed in a deep frown. I shook my head, as if I could shake off the intoxicating grip he held on me, that creeping, unwelcome intrusion.

He was nothing to me. Nothing. Just as I was nothing to him. We were mere tools, steps on a ladder, nothing more.

But he is family now.

Above all, he belonged to Astrid.

 

 

---

 

No one could tell if it was midday or midnight on a day of Rain’s Hand; the Sanctuary’s halls were shrouded in calm, perpetual darkness.

“And the courtyard is just over there.”

I stepped into the hall, my heart tightening the moment I spotted Fen guiding Amon through the shadows. A bitter taste lingered on my tongue as I realized how desperately my eyes had searched for him the instant I entered. He stood there, draped in the deep red leather armor of the Brotherhood, though most of it had been exchanged for black—an armor that suited his nature too well. His tousled silver-white hair hung over his face, partially obscuring his mismatched eyes that were locked onto Fen.

The breakfast was meticulously arranged on the table, each item in its place, as if trying to uphold some semblance of normalcy. But the air was thick with an eerie quiet, a silence that felt like the breath before a storm’s wrath.

I sank into one of the chairs, exhaustion pressing down on me like a weight I couldn’t shake. The sleepless night had taken its toll; my body was drained, both from the torment inside my mind and the turmoil outside of it.

“Here you are.”

His voice sent a jolt through me, and I swallowed hard before daring to look up. Amon stood beside me, his palm resting on the table with a casual confidence that only served to infuriate me. A sly grin curled on his lips as his gaze traveled slowly down my neck, lingering on the wound I had so carefully concealed with fresh cloth after cleansing it earlier. I could feel the heat of his eyes, the silent mockery in his stare.

“How was the dungeon?” I forced a smirk onto my lips, though it felt like a fragile mask, ready to shatter at any moment. I leaned back in my chair, trying to feign nonchalance.

His expression darkened briefly, his brows knitting together in irritation. “Horrible. Can you believe the Brotherhood uses real silver chains and locks?” He shook his head, sliding into the seat next to me with an ease that made my skin crawl. “Tch, tch, tch, it burns like the fire of the Deadlands.”

My gaze instinctively traveled down his arm, seeking proof of his suffering, but his hand and wrist were covered by black leather gloves, hiding whatever marks might lie beneath. I knew better than to probe further; the dungeons had never been a place for me, and after my first active duty, I swore they never would be. Interrogation, pain—it wasn’t my skill, it wasn’t my way.

“You’re lucky she welcomed you,” I said, my voice sharper than intended as I took a sip from my cup, trying to drown the tremor in my hand. “And you should be thankful for the dungeons.”

“I prefer your company.”

His words struck me like a physical blow, sending a rush of heat to my cheeks that I couldn’t control. I struggled to swallow, the water burning its way down my throat as my heart raced against my will.

“The cave was much better than the dungeon.” he continued, his voice laced with dark amusement as he pulled out a small black bottle and uncorked it.

My eyes dropped to the bottle, tracing the stains on its surface with a mix of disgust and morbid curiosity. I knew what it contained—blood, thick and dark. He brought the bottle to his lips, drinking deeply, and I felt the eyes of the others in the hall on us. A few disgusted glances were cast his way, from those who still hadn’t grown accustomed to the presence of a vampire among us. I felt their unease mingle with my own, a collective tension that coiled in the air, ready to snap.

The door behind the table burst open with a crash that echoed through the hall, shattering the tense silence. All eyes turned as Astrid and Arnbjorn strode in, with Leona at their side, her Imperial armor clanging against the stone floor like a war drum.

Astrid’s gaze lifted from the paper in her hands, her face pale and drawn as if the words on the parchment had drained the life from her. Leona’s expression was taut with worry, her eyes flicking between us before settling on Astrid, who finally spoke, her voice heavy with a mix of disbelief and dread.

“He did it! The lunatic finally killed the High King.”

The weight of her words crashed over me, leaving me breathless, the world tilting as the gravity of the situation sank in.

The storm had arrived.

 

 

To be continued…

Chapter 18: Chapter 18

 

"And then he shouted. The king... he had no idea that a man could wield such power."

Leona’s voice quivered as she recounted the tale of Ulfric Stormcloak, the air in the room growing thick with unease. The mere thought of a man, capable of such an act made my blood run cold. To challenge a king and win with nothing but a shout—that took more than boldness. It took a power that most of us could only dream of.

As the weight of her words sank in, my gaze drifted to Amon. He was already watching me, a knowing smile curling at the corners of his lips. That look—what did it mean? Did he know something I didn’t? The unsettling thought lodged itself in my mind, refusing to let go.

“A shout?” Astrid’s voice cut through the tension, a mix of curiosity and concern coloring her tone. Her hand tightened around the paper she held, as if bracing herself for the answer.

I leaned back in my chair, feeling the weight of the room’s collective dread. The Brotherhood had faced many threats, but this… this was something different.

“Some teachings of the Greybeards,” Festus interjected with a weary sigh. His voice carried the weight of years spent unraveling mysteries that should have stayed hidden. “Ulfric must have spent time with those priests to learn the Way of the Voice.”

Grodyl’s scoff broke the brief silence, his expression one of forced resignation. “The power of a dragon, wielded by a man. It’s not just magic—it’s something ancient.”

“Like, Dovahkiin?” Arnbjorn’s question hung in the air, tension crackling between us as Astrid rolled her eyes, clearly irked by the reminder.

“Not quite,” Grodyl replied, his voice thick with unease. “He might manage it once, maybe twice in his life. If it doesn’t tear his voice apart the first time.”

“I came as soon as I could, Speaker,” Leona’s voice carried a sharp edge of urgency, betraying the concern etched in her eyes. “I need to return to my post.”

Astrid gave a curt nod. “Go, Leona. Stay vigilant and keep us informed.”

Without another word, Leona turned on her heel, the heavy clank of her armor echoing through the room as she made her way to the portal. Beneath the soldier’s steel, there was the heart of an assassin—one the ranks of Castle Dour remained oblivious to.

As the door closed behind her, Astrid’s composed facade began to fracture. She sank into the central chair, the paper she held trembling as it met the table, her hand barely able to keep it steady. Her voice wavered as she spoke, the gravity of her words pulling the air from the room.

“The war has officially started.” She exhaled a shaky breath, fighting to regain control. “Brothers and Sisters, if we are to survive, we must bide our time, as we always have, and wait for the right moment to strike. But before that…”

“Before what?” Festus snapped, the lines of his brow deepening with irritation. “Before the dragons swoop down and burn us all to ash? Or Ulfric’s men storm our sanctuary?”

Grodyl’s agreement came reluctantly, his voice laced with the frustration of a man trapped between impossible choices. “He’s right. We need a plan, Astrid. We can’t just sit and wait for death to find us.”

“And what exactly would you have us do, Grodyl?” Arnbjorn’s voice dripped with venomous contempt as he turned his glare on the Dunmer. “Fight dragons? Charge at them with our swords and daggers?.”

Grodyl’s patience was thinning, his tone growing taut. “We need allies.”

Astrid’s gaze turned icy, her words as sharp as the blades they all carried. “You’re suggesting we pick a side, then?”

“Sooner or later, Astrid,” Grodyl replied, his gaze dropping to the floor as he crossed his arms, weariness in every line of his posture. “Dawnstar already has the Stormcloaks at their back.”

“And what price do you think we’d pay for that protection?” Astrid’s voice cut through the room like a blade as she threw the rolled paper across the table. Her hands trembled, just for a moment, as she let out a breath she didn’t know she was holding. “Waste my people, waste you, on this man’s war?”

“Astrid’s right,” Fen’s voice cut through the clamor, as cool and unyielding as the chill that permeated the room. “Ulfric and his men are as unreliable as the Empire itself, and we all know it.”

The argument continued, voices rising in discord, but my focus shifted to the parchment lying on the table. I reached for it, feeling the weight of its contents before I even read the words. It was a letter addressed to all the Jarls of Skyrim, outlining the supposed ‘dishonorable combat’ that had taken place and officially naming Elisif, the widow of the slain king, as the new High Queen. But the true purpose of the letter was far graver—it marked the beginning of the civil war.

Astrid’s voice, cold and commanding, cut through the noise, drawing all attention back to her. “We will gather our allies,” she declared, her tone brokering no argument. “And we will find a way. Until then, we must work hard, for dark days lie ahead for the Brotherhood.”

With her final words, Astrid turned on her heel and exited the hall with brisk, determined steps, leaving behind a room full of assassins to murmur and debate. Most agreed with her decision to wait, to bide their time until the first strike came. But there were others who felt differently, who believed that action was needed now. They whispered among themselves, voices hushed but filled with urgency. They spoke of gathering strong allies, of preparing for the inevitable.

It was clear to everyone present that we could not remain neutral; we would not survive without choosing a side in this civil war.

My thoughts turned to Ulfric, the man at the center of it all. His bold, ruthless move in the midst of the dragon sightings had already set a chain of events in motion, events that would plunge Skyrim into deeper chaos. The frozen land was about to be engulfed in a storm unlike any it had seen before, and as I sat there, the weight of the uncertainty pressed heavily on my chest.

How we would survive it, I couldn’t say. I had no answers, only questions that twisted and churned within me, leaving me unsettled and restless.

I pushed my chair back, rising from it with deliberate movements, determined not to let my thoughts consume me in the midst of the assassins’ quiet murmurs in the hall.

Making my way down to the bathhouse, I gave a nod to the guard at the door. He returned the gesture before shutting the door firmly behind me. I knew what would come next—he’d place the sign on the door, a single letter N etched onto it, symbolizing my presence and enforcing the rule that no one else was allowed inside while I bathed.

Yet on a midday like this, I longed for silence, for the solitude that the bathhouse promised. A sanctuary within a sanctuary, away from the world outside that seemed to burn with the fury of wars and dragons.

I undressed slowly, each piece of clothing slipping from my body and pooling on the floor before I stepped into the warm embrace of the water. As always, the heat enveloped me instantly, a soothing balm that unraveled the tension knotted deep in my muscles. A shiver of relief coursed through me, chasing away the cold that had settled in my bones.

I leaned back, resting my head against the edge of the tub, closing my eyes as I let the warmth seep into every part of me. For a moment, the weight of the past days, with all their turmoil and uncertainty, lifted from my shoulders. The world outside faded, leaving only the gentle lapping of water against my skin, a lullaby that coaxed me into a dreamless sleep.

Or so I thought.

Faint voices began to drift through the fog of my slumber. They were distant at first, mere whispers on the edge of my consciousness. But they grew stronger, more insistent, like a chorus of many, all calling out something I couldn’t quite grasp—a name, perhaps, spoken in a tongue my mind couldn’t comprehend.

The voices tugged at me, pulling me further into the depths of whatever lay beyond the veil of sleep. Yet no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t decipher their meaning, only that they were urgent, filled with a sense of something ancient.

---

 

 

The passing days in the sanctuary had been agonizingly dull. Yet beneath the surface, a relentless tension simmered, almost unbearable, as everyone was on edge, haunted by the events that had shaken the very foundation of the country.

I spent those days buried in books or in training, avoiding Astrid’s gaze and everyone else’s for that matter. With no missions, no place I was needed, and worst of all, nowhere else to go, I was adrift, a shadow in a place that was beginning to feel more like a cage.

Amon had become a distant figure, a shadow I barely glimpsed in the corners of the sanctuary.

It was past midday when I finally dragged myself out of bed. As I caught my reflection, my eyes lingered on the small scar on my neck, nearly healed but still there, a crack in the porcelain of my skin, refusing to fade.

I let the cloth fall, resigning myself to the scar’s permanence, and made my way through the sanctuary’s winding halls to the dungeons below.

 

“Fuck yes.”

 

“You like that?”

 

“I love that.”

 

The voices hit me like a slap as I reached the dungeon door, stopping me cold. Amon’s voice was unmistakable, but the other… made my heart twist in a way I didn’t want to know.

I moved closer to the cells, each step heavy, as if something dark and forbidden was pulling me forward. The voices grew clearer, more distinct.

“Give me that neck, ” Amon’s growl was low and commanding, filled with a dark hunger. The sound of bodies colliding, of skin on skin, was a raw, primal rhythm that echoed through the stone walls.

As the whimpers turned into gasping moans, I turned to leave, my chest tight with a mix of emotions I couldn’t quite name. But before I could flee, his voice cut through the air like a blade,

“Don’t just stand there,” Amon’s voice was thick with desire, dripping with a dark promise. “Come, join us.”

I stood there, paralyzed, as if my feet had been fused to the cold stone beneath me. Every fiber of my being was ablaze with shame, my cheeks burning as the blood rushed to them.

Why did I even come here?

“Who’s that?” Fen’s voice pierced the oppressive silence, dragging me back to the brutal reality of the situation. Panic surged through me like wildfire, and I tore myself away from the dungeon’s depths, my legs carrying me up the stairs with a frantic urgency. Each step was a desperate attempt to flee the scene that I had witnessed, to escape the suffocating heat that now coursed through my veins.

I was unseen, just as they were to me. Amon might have heard my footsteps, but there was no proof it was me. It could have been anyone.

Back in my room, I slammed the door shut, leaning heavily against it, my breath coming in ragged gasps. The thought of them together, so raw and intimate, was burned into my mind.

I need a contract.

The thought of it brought a fleeting sense of purpose, a lifeline to cling to in the chaos that threatened to swallow me whole. But even that was slipping through my fingers. Days had passed since I’d last faced Astrid, avoiding her with a determination that bordered on cowardice. And she, in turn, had refrained from calling me out. The tension between us was a festering wound that refused to heal.

It was maddening to sit beneath the stone walls of the Sanctuary, as the world outside shifted and churned, as dragons became more than just legends and war loomed on the horizon. The Brotherhood had always thrived in the shadows, but now, it felt like we were waiting for the storm to pass.

But storms like these don’t just pass, they leave everything in ruins.

I hadn’t even taken a step away from the door before it swung open again, and there he was. Amon stood in my doorway, his mismatched eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that stole my breath. His shirt hung open, the fabric clinging to his muscular frame, revealing the smooth, flawless expanse of his chest. A thin trail of blood ran from the corner of his mouth, drawing my eyes like a magnet.

My breath hitched in my throat, a small gasp that I barely managed to stifle. I wanted to recoil, to put distance between us, but my body betrayed me, rooted to the spot by a need I refused to acknowledge. Amon took a slow, deliberate step forward, closing the space between us,

“Nosy, aren’t you?” His voice was a low, dangerous murmur, laced with amusement and something darker, more primal. He leaned in closer, his breath warm against my skin, wrapping around me, muddling my thoughts.

I feel like I’m drowning.

My skin prickled with awareness, every nerve ending alive with the tension that crackled between us, electric and charged with the promise of something wicked.

Snap out of it.

My brows furrowed in frustration at his words, my body a taut wire of barely suppressed anger and arousal.

“Nosy? I was just—”

“Visiting?” A smirk curled his lips, one that spoke of intimate knowledge and unspoken promises. He took another deliberate step forward, closing the distance between us with a predatory grace. Instinctively, I stepped back, my breath hitching at the intense hunger in his eye, a red hunger that spoke of something more than a simple meal.

“Did you miss me?” His voice was low, laced with a provocative edge that made my pulse quicken and my skin prickle with a mixture of annoyance and desire. His gaze was unwavering, commanding my attention with an almost magnetic pull.

“How did you come here?” I demanded, my voice trembling as I tried to regain some semblance of control.

He raised his arms, showing off the broken chain as it were a reminder of his raw power, and I could feel my body responding to the dangerous allure of his freedom.

Another step forward from him, another step back from me, and we were inside the room. The change in surroundings did nothing to deter him—his focus remained solely on me, his gaze filled with an insistent determination and a compelling sense of something I couldn’t quite name.

“Leave,” I murmured, “you don’t want to make her wait.” but the command was weak, a breathy whisper barely louder than the wind outside.

Amon’s smirk only deepened, his gaze searing into mine before drawn irresistibly to the uncovered wound that marred my neck.

In a swift, fluid motion that was both surprising and intimate, his hand rose to my neck, his fingers skimming softly over the tender wound. The caress was light, but it sent a shock of heat through me, amplifying the sting of his touch. Only then did I notice the brutal burns beneath the cuffs on his wrists, the skin looking agonized and nearly unbearable.

I stumbled back, another step widening the distance between us, trying to escape the searing intimacy of his touch. “Back off,” I finally managed to growl, my voice rough and strained. But instead of retreating, a small, knowing twitch pulled at the corner of his lips.

“Just so you know,” his whisper was thick with concealed lust, yet he wanted me to feel it, to understand the depth of his desire. “When they told me I had a visitor, I wished it was you.”

The quiet pounding of my heart surged into a frantic drumbeat as I averted my gaze, desperately trying to escape the intoxicating pull of his presence.

I tried to step past him, to reclaim some semblance of control, but he was quicker. His arm shot out, blocking my path, his palm pressing firmly against the bookcase next to me. My breath quickened, caught between the need to push him away and the desperate, consuming desire that made me want to pull him closer.

I met his gaze with all my defenses raised, trying to steady my voice. “Why are you here?”

“You visited me, didn’t you?” He pulled back slightly, his posture relaxing into something deceptively casual. “It would be considered rude,  if I didn’t return the favor.” His eyes roamed over the room, but their focus quickly returned to me, filled with an intense, unsettling curiosity.

“Like this?” I asked, my words tinged with uncertainty. “After you’re done messing around with someone else?”

I crossed my arms, a futile attempt to shield myself from the potent tension between us.

“Speaker starved me,” he breathed out, his voice a low, dangerous growl. “Do you think those bottled-up remains are enough? I had to feed.”

His reasoning only fueled my irritation further.

Hunger? That’s his excuse?

“And you didn’t enjoy it-” I retorted, my words laced with contempt. But he looked at me as if he could see right through.

“I didn’t enjoy it a little bit.” he murmured, his voice dropping to a husky whisper, the raw intensity of his gaze making my breath hitch.

“Right,” I forced an insincere smile, my heart pounding against my ribs. “You loved it.”

The tension between us thickened, a palpable force that wrapped around us, darkening his eyes. As he fell silent, I had no more words. I fought back the rush of blood to my cheeks one last time and sidestepped past him, making my way toward the door.

Why do I even care?

As my hand reached the handle, his voice rang in my ears.

“You know,” he said, his tone softening. “I often get what I want.”

There was the same possessiveness in his words that made my pulse race.

“I wanted to escape prison, survive dragons, as I wanted to be here, by any means necessary,” he continued as I lifted my gaze, “And now, here I am.”

Prison?

My mind raced, trying to piece together the fragments of his past that had suddenly surfaced, revealing a side of him I hadn’t anticipated.

I froze, my hand trembling on the door, the threshold between us suddenly an abyss of possibilities. Questions swirled in my mind, but I couldn’t find the words to voice them.

He turned toward the hall, a smile curling on his lips that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“You see,” he murmured, his voice taking on a dark edge, “it’s the funniest thing.” The smile on his face widened, pale fangs glimmering under the faint torchlight. “Now, I have my sights set on something else.”

There was no mistaking the dark promise in his words, the unyielding resolve that radiated from him. I couldn’t shake the feeling that whatever he wanted next, whatever his new target was, there would be no escaping it.

As his words hung in the air, he slipped into the hall, his presence like a shadow dissolving into the darkness.

The space where he had just stood was empty, as if he had never been there at all. No lingering warmth, no trace of his presence—nothing but the cold, oppressive silence that swallowed everything whole.

I peered down the length of the hall, but he was already gone, vanished into the labyrinthine shadows of the Sanctuary.

Just like that night.

But this time, my steps carried me to Astrid's chambers instead of chasing after him.

I pushed the doors open with ease, her guards offering knowing nods as I barged into the room. She was behind her desk, seemingly busy writing a letter.

I couldn't stop the silent clench of my jaw as I met her startled gaze.

"Contract. Now."

 

 

To be continued…

Chapter 19: Chapter 19

Notes:

Content Warning:

This chapter contains explicit descriptions of blood, gore, graphic depictions of sexual violence, assault, and intense trauma. The scenes portrayed may be disturbing and triggering to some readers. Please proceed with caution and prioritize your well-being.

 

4E, 196

 

The voices, thick with malice, filled the room, echoing in my ears and drowning out all else. “Come on!” one growled, his breath searing against my skin. “Make her face me, yeah, just like that.”

His words barely registered, lost in the haze of pain and numbness that had claimed me long ago.

“Do you enjoy that, you little Thalmor slut?” another sneered, each syllable dripping with contempt. His voice twisted into a cruel mockery, a venomous joke, as his hand gripped my chin, forcing my eyes open. My gaze met the distorted, stained faces of the men towering above me—Imperials, perhaps, with sharp features like brothers. Their faces blurred together in a sickening montage of cruelty.

“She feels so good,” another groaned, his voice low and guttural, reverberating through my core. Their words were nothing more than noise in the endless abyss they had thrown me into.

A thick length filled me again and again, the rhythm hammering against my body. But the numbness had settled in long before, dulling every sensation, turning the pain into an unending, agonizing void.

“Look at me,” the man gripping my chin demanded, his voice cold and commanding. I had no choice but to obey, to meet those empty, soulless eyes. “Please,” I whimpered, my voice barely a breath, the last shred of strength I had left.

“Just like that,” the one on his right chuckled darkly, “Make her beg.”

Tears burned at the corners of my eyes, but I forced them back, choking them down as I had done for hours now. I couldn’t let them see me break, not completely.

“Don’t tire her out, boys,” the silent one finally spoke, buckling up his pants, his voice dripping with casual cruelty. “Helvo and the others will want a taste at the party tonight.”

A sudden, sickening pull as one of them withdrew left a warm, disgusting stream trailing down my leg. It was a mockery of relief, another in a series that seemed endless.

“I don’t get why we can’t just keep her to ourselves,” the one who had been lounging nearby leaned over, his hand brushing strands of hair from my sweat-streaked face. His touch was deceptively gentle, almost tender. “I could fuck her for all eternity.”

“She won’t live long,” the other replied, a cruel grin stretching across his face. “You know what they do to Thalmor like her around here.”

“We,” the man on the left growled, grabbing my aching, bruised behind with a grip that sent fresh waves of agony through me, “just want to have all the fun with her before handing her over.” He pulled me against him, his mouth descending on mine in a savage, suffocating kiss. His tongue invaded my mouth, and I gagged, choking on the taste of him.

“I said enough, Samuel!” the leader snapped, his tone laced with finality.

The lips that had trapped mine finally released their cruel hold, but his gaze remained, locking onto mine with a possessiveness that sent a shiver of revulsion through me. “She deserves kisses, doesn’t she?” he murmured, the words dripping with a twisted kind of affection.

Before I could respond, his mouth was on mine again—another long, wet kiss that left me feeling more disgusted than the acts that had preceded it. When he finally pulled away, his eyes gleamed with a sick satisfaction.

“I was her first, after all.”

As if that gave him some claim over me, some right to this madness.

I stared into his eyes—the man who had inflicted the most pain. His greenish-blue gaze was unfeeling. Each time he forced himself into me, the pain had been beyond anything I could have imagined, yet it was the cold, detached cruelty in his eyes that truly shattered me. It was as if he took pleasure not in my suffering, but in my slow, inevitable destruction.

A moment passed, and his gaze darkened, a cruel flicker of satisfaction as he finally pushed me away, rising from the floor as if discarding something worthless.

Three men loomed over me, their faces a twisted, nightmarish reflection of one another—three versions of the same monster, each leaving their own distinct brand of torment seared into my soul. They took their pleasure in different ways, carving out pieces of me until there was nothing left but a hollow shell.

My torn clothes were thrown at me, a pathetic heap on the floor, like scraps tossed to an animal. A final, degrading insult before they turned their backs on me. The door slammed shut with a resounding thud, the sound echoing through the silence like the toll of a death knell.

In that moment, I knew I was dying—not just in body, but in spirit, in every way that mattered.

The person I had been was gone, torn apart by their hands, replaced by a void as empty and cold as their eyes. I felt it in the hollow ache in my chest, in the numbness that spread through me like a poison, seeping into every part of who I was.

The silence that followed was suffocating, a void that swallowed everything. I lay there, broken and discarded, staring up at the dark ceiling, and all I could think was that this was it. This was how I would die—alone, in darkness, with nothing but the echoes of their laughter and the remnants of my shattered soul.

I survived the trial, didn’t I?

Even as the agony tore through me, as the cold, detached cruelty of these men threatened to break what little remained of my spirit, I clung to that truth. That trial had taken everything—Elamoril, my love, my friend. It had shattered me, leaving me a hollow shell, yet I I had endured that nightmare, and somehow, I would endure this one too.

I have to.

When I finally stirred back to consciousness, a numbness had settled over my lower back and legs, rendering them almost useless. Gritting my teeth, I placed my elbows on the filthy floor and tried to pull myself up. But the effort sent a sharp, stabbing pain through my body, forcing me to collapse back down.

The floor beneath me was a slick, nauseating mix of blood, the vile remnants of those three men, and filth. It clung to my skin, a constant reminder of the horror that had just transpired. I was in an attic somewhere, its walls steeped in darkness so thick that even with my eyes straining to adjust, I could barely make out any shapes. No windows, no cracks, no light—nothing to guide my escape.

How could I escape?

My eyes darted around the room, desperate to find an exit, but my legs were dead weight, and every movement sent unbearable pain coursing through me. I could try to walk, but the fear of collapsing, of my legs buckling under me, paralyzed me with dread.

But I had no choice. I had to reach deep inside, grasping for the smallest thread of restoration magic I had left. My hands trembled as I placed them over my legs, willing the numbness to fade, begging for just enough strength to stand. The pain was excruciating, sharp and relentless, and I was never good at healing. I bit down hard on my lip, trying to stifle the cries of pain, but small groans escaped through my clenched jaw. Each attempt felt like I was tearing myself apart from the inside.

Using the wall for support, I forced myself to my feet, every inch a battle against my broken body. My legs quivered beneath me, barely holding my weight, but I couldn’t let myself collapse. Not now.

I searched the crates and barrels scattered around the attic, hoping for something, anything that could aid my escape. But all I found were rotten food and scurrying mice, reminders of the filth and decay surrounding me. My heart sank further with each futile attempt. I was running out of options, running out of hope.

Leaning heavily against the wall near the door, my eyes locked onto the rusty lock. It looked like it could be picked, but I had nothing—no tools, not even a hairpin. The realization struck me like a hammer to the chest, crushing the last remnants of hope I had clung to.

I was really trapped.

The weight of it all crashed down on me, a suffocating wave of despair. My breath hitched, the hopelessness sinking into my bones, making the darkness around me feel even more oppressive. I had survived so much, endured horrors that should have broken me, yet here I was, caged like an animal with no way out.

When I first encountered them, there had only been one. It was laughable, really—me, defeated by a mere man. I, who had faced trials that would break lesser beings, brought low by a single enemy. But I had reached for the magic within me, the power that had once flowed so freely through my veins, ready to unleash it in one final, destructive move. And it had betrayed me. The connection slipped from my grasp like a ghost, leaving me scarred and bleeding, too weak to fight, without even a weapon to defend myself.

I remembered his eyes—how they darkened with a sinister gleam the moment he realized I was vulnerable—a Thalmor, alone and helpless. There had been no mercy in that gaze, only the cold, calculated hunger of a predator sensing easy prey. The realization of my weakness had brought him to life, igniting a twisted pleasure in my suffering.

Sitting here, waiting, was torture. Every second felt like a blade slicing into my skin, a slow, agonizing reminder that death was creeping closer. I was terrified, but I’d been terrified before—too many times to count. The day I was taken from my family, my first night at Clamcora, when I saw the Forsworn on the bridge with his bow… But through all of it, he was with me.

He was always with me.

Tears welled up in my eyes, not from fear, but from a deep, overwhelming sadness. My fear had turned into mourning so quickly that it took me by surprise. Here, in the darkness where no one could see or hear, I let the tears fall. No one would know.

The sorrow, so heavy and consuming, was like a cloak around my heart. The loneliness was unbearable, more painful than the wounds inflicted on my body. It was the absence of his presence, the emptiness where once there had been comfort and strength, that tore at me the most. Without him, the world felt colder, the darkness deeper, and the pain more intolerable.

I am lost without him.

So, I let the tears fall, each one carrying a piece of my soul with it. Because in that moment, I realized that this was the real trial—facing the darkness alone, without the one who had always been there to guide me through.

I wished he was here. Maybe then, everything would be okay again. His presence had always brought a sense of safety, a shield against the darkness. But now, with only shadows and silence as my companions, I felt that safety slipping away, replaced by a gnawing fear that threatened to consume me.

After what felt like hours of waiting and quietly crying in the shadows, I finally mustered the strength to check my body, marred with bruises and the lingering traces of all that had happened. The sight was a cruel reminder, but it also ignited a flicker of something deeper—anger, determination, a burning need to reclaim what had been taken from me.

I waited, letting the stillness work in my favor as I began to regenerate my magicka, drawing it back slowly, carefully, from the depths where it had retreated. With every ounce of strength I regained, I planned my next move—carefully, methodically, lethally.

Just like he taught me.

 

 

---

 

 

“Ah, you look ready for the party.” Samuel’s voice was light as he approached, his steps deliberate, each one bringing him closer. A radiant smile lit up his face, but as I mirrored it with a smile of my own, his expression faltered, the brightness in his eyes dimming like a flame snuffed out by the wind.

He gazed down at me, his eyes filled with uncertainty. I did not let him see the emptiness that lay beneath my facade. "Samuel," I said softly, my voice gentle but laced with a profound weariness, "I want to be with you again, first, before—" I struggled to steady my voice, "before all that.”

His eyes searched mine for something real, anything beyond the surface. I knew he would only find what I had revealed, sincerity, longing, even love, crafted to manipulate the moment to my advantage.

The corner of his lip curled up in a smirk as he began unbuckling his pants, his movements slow, deliberate. My eyes quickly shifted to the dagger strapped to his belt, hidden beneath his clothes. It was my only chance, my only hope to turn the tide. The grim reality of my situation pressed heavily on me, but I steeled myself, preparing for the moment I would act.

“Onto the table.” he commanded, his voice cold and authoritative. I complied, driven by a mix of fear and determination as he approached, his pants discarded along with the dagger. The weapon lay there, a symbol of my only hope, though it seemed distant in my desperation.

With a swift motion, he pulled my trousers down, his knee forcing my legs apart. His grip on my thighs was cold and unyielding. I felt a searing pain as he forced himself inside my brokenness, the rhythm of his movements harsh and relentless.

His arm slid beneath me, gripping my waist, while his other hand braced against the table. His lips met mine in a forceful, demanding kiss, a cruel reminder of his control.

“You loved it, didn’t you?” His gaze was locked onto mine, demanding a response as the table trembled beneath me. “Tell me.”

I knew what I had to do. Among the three, he was the most possessive, as if asserting his dominance over me meant something. I had watched and listened, and I knew that I had to survive.

“I only love what you do to me.” I whispered, my voice carrying a seductive edge that would appease his desires, a silent surrender amidst the chaos.

His grip tightened painfully as he lifted me up, and I wrapped my trembling legs around his waist. He carried me a few steps, the weight of my predicament pressing down on me.

My lips locked onto his, and my eyes darted to his discarded pants on the floor. My heart pounded with every step he took forward. He laid me down on the floor, his lips still pressed against mine as he continued his relentless rhythm. I could sense his satisfaction, his pleasure in knowing that he had my silent acquiescence—something the others had not received. It made him feel special, his sense of dominance bolstered by the illusion of my submission. My gaze flickered to the side, where the dagger lay just a few steps away.

I placed my hand on his chest, and he paused, his gaze lifting to meet mine for the first time. There was a flicker of confusion in his eyes, quickly replaced by surprise as he looked at me. For the first time since he had forced himself upon me, he hesitated—halting when I wanted him to.

I offered a playful smirk, using the briefest of opportunities to push him off and roll on top of him. His eyes lit up with amusement at the sudden shift in control, clearly enjoying the reversal of roles.

“Samuel,” I whispered softly, my voice a gentle caress against his ear. Despite my calm tone, my eyes burned with determination. I lowered myself closer to him, my breath brushing against his neck, and my hand reached out carefully to the side. My fingers found the edge of his trousers, and I tugged them just enough to access the weapon I needed.

“You were my first.” I whispered, my lips trailing up to meet his, a dark sense of irony twisting in my heart.

It was a cruel joke, just like the one he had played on me.

He moaned under my lips, his breath hot and ragged as he gripped my lower back, reveling in the intensity of the moment. “Yeah,” he gasped, clearly enjoying every second.

“And I, will be your last.”

The blade bit into his flesh, and a splatter of blood marked my face. I wiped it away with the back of my hand, then gripped the dagger firmly and pulled it out. Samuel’s eyes met mine, their vibrant blue and green dimming as life drained from them.

“Gahh!”

He gasped, another spurt of blood escaping his lips as I drove the dagger in once more. Tears traced down my cheeks, a silent testament to my inner turmoil.

Stop crying.

The third thrust, and the others that followed, did nothing to stir him from his lifeless state. The blood splashed across my face, each drop igniting a primal, dangerous urge within me. I could feel the frenzy threatening to consume me, but I knew I couldn’t give in, not now.

With urgency, I pushed myself away from Samuel’s lifeless body, quickly dressing and securing his dagger beneath my sleeve. My legs trembled with the aftermath of the ordeal, but I forced myself to move forward.

I approached the door, easing it open just enough to peer into the hall. The sound of laughter and chatter from the men beyond filled the space. I took measured steps toward the light, my breath steady but growing colder with each step.

A door to the hall suddenly flew open, and a jolt of panic surged through me. My heart raced as I realized there was no escape. Desperation clawed at me, and my gaze shot back to the room where Samuel’s lifeless body lay, but I couldn’t go back.

I shrank into the shadows, drawing my shoulders in, as a man emerged from the hallway and turned away. He was oblivious to my presence. With a silent, frantic resolve, I closed the distance and launched myself onto his back. My legs encircled his torso, and my arm tightened around his neck. His strangled grunt filled the air as I stabbed into his neck with brutal efficiency. Each thrust was a release of my rage. His body fell limp, crashing to the floor with a heavy thud.

The sudden voice from the hall pierced through my frenzied state, “What was that? Samuel?”

Fear gripped me as I scrambled to my feet, dragging the man’s lifeless form into the bathroom. My heart pounded violently against my ribs as I hefted his weight, my body trembling with the effort.

The footsteps in the hallway grew louder, closer. I pressed myself against the doorway, clutching the dagger tightly. The tremors that wracked my body were not just from fear but from the relentless, searing pain that seemed to pulse through every nerve. The agony was a constant, torturous reminder of the brutality I had endured. I dared not imagine how many bones were shattered beneath my skin.

“Samuel?” the voice called, filled with rising panic. There was a grunt, a gasp, and then, “He’s dead!” The footsteps quickened, and my pulse raced with mounting dread.

“Find that whore!”

A voice echoed in the distance, and my heart almost stopped when I spotted the bathroom window. With trembling hands, I climbed through the narrow opening, my body scraping painfully against the edges. I tumbled onto the snow outside, the cold numbing my bruised flesh as I crumpled into the snowbank.

“Look everywhere, find her!” the command cut through the night air, a chilling reminder of the hunt that had begun.

Panic surged as I staggered to my feet, each movement sending sharp jolts of agony through my battered body. I had no idea where I was, but my eyes locked onto the pine forest ahead. It was my only chance. The path through the trees was a grim reminder of the escape route I’d once taken—one I had to use again now. I couldn’t go back.

A sharp whistle pierced the air as a crossbow bolt whizzed past, grazing the snow beside me. My head snapped around, catching sight of at least five figures sprinting toward me. My heart raced, the unbearable pain in my legs pushing me to move faster. I barreled downhill, ducking my head to avoid another deadly bolt.

The icy wind cut through me, mingling with the excruciating pain. Despair clawed at my resolve, but I forced my legs to carry me forward. Every step was a struggle, every breath a battle against the agony. The forest loomed closer, its dark embrace offering a fleeting hope of escape.

My gaze lingered over the horizon, the vast, frozen tundra of Skyrim stretching endlessly before me, a desolate promise of freedom just beyond my reach.

Suddenly, the thunder of hooves shattered the silence, the noise closing in as six men on horseback encircled me, their steeds kicking up the snow in a whirlwind of power. I was their prey—weak, cornered, and helpless.

“Get her back here!” a voice barked, harsh and unyielding.

“She murdered our brother!” another shouted, his words dripping with venom as he drew his sword, the cold steel catching the faint light of the fading day.

“Easy, Elias!” one of the men tried to calm him, but Elias was beyond reason. His eyes, wild with rage, locked onto me as I stumbled backward, my legs giving out beneath me, sending me crashing into the snow. From my position on the ground, I looked up, the men towering over me from their horses, their expressions twisted with a mix of fury and disgust.

Elias advanced, his footsteps crunching through the snow as he closed the distance between us. His gaze burned with unwavering fury, the promise of violence etched into every tense line of his body. My breath caught in my throat, fear choking me as I prepared for the worst.

But before he could reach me, the third brother, the silent one grabbed Elias by the mantle, yanking him back with a force that made Elias stumble.

“I said stop!” his voice was low but commanding, brokering no argument.

“Why, Levi? She killed him!” Elias growled, his voice raw with pain and anger, but Levi remained calm, his eyes scanning me with a cold calculation before turning back to his brother.

“Legion will pay for her.” Levi whispered, his words meant only for Elias, but I heard them clear as day, the implication heavy in the air.

“Damn the gold! Samuel is dead!” Elias spat, his grief morphing into blind rage, his hand tightening around the hilt of his sword.

A sharp crack echoed through the clearing as Levi slapped his brother across the face, the sound cutting through the cold like a whip. Elias reeled back, stunned into silence, his eyes wide with shock as he stared at Levi, the raw sting of the slap stifling his protest.

“Enough!” Levi’s voice was firm, final. The fury in Elias’s eyes dimmed, replaced by a simmering resentment, but he said nothing more.

I have to run away.

I hadn’t prayed to Y’ffre in nine long years. My faith, once a flickering flame, had been extinguished by the Thalmor and their twisted teachings. But now, as I lay in the snow, battered and bruised, with death circling around me like a pack of wolves, I felt the old words rise from somewhere deep inside me, unbidden but powerful.

Please, Mother, help me. Give me strength.

The cold bit into my skin, numbing the pain that radiated from every inch of my body. My fingers dug into the snow, desperate for something, anything, to anchor me. I could hear them closing in, their footsteps crunching over the frozen ground, their breaths heavy with anticipation. I wanted to run, to scream, to fight—but my body refused to obey. I was trapped, surrounded, helpless.

“Take her!” one of them barked, and I heard the sound of a man dismounting, his boots crunching through the snow as he approached me.

My heart raced, every beat like a drum in my ears. The fear was overwhelming, a suffocating blanket that threatened to smother what little resolve I had left. I squeezed my eyes shut, praying with every ounce of strength I had left.

Please, Y’ffre… Mother…

Hunger. The hunger was overwhelming, gnawing at the edges of my sanity, a primal, insatiable need that consumed me from within. My hands trembled as they gripped the snow beneath me, the cold barely registering against the fiery desperation coursing through my veins. I felt as though my very essence was unraveling, each breath stoking the fire in my belly, sharpening my senses until the world around me seemed to blur and fade.

But then, a voice—a woman’s voice, soft and soothing—whispered in the depths of my mind, a voice that warmed my heart like the sun after a long winter.

“Will you pay the price?”

Her words echoed in my mind, cutting through the fear like a knife. The hunger that had consumed me began to fade, replaced by something else—something deeper, something I hadn’t felt in years.

Love.

Not the cold, distant love of my mother, but a fierce, protective love that wrapped around me like a warm blanket.

“Price of the Wild Hunt?”

The words echoed in my mind, a whisper from the abyss that threatened to consume me entirely. I trembled as one of the men grasped my shoulder, yanking me to my feet with a roughness that jarred me from the haze of my thoughts.

“Get her, right now!” His voice was sharp, but distant, drowned out by the pounding in my head. As his grip tightened, I was once more yanked into an insatiable hunger that clashed with the embrace around me—a love that wasn’t truly there. For a fleeting moment, I wished for death, to follow Elamoril wherever he had gone, to escape the unbearable weight of survival.

I already paid the price.

“Come here, you—” His words cut off as pain seared through my body, a pain unlike anything I had ever felt before. It twisted and tore at my bones, an agony that no man could have inflicted. I felt as though I was being remade, each movement becoming lighter, faster, stronger.

 

“Shor’s bones…”

 

“Ulkar! Gods! He’s dead!”

 

“What are those?”

 

I sprang up from the snow and Ulkar’s lifeless body slumped to the ground, his throat slit open, blood gushing out. But my dagger was still on the floor. My hands—no, not hands—were now thinner, longer, and tipped with razor-sharp claws.

I didn’t need a blade. The hunger was all I needed.

So hungry.

The next man fell before me, my claws sinking into his flesh with ease, his blood warm and sweet against my tongue. Two pairs of hands grabbed at me, trying to pull me away, but I was beyond their reach. My teeth found his neck, and I bit down with a primal fury, tearing through flesh, muscle, and bone with terrifying ease.

This was no ordinary hunger—it was a hunger for the world itself, for everything in it. And I would devour it all.

“Kill that monster!” Elias’s voice shattered the night, raw and desperate as he scrambled toward one of the panicked horses.

Not so fast.

I advanced with a predator’s grace, the two men holding me down clutching at my frenzied form. I met the gaze of one, black creeping into the corners of his pale blue irises. Fear. I snarled and twisted, my claws raking across his torso, drawing a guttural cry from him.

So hungry.

I broke free from their faltering grip, driven by a force beyond my own, and closed in on Elias. His earlier bravado had dissolved into sheer terror, his gaze darting away as he tried to flee.

“Look… at… me.” My voice was a rasp, laden with the primal hunger that had replaced my words. Each syllable was a snarl, a challenge.

Elias stumbled back, his face contorted with fear, his attempts to escape growing frantic. The hunter was now prey, and his fear was palpable, a stark contrast to his previous arrogance.

A crossbow bolt thudded into my shoulder, but it was inconsequential. The searing pain was a mere distraction, barely registering as I pressed forward. My eyes were locked on Elias, who had backed against a tree, his hands raised in a feeble attempt to shield himself.

“I said,” I snarled, my fingers forming a lethal point as I drove them into his torso, below his ribcage. The impact was visceral, a sickening crunch resonating through the night. “Look at me.”

His eyes met mine, a mixture of horror and desperation. I drove my claws into his torso, feeling the resistance of flesh and bone yielding beneath my grip. The sound of cracking ribs and tearing organs filled the night, mingling with Elias’s gasps and groans. His body writhed, a grotesque dance of agony, but he was forced to look into my eyes as his life slipped away.

The hunger within me roared, an insatiable beast that drove me to consume the very essence of my tormentor. The crossbow bolts that continued to fly past me were mere distractions; nothing could deter me from my purpose.

I looked into the now moss-colored, lifeless eyes of Elias, feeling the warm, sticky remnants of his insides dripping from my claws. His body slumped softly to the ground, leaving a trail of blood smeared across the snow and staining the bark of the surrounding trees.

Turning my gaze to the remaining men, I moved with the precision of a predator, my steps silent and swift. I could taste the coppery essence of Elias as I chewed on his remains, the hunger that had driven me to this moment now transforming into a fierce, consuming power.

The men around me began to scatter as panic took hold. “Behind us!” one of them shouted, his voice breaking the chaotic rhythm of the fight. The horses neighed in terror, adding to the frenzy.

With a speed that matched the striking of an owl, I lunged forward. My claws sliced through the throat of one man effortlessly, and I stepped back, my movements fluid and predatory. I grabbed the next victim by the throat, my enhanced strength making the task of ending his life as easy as a flick of my wrist.

The remaining men were visibly shaken, their confidence eroding as they beheld the bloody aftermath of their comrades. Levi’s face paled as he watched the carnage unfold, his voice cracking with anguish.

“Elias! No!”

The sight of their fallen allies drove me further, my hunger transforming into a relentless drive. I leaped at the two men on my right, their surprise making them easy targets. One man grabbed at what appeared to be antlers on my forehead, an odd, distracting gesture. But I shook him off with the grace of a deer, my claws finding their mark as I tore into him with brutal efficiency.

The screams and shouts around me became a blur, drowned out by the pounding of my own heartbeat and the rhythmic thumping of others’ rapidly fading pulses. The thrill of the hunt, the strength surging through me with each death, was intoxicating.

“Come here, demon!” One of the remaining men roared, his blade swinging wildly. I evaded his attacks with the agility of a fox, sidestepping and dodging with ease. Each movement was precise, calculated.

The man’s desperation grew as I danced around him, picking off his companions one by one. The only sounds were the gasps of the dying and the relentless beat of my own pulse.

As one man tried to flee, mounting his horse in a panic, I grabbed the reins, pulling him off the steed with a brutal yank. The horse, now wild with fear, reared and bucked, but I ignored it.

Levi was still at my heels, his blade swinging in increasingly desperate arcs. I dodged his every strike, my focus on the growing weariness in his eyes. Each movement, each dodge, was calculated to wear him down, to make him vulnerable to my relentless assault.

As Levi raised his arm to bring down his blade with all his might, I stood before him, my silence deadly, like a serpent lying in wait. His eyes, once full of fury, now brimmed with terror as he realized the futility of his strength against what I had become.

He straightened his posture, trying to regain some semblance of control. But as his sword descended, I moved with the swiftness of a feline, twisting around his strike. In an instant, my hand closed around his throat, lifting him effortlessly off the ground. The other men froze, their breaths caught in their throats as they watched in stunned silence.

But my focus was solely on Levi. The once silent, composed warrior now dangled helplessly in my grip, his eyes wide with fear, tears spilling down his cheeks.

The silent one. He was no longer a threat, but I had no intention of letting him go.

With a cruel precision, I forced his mouth open, my fingers prying it wide. His muffled grunts of pain echoed in the still air as I reached inside, grabbing hold of his tongue. My other hand tightened around his neck, and with a ferocity that matched a bear’s strength, I yanked. The sickening sound of tearing flesh filled the air as I ripped his tongue—and everything else attached to it—from his throat.

“Run! Now!” One of the remaining men shouted, his voice trembling with terror. The desperation in his words spurred the others into motion, but they were too slow. The stench of fear clung to them, intoxicating and overwhelming.

But the hunger was gone. My stomach churned, revolting against the remnants of flesh and blood I had consumed. The satisfaction of power was overshadowed by a sickening nausea that threatened to consume me.

I don’t want to eat anymore.

But then, a voice, soft and insistent, echoed in the recesses of my mind. Mother’s voice.

“Eat, child.”

I approached the remaining men as they desperately tried to flee, their fear a palpable force in the air. But this time, it wasn’t hunger that drove me—it was something deeper, a power that called out from within me. My magic surged, primal and potent, demanding release.

Dropping to my knees, I pressed my hands into the snow, the cold biting into my skin. My eyes closed as I reached out, feeling the frozen veins of the earth beneath me, sensing its icy pulse. The snow responded, its heartbeat quickening as my magic intertwined with it, awakening something ancient and unstoppable.

A horse’s anguished cry shattered the night, pulling me from the depths of my power. My eyes snapped open, and what I saw stole the breath from my lungs.

Spikes of ice, tall and merciless, had erupted from the ground, piercing through horse and man alike. The crystalline structures stood tall, gleaming in the faint light, reaching up toward the dark sky like frozen fingers of death. Blood stained the snow around them, the life force of my enemies frozen in place, a gruesome testament to the power that had surged through me.

And then, there was silence.

A silence so profound that it seemed to swallow the world, signaling the end of everything. The end of the hunt. The end of the fight.

The end of me.

A sharp coldness pressed against my side, and only then did I realize I had fallen, my body too drained to move. The world tilted as I lay on the frozen ground, my gaze fixed on the sky above. The stars, countless and eternal, shimmered down at me, their light cold and distant.

But to me, they were warm, beckoning.

I am ready.

Ready to join him, to follow Elamoril into whatever came next. The thought filled me with a peace I had not known in years. The pain, the hunger, the fear—all of it faded as my heart began to slow, its beat growing softer and softer until it was nothing more than a whisper.

I closed my eyes, surrendering to the darkness that crept in at the edges of my vision.

This was the end.

 

 

 

 

“Well, well, look at what we have here, Nazir!”

 

 

To be continued…

Chapter 20: Chapter 20

 

“Contract?” Astrid’s arms crossed beneath her chest, her posture unyielding as she slowly rose from the chair. Her gaze, cold and calculating, locked onto mine, piercing through the defenses I struggled to maintain.

“An urgent one, preferably.” I added, forcing the words out as I met her eyes, my voice laced with the desperation I couldn’t fully hide.

A smirk danced at the corner of her lips as she sauntered toward the counter, her every step deliberate, a cat toying with its prey. “And what makes you want to leave so desperately?”

Frustration surged within me, coiling like a serpent ready to strike. My brows furrowed, and I averted my gaze, struggling to quell the storm raging in my chest. “Nothing. I just want to get out.”

The sanctuary had become a fortress, a place where the world’s chaos could not reach me. But in these recent days, it had morphed into a cage, its once comforting walls now closing in on me, suffocating, stifling.

Behind me, Astrid’s movements were slow, deliberate. She poured a dark liquid into a goblet, the faint clinking of glass the only sound that filled the oppressive silence.

“To me, it sounds like you’re running away.”

Was I?

I clenched my fists at my sides, feeling the sting of her words, each syllable like a needle piercing through the fragile threads of my resolve.

“I am not.” My voice snapped, the edge of it more jagged than I intended, slicing through the air between us. I crossed my arms defensively, the gesture a shield against the vulnerability her words had exposed. “I want to serve, as usual.”

Astrid turned to me, leaning back against the counter, a glass of wine cradled in her hand. Her gaze never wavered, eyes boring into mine with a smirk that was both warm and unsettling, “But these are not usual times, now are they?” she mused, taking a slow sip as if savoring the turmoil she had unleashed within me.

She must have sensed the desperation clawing at me, for her smirk deepened, darkened. “A contract,” she said, stepping closer, her voice dropping to a whisper that sent a chill racing down my spine. “For an assassin. Or,” she paused, her smile twisting into something more sinister, “a Thalmor, for a Silencer.”

Her words echoed in the hollow space within me, my heart hammering in response.

“A Thalmor?”

“An ally.”

Shock rippled through me, freezing me in place as the weight of her words settled over me like a shroud. My arms fell limply to my sides, the fight draining out of me. “An ally?”

Astrid sighed, exasperation threading through her tone as she took a step back, her gaze never leaving mine. “I know, like I said, these are unusual times.”

Fury ignited within me, burning away the shock in an instant. The flames licked at my insides, scorching away the last remnants of restraint.

A Thalmor as an ally?

She had lost her mind—after everything they have done to me. After the countless Thalmor I had struck down with my blade, their blood a sacrifice to the cause she had sworn me to. And now she wanted to align with them?

“It’s not what you think,” she retorted, draining her goblet with a careless tilt of her wrist. “He’s against them, not with them.”

“And you believe that?” I took a step closer, the distance between us shrinking as my fists tightened at my sides, my anger barely contained, threatening to spill over. “Astrid, a Thalmor—” My voice trembled with rage, the words tasting like ash on my tongue, yet she merely shrugged, dismissive, indifferent.

“A Thalmor is always a Thalmor, huh?” She turned back to the counter, pouring another reckless cup of wine, the liquid sloshing over the edge, staining the wood. “Then what does that make you?”

Her words struck deep, a cruel twist of the knife, tearing open wounds I had thought long healed. My composure shattered, the façade I had built crumbling away beneath the weight of her accusations.

She can’t do this to me.

I lunged forward, the motion swift and predatory, closing the distance between us in an instant. I seized her goblet, yanking it from her grasp with a force that sent the dark liquid spilling over the edge, splattering onto the floor.

“Remember, Astrid,” I hissed, struggling to mask the venom in my voice, the fury that burned so hot it seared my throat, “I chose you over Nazir.”

I leaned in, our faces inches apart, the heat of my anger radiating off me like a flame, her eyes blazing with a slow, simmering fire that mirrored my own. “I gave you a thousand souls.”

“I know, I know it all.” She whispered desperately, “ That’s why I want you to be my Silencer.”

The words hung in the air like a death sentence, their weight pressing down on me. I placed the chalice on the counter, my fingers lingering on the cool metal as if grounding myself. My gaze locked onto hers, searching for any trace of doubt, but found none. Astrid, as always, was resolute, forcing me into yet another impossible choice.

Nazir’s warning echoed through my mind, a shadowy whisper that refused to be silenced. His voice, laced with concern, had been a lifeline in moments like this—a reminder of the dangers of treading too closely to the flame that was Astrid.

“I can’t tell anyone about this, not even Arnbjorn,” she whispered, her tone dipped in secrecy, slicing through my thoughts with the precision of a blade. “Like I told you before, they would not understand. No one understands.” The bitterness in her voice was palpable, a confession wrapped in the armor of her usual defiance.

But then her voice softened, took on a tone I had rarely heard from her—sincere, almost vulnerable. She leaned in closer, her eyes shimmering with something that twisted painfully in my chest. Longing.

“No one understands me like you do.”

The words struck me, shattering the remnants of my composure. I took a step back, tearing my gaze from hers, unable to bear the raw emotion in her eyes. My gaze drifted to the window frame, the world beyond a blur of shadows and moonlight, as if offering me an escape I couldn’t take.

“I need you, Niolenyl.”

Her voice, a soft plea, reached out to me, pulling me back from the brink. Her fingertips brushed against the underside of my chin, a gentle caress that coaxed me to turn back, to meet her eyes once more. There was a silent desperation in them, a plea that cut deeper than any blade she had ever wielded. It was a vulnerability she rarely showed, a chink in her armor that she revealed only to me.

The warmth of her touch sent a shiver down my spine, a contrast to the cold knot of dread coiling within me. Astrid’s need, her dependence on me, was a chain that bound me, a tether I could never fully sever. And she knew it. She knew how to wield my loyalty, my understanding, as a weapon—one that could pierce through the walls I had built around my heart.

But the choice she offered was no choice at all. It was a path I had walked too many times before, each step deeper into the shadows, into the silence that threatened to consume me.

“What do you need me to do?” The question slipped from my lips, cold and unyielding, as I took a step back. Her hand, which had cupped my chin with such delicate insistence, fell away like a withered leaf, leaving a chill in its absence.

Astrid sighed, the sound heavy with the weight of unspoken thoughts. “Well, we need to start with this Thalmor. See if he’s really one of them.”

My heart thudded against my ribcage, an unsettling rhythm that only seemed to grow louder. “You want me to go after him?”

Her response was immediate, sharp, as if my question had cut her. “You got out of there, didn’t you?” She slid the goblet toward herself with languid fingers, the liquid inside swirling like the dark thoughts in my mind. “Maybe he wants it too.”

Her words gnawed at the edges of my resolve. Could it be possible? Could someone else be trapped in the same gilded cage I had barely escaped? It was a thought that, even in its slim hope, stirred something bitter and familiar within me.

The Thalmor, who had shaped my life with cruelty and twisted ideals, had a way of making the impossible seem attainable. I knew too well how they could plant seeds of hope only to crush them beneath their heel. After years of their conditioning, it was easy to see how someone could be seduced by the scraps of hope they offered, the illusion of freedom dangled just out of reach.

I had once thought I could be happy there, that I could find some semblance of peace if only I played my part perfectly.

“If you’re with me, I will find a way."

The memory, buried deep within the recesses of my mind, stirred like an ember in the ashes, threatening to reignite a fire I had long tried to extinguish. A flicker of pain surged through me, brief but powerful enough to remind me of all that I had lost.

I clenched my fists, trying to smother the emotions rising to the surface. But Astrid’s gaze was relentless, as if she could see right through me, her presence both a comfort and a reminder of the choices I had made—choices that had led me here, standing at another crossroads.

“I’ll do it.”

The words were barely out of my mouth before I saw the flicker of happiness in Astrid’s eyes, a spark that quickly ignited into something brighter—excitement, perhaps even a hint of triumph. Her hand found mine on the counter, her fingers trembling ever so slightly as they settled over mine. “Will you? Will you be my Silencer?”

I drew in a deep breath, letting it out slowly as I gazed down at her hand, its grip tightening as if afraid I might slip away. “I will do what I want to do, as usual. You’re free to call me whatever you want.”

“Oh, that’s amazing!” Her voice brimmed with enthusiasm, the smile on her lips widening as she pulled me toward her desk with a sudden, eager tug. I followed, my steps hesitant, each one feeling heavier than the last. “All we need is the blood oath!”

“Blood oath?” I froze in place, my gaze narrowing as she reached for Woe, the blade gleaming ominously as it emerged from its sheath.

“We need to swear under the eyes of our Father and Mother.” Her tone was reverent, as if the very act of swearing this oath held sacred significance. With deliberate care, she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear before retrieving a small, ornately carved box from one of the closed cabinets. She placed it on the desk and opened it, revealing its dark contents.

Under the eyes of our Father and Mother.

The phrase echoed in my mind, stirring a mixture of dread and inevitability. Astrid pulled a length of black cloth from the box, the fabric as dark as the void we served. With a quiet determination, she wrapped it around her wrist, her eyes lifting to meet mine with an expectant gleam.

My heart pounded in my chest, each beat a reminder of the gravity of what I was about to do. With a trace of hesitation, I extended my arm toward her, allowing her to bind it with the same cloth. The fabric felt cold against my skin, a shiver running down my spine as she secured it tightly.

“Niolenyl,” she whispered, her voice soft yet firm as her hand reached once more for Woe. “Trust me.”

Trust.

The word felt foreign, almost absurd in the world we inhabited. I trusted no one—not anymore. Not after everything I had endured, after all the betrayals and the lies. And yet, here I was, standing on the precipice of an oath that would bind me to her in ways I wasn’t sure I fully understood.

But it was too late to turn back now.

I nodded firmly, my resolve solidifying as Astrid took the blade to my wrist. The cut was precise, almost tender, as she drew the edge across my skin. My blood welled up, dark and thick, soaking into the black cloth that she swiftly wrapped around my wrist. Only then did I notice the texture of the fabric, rough and heavy with the weight of centuries—blackened not by dye, but by the dried blood of past Speakers and Silencers. A history of silent killers, all bound by this ritual, this cloth.

“Father,” Astrid began, her voice low and reverent as she closed her eyes. “Hear our calling tonight.”

The room grew unnervingly still, the air thick with anticipation. A chill crept up my spine as the candles lining the walls snuffed out one by one, plunging us into darkness. The only light now was the faint, eerie glow of the blood on our wrists.

“Bind our souls to one another.” her voice quivered ever so slightly, a tremor of emotion threading through her words.

“Let her rise,”

A sudden, searing pain surged through my veins, as though the very blood we’d spilled was burning its way into my flesh. My arm grew heavy, the weight of it pulling me down as if the dark ritual was anchoring me to something far deeper, far darker.

“The Silencer.” Astrid whispered, her breath a cold brush against my skin.

With that final invocation, the pain became all-consuming, a torrent of agony that clawed through my body. I squeezed my eyes shut, teeth gritted as I fought to maintain control, but the storm within me was relentless.

A cacophony of voices exploded in my mind, a thousand whispers merging into a chaotic symphony. They were all around me, inside me, each one speaking in a language I couldn’t fully grasp, their words crumbling into ash before they could take shape.

 

“Kill them all!”

 

“Blood is all you need.”

 

Each phrase struck like a hammer, driving deeper into my psyche. My hands clenched into fists, nails digging into the cold stone beneath me as I tried to anchor myself, to make sense of the madness.

 

“You see red, that’s your job.”

 

I struggled to isolate a single voice, to recognize any of the tones, but they were too many, too insistent, their words intertwining and overlapping until they became one relentless command.

 

“Serve.”

 

“Blood.”

 

“Kill. Them. All.”

 

The voices grew louder, more frequent, a pounding rhythm that filled every corner of my mind. My breath hitched, my chest tightening as the voices merged into a singular, overwhelming directive. I was drowning in their demands, lost in the tidal wave of their will.

And then, in a moment of clarity, I realized the ritual had not just bound me to Astrid—it had awakened something within, something ancient and ravenous. A force that had been lying dormant, now unleashed by the blood that stained the cloth around my wrist.

And in that darkness, as the voices surged and swelled, I felt a grim acceptance settle over me.

Is this my role, my fate?

To kill, to serve, to be the shadow in the night.

With a sharp gasp, my eyes flew open, and I found myself staring into the concerned gaze of Astrid, who was leaning over me. The sight of her face so close startled me, and I quickly sat up, my movements sluggish as if I were pushing through a thick fog. I looked around, disoriented, realizing I didn’t remember laying down in the first place.

“How are you feeling?” she asked, blinking slowly as her eyes roved over my face, searching for something—perhaps a sign that the ritual had taken hold.

I felt like hell. My ears rang with a high-pitched intensity that made every sound unbearable, my arm throbbed with a dull ache, and a dizzying wave of nausea threatened to topple me over with every movement.

“I’m fine,” I lied, my voice hoarse as I slid my legs off the bed with deliberate caution. The room swayed slightly as I moved, and I had to steady myself with a deep breath.

Astrid's gaze remained fixed on me, her concern thinly veiled by a mask of calm. I could tell she was more interested in whether the ritual had worked than in my actual well-being. Her eyes scanned me like I was a piece of work she had just crafted, searching for any flaws or imperfections.

I glanced down at my arm, noting that the wound had been carefully cleaned and stitched, now wrapped in a fresh bandage. The black cloth and the bow were gone, as if they had never existed.

“Easy,” Astrid murmured, her voice soft as she placed a gentle hand on my shoulder to steady me when I attempted to stand.

It took a few seconds for my legs to stop trembling, every muscle in my body protesting as I fought to maintain my balance. The effort of simply staying upright felt like a Herculean task.

“I said I’m fine.” I snapped, yanking myself out of her grip. I took a few unsteady steps back, needing to put some distance between us. Astrid’s hands lifted in a gesture of surrender, her expression tinged with something between surprise and curiosity as she watched me.

“You got what you wanted,” I added, my voice cold and edged with the lingering pain in my arm and mind. I crossed my arms over my chest, planting my feet firmly on the ground despite the lingering weakness.

“Now, tell me where to find this Thalmor.”

---

 

 

“Are you leaving so soon?”

Amon’s voice cut through the air, snapping me out of my focus as I stuffed the last of my belongings into my bag. The soft creak of the door hinted at his presence, but I refused to acknowledge him, keeping my gaze fixed on the task at hand.

His silhouette loomed in the doorway, leaning casually against the frame, but his eyes were anything but casual. They bore into me, filled with a concern that I chose to dismiss as insincere. I could feel the tension in the air, thick and suffocating, but I forced myself to ignore it.

“When,” I snapped, irritation flaring as I threw my hands up, “When are you going to learn how to knock?”

The frustration simmered just beneath the surface, a bitter taste on my tongue. I hated how he could just slip in and out of my space, how he seemed to be everywhere and nowhere all at once. It made my skin crawl, made me feel exposed.

He crossed his arms, the muscles in his jaw tensing as his expression darkened. “It’s daylight.” he hissed, the words laced with a quiet accusation that made my blood boil.

“Right,” I muttered, forcing a tight smile as I turned back to my bag. “Shouldn’t you be in the dungeons? I thought you liked it there.”

The moment the words left my lips, I regretted them. But it was too late. I couldn’t take them back. I kept my movements deliberate, trying to maintain an air of indifference as I secured my bag, but I could feel the tension between us crackling like electricity.

In a flash, he was there, his speed so unnerving that it sent a shiver down my spine. His body pressed me against the dresser, the sudden closeness making my heart hammer in my chest. A strand of my hair fluttered up, caught in the rush of his movement, before falling back down, brushing against my cheek.

His hand rested on my waist, firm and possessive, while the other braced against the wall beside my head. His eyes, intense and smoldering, locked onto mine with a gaze that sent heat pooling in my stomach. The air between us grew heavy, charged with something dangerous and undeniably magnetic.

“I told you,” he growled, his voice low and filled with a raw intensity that made my breath catch, “I wished it was you.”

I wanted to move, to push him away, but my body betrayed me. I was rooted to the spot, my pulse quickening under his touch. His hand on my waist felt like it was branding me, burning through the layers of fabric and searing my skin.

He leaned in closer, his breath ghosting over my lips, and I could feel the heat radiating from him, overwhelming and suffocating. “Through all of it,” he murmured, his lips curling into a smirk that was both infuriating and intoxicating, “I wished it was you.”

A shiver ran down my spine, a mix of fear and something else—something I didn’t want to name—coiling deep within me. His words echoed in my mind, blurring the line between threat and desire.

“I wish…” His voice trailed off, the unspoken words hanging between us, heavy with implication. His lips hovered just above mine, the distance between us so slight that I could feel his breath on my skin.

Desperation clawed at me, and with a sharp turn of my head, I broke the spell, my gaze darting away from his. I needed to escape his allure, to regain some semblance of control, but the tension lingered, a palpable force binding us in a moment that neither of us could shake.

“It will never be me.”

The words tumbled out, a cold and sharp truth I clung to. Yet even as I said it, something twisted inside me, a bitterness I couldn’t explain. I loathed the thought of Fen’s hands on him, her fingers tracing over his skin, her lips pressed to his. The mere image of it made something sick and ugly churn in my stomach, a dark frustration that festered beneath the surface. I shoved him away, more forcefully than I intended, but the need to create distance, to escape the entanglement of emotions, was overwhelming.

“What happened last night?” His voice was softer now, a question laced with concern that I didn’t want to hear. My movements slowed, but I kept silent, refusing to answer. “You lost a lot of blood, I could smell it… Is that—”

I froze, my gaze fixed on the door, my arm instinctively shifting behind my back to hide the wound. I could feel his frustration, a mirror to my own, but I didn’t care. I had to get out. I had to leave before this went any further.

“Wait—” His voice called out as I slung my bag over my shoulder, ignoring him as I moved toward the Black Door. I needed the fresh air, the space away from the suffocating closeness of the Sanctuary.

The door opened with a soft creak, and the dim daylight spilled in, warming my face with a tender touch. It felt like freedom, like a breath of fresh air in a place that was stifling me.

“Niolenyl!” His voice was a growl, his tone desperate, demanding my attention. I paused, glancing back over my shoulder just enough to see him out of the corner of my eye. “I can’t go out there!”

It was almost amusing, the idea that he thought we were a team, that he expected me to take him with me wherever I went, like there was some unspoken bond between us. But there wasn’t. There never would be.

“That’s the whole point. Have fun.”

With that, I stepped out into the daylight, leaving him behind. The warmth of the sun seeped into my skin, a silent intensity that felt like a promise of something different, something better.

As the door closed behind me, the tension dissipated, leaving only the steady beat of my heart and the weight of what I’d left behind.

I was alone, as I had always been, with an aching wound in my arm that pulsed in time with the heaviness in my chest.

To Markarth.

 

 

 

To be continued…

Chapter 21: Chapter 21

 

4E, 199

 

"They slaughtered our brothers!" Astrid's voice, thick with fury, crashed against the walls, filling the hall with a palpable rage.

It was just the three of us—her, Nazir, and me. The tension between them was suffocating, like a storm brewing, threatening to tear everything apart.

"And now, how are we any different?" Nazir's words sliced through the air as he stalked toward the table, his movements slow, controlled. "We've spilled blood too—murdered their brothers and sisters."

"What would you have me do?" Astrid's voice cracked like a whip, every syllable laced with tremors of barely restrained anger. "Do nothing while this threat looms over us?"

"Threat? To us?" Nazir leaned in, his face inches from hers, eyes blazing with defiance. "Or to your authority?"

"My authority is to serve the Sanctuary!" Astrid's fist slammed into the desk with a resounding thud, making it tremble beneath the force.

"To serve the family," she snarled, the words like a challenge thrown down between them.

I stood on the fringes, a silent witness near the door, my heart pounding in my chest. My eyes darted between them as their words clashed, each one a blade, honed and ready to cut deep.

"Family?" Nazir's voice dripped with venom as he stepped back, his gaze narrowing. "You don't care about family, Astrid!" His eyes locked onto hers, unyielding, furious. "Why else would you send her into that hell alone if you cared?"

Their gazes suddenly turned to me, and I felt a cold wave of vulnerability crash over me. My bloodstained armor felt like a second skin, weighing me down, but I straightened, refusing to show weakness.

Astrid's eyes lingered on mine, her anger softening into something deeper, more complex. Her voice, when it came, was a quiet but unbreakable thread, "I knew she would survive."

"She could have died!" Nazir's voice was a raw, wounded thing, but Astrid's eyes held me captive, her gaze unwavering, pulling me into her storm.

"She isn't weak, Nazir," Astrid finally said, her voice low, almost tender, as she turned back to him. "Stop treating her as if she is."

"It's not—"

"She's right." I interrupted, my voice cutting through the thick tension like a knife, leaving new, jagged edges in its wake.

The room fell silent as my words hung in the air, and for a moment, everything froze. Nazir's eyes softened, filling with a sorrow so deep it threatened to drown me. But then, something shifted—his gaze darkened, a shadow passing over his face. Was it fear? Regret?

Or something else entirely?

But then it hit me—the memory of our first encounter. The cave, the cold air clinging to my skin, and the way he had silently pushed my shoulder down onto the bedroll, as if I were made of glass. As if I were precious.

I made my way toward him with deliberate steps, feeling a strange warmth spread through me. Each step made the smile on my lips widen. "Nazir," I began, my tone softer than usual, "I can't thank you enough for what you've done for me."

His eyes, still shadowed with an unreadable darkness, refused to meet mine. They didn't let my smile reach him, didn't let it warm the heart that I knew was somewhere beneath that cold exterior.

"I owe you my life." I said, the words heavy with truth.

"You owe me nothing." he countered, but we both knew better.

"I was dead, you know." My voice dropped to a murmur as I took another step closer to him. "I'm sure of it."

His eyes flickered, hesitating before they finally met mine. Astrid's presence in the background was a quiet weight between us, her watchful gaze adding a layer of tension that neither of us could ignore.

"Then I heard the old man's voice," I continued, feeling a tight ache build behind my eyes, "and then you held me, didn't you?"

The warmth of the hand that had pulled me back from the brink of death lingered on my shoulder, as real now as it had been then. But this time, it wasn't foreign—it was familiar, comforting.

"You taught me everything I know about being an assassin," I confessed, aware of Astrid scoffing softly in the background. "If I survived those wretched sewers today, it was because I'm good at what you taught me."

Nazir took a moment, and I saw something shift in his expression. Fear, sudden and sharp, darkened his features, as if my words had touched a nerve he'd rather not have exposed. His brows furrowed before he forced them to relax. "It was foolish to go alone." he said, his voice thick with concern.

"Being one is better than being plenty, for plenty is noisy. And noise—"

"And noise gets you killed." he finished for me, his tone now edged with frustration. His gaze bore down on me, mocking, dismissive. "Damn right, I taught you that."

He sighed, shaking his head as if trying to rid himself of the weight of it all. "To the damn sewers for those Tong rats!" His eyes cut through Astrid, but she remained calm, a glass of wine cradled in her hand. "Where you knew there'd be plenty of them."

"A dozen of our brothers  fell to those rats in the sewers," Astrid finally responded with a fierce whisper, her gaze shifting to me. She lifted her glass toward me, her voice filled with a sharp edge, "But she is as capable as a dozen men."

I couldn't help the smile that curled my lips, even as her words unsettled something deep inside me. The smile faded as quickly as it had come when she turned her attention back to Nazir.

"You know that," she continued, her voice a quiet challenge. "In fact, you told me that the day you brought her here."

The weight of her words settled between us, thick and heavy, and for a moment, all I could do was stand there, caught between the two people who had shaped me into what I was—a weapon, a survivor, something more than just a girl who had once been broken.

The weight of it all became unbearable—the blood-soaked clothes clinging to my skin, the crimson stains on my hands and face. I couldn't stand it anymore. The urge to scrub away the remnants of death gnawed at me. "Can I go?" I asked, shifting restlessly, impatience seeping into my voice as I fought the desperate need to wash it all off.

Nazir's response was immediate, his tone brooking no argument. "This will never happen again." His words hung in the air like a vow, and when he turned to Astrid, his eyes were hard, unyielding. "Every order she takes, she will take from me."

A cold, humorless laugh slipped from Astrid's lips, her shoulders trembling with the force of it. "This is my Sanctuary, Nazir. I give the orders."

He didn't back down. Instead, he stepped closer to the table, his voice dropping to a low growl as he planted his palms firmly on the wood, as if grounding himself for the battle of wills. "Well, I am the Listener." The title carried a weight that echoed in the silence. "Whatever I say is the rule."

Astrid's laughter was sharper this time, dripping with a confidence that seemed to defy reason. She leaned back in her chair, eyes gleaming with an unsettling amusement. "Oh?" she teased, her tone almost playful. "I thought whatever you said was the rule only if it's what Mother told you."

The tension between them crackled like the air before a storm, an unspoken challenge radiating from Nazir as he met her gaze. For a brief moment, her eyes flicked to me, studying me with a cold, calculating look before returning to him.

"I know Mother never  talks about her." Astrid said, her voice softening into something more dangerous, more cutting. The words seemed to hang in the air, heavy with implication, as if she were daring him to challenge her authority—one that went beyond mere titles.

The silence that followed was suffocating, thick with the unspoken threat that loomed over us all. I could feel the weight of their words pressing down on me, a reminder of the precarious balance that held our world together, and how easily it could all unravel.

With a silent push of her chair, Astrid straightened her back, sitting up with an air of authority as she looked up at Nazir. Her eyes glinted with a dangerous mix of confidence and cunning. "Why don't you let her choose?" she suggested, her voice laced with a quiet challenge.

I could hear the subtle tinge of victory in her tone, a knowing edge that made my stomach twist. She had anticipated this moment, had seen the inevitable choice I would one day have to make. 

And in that instant, I knew she believed I would choose her over the man who had saved my life.

 

 

To be continued...

 

Chapter 22: Chapter 22

The stone walls of Markarth loomed before me, an oppressive fortress of ancient Dwemer architecture, their cold, lifeless surfaces towering high above the city below. Brass fittings, now dulled by time yet still catching the dying light of the setting sun, shimmered like dying embers in the distance, casting an eerie glow over the city's labyrinthine streets. The sun dipped low on the horizon, its final rays turning the sky a bruised violet, casting elongated shadows that clung to the narrow alleys and the stone pathways, painting them in the colors of twilight. The scent of moss and wet stone lingered in the air, a constant reminder of the river that carved its way through the city's heart, a lifeline in the midst of this unforgiving place. The oppressive walls seemed to close in as I approached the Silver-Blood Inn.

Inn greeted me with its familiar, distinct scent-a mixture of burning hearthwood, spiced mead, and the earthy undertone of well-worn leather. This was a place where the weight of Markarth's stone exterior melted away, replaced by the warmth of firelight dancing off the walls, and the low hum of conversation punctuated by the occasional clatter of tankards.

The innkeeper, a stout Nord with the grizzled look of one who had seen too much, greeted me with a nod, his tone warm despite the harshness of his surroundings. "Come on in. The Silver-Blood Inn has plenty of strong drink and clean rooms," he said, his voice carrying the weight of a hundred similar welcomes, yet somehow still genuine.

I returned his smile and ordered a honey ale, the brew as dark and bitter as the city itself despite being made of honey. As I drank, I couldn't help but listen to the murmurs around me-talk of the civil war, of dragons descending from the skies, and of darker, more secretive threats that lurked just out of sight. Despite the turmoil that gripped Skyrim, Markarth seemed unaffected-here, blood and mead flowed as freely as the Karth River, and the city's stone heart beat on, indifferent to the chaos beyond its walls.

With my thirst quenched, I left the warmth of the inn behind and made my way up the stone stairs leading to Understone Keep. The sun had nearly set, leaving the sky ablaze with hues of crimson and gold, washing the steps in a fleeting, fiery light. My hood concealed my features as I ascended and the air grew colder as I approached the Keep's entrance, the shadows deepening as the last light of day faded. I steeled myself for what lay ahead. I knew the risks of walking into the Talos shrine, especially when meeting a Thalmor agent who had turned on their own. But I wasn't foolish, and I had no intention of walking into a trap. If this Thalmor was desperate enough to betray their brethren, I needed to be careful, to spy on him from the shadows before revealing myself.

As I passed by the guards, their silence spoke volumes, and I moved forward into the Keep's entrance, where the air grew heavier, thick with history and the lingering presence of the Dwemer. The vast interior of Understone Keep had always been a marvel, but now, with the recent excavations, it felt like stepping into another world entirely. The automaton sentinels, once wielded by the Dwemer against their ancient foes, now stood silent atop their pedestals. Though lifeless, they exuded a quiet menace, their hollow eyes watching over the space, reminding every visitor of the power that once coursed through their mechanical veins. The sight sent a shiver down my spine, a cold reminder of the forgotten dangers that lay within these stone walls.

I adjusted my hood, pulling it lower to shadow my face, a silent vow to remain unseen. The shadows clung to the corners of the Keep, offering me a path through the dimly lit hallways. The Mourning Throne loomed ahead, an imposing structure of stone and authority, perched atop the grand staircase. Yet, at this hour, it sat empty, the Jarl and his court having retreated for the evening meal. Unlike the other longhouses of Skyrim, this Keep lacked the warmth of a hearth and the camaraderie of a feasting hall, replaced instead by the cold, unyielding presence of the Dwemer architecture.

I leaned casually against the wall near the sealed entrance to what appeared to be an exhibition area, my eyes scanning the space. The Keep's grandeur, though impressive, did little to comfort the unease that crept into my bones. My gaze settled on an elderly man standing near the Throne room. He carried himself with the deliberate grace of a seasoned politician, every movement controlled and precise. His face was a map of wrinkles, each line etched by time, each telling a different story of the battles he had fought-not with sword or shield, but with words and strategy. His fingers absentmindedly caressed his short, well-maintained beard, a gesture of deep contemplation.

A heated argument drew my attention to the staircase. A Breton couple stood in the shadows, their voices low yet charged with frustration. The woman, her hands rough from years of labor, reached out to her companion with a gentle grace, trying to calm his anger. The man, likely her husband, stood with his back tense, his muscles thick and strong, likely honed by years of relentless work in the silver mines. His frustration was palpable, a mix of exhaustion and determination that radiated from him as he argued, his voice roughened by years of shouting over the clamor of the mines.

"I am telling you, let's go and come back tomorrow!" The woman pleaded, her voice tinged with desperation.

"We waited the whole day, Voada! That coward will get his ass back on that chair and listen to what I have to say!" her husband retorted, his voice a growl of barely contained rage.

Their argument faded into the background as I crossed my arms, remaining still and silent, my senses on high alert. I scanned the room, searching for any sign of the Thalmor agent I had come to meet. The Keep's oppressive atmosphere weighed heavily on me, the walls seeming to close in, suffocating in their cold silence.

I remained poised, ready for the moment when my prey would reveal themselves, knowing that in this city of stone and secrets, nothing stayed hidden for long.

They came. The Thalmor.

There were three of them. But my gaze locked onto the one in the middle, unmoving, as if frozen in time. Tall-no, taller than before.

I stilled, my breath catching as I took in the sight of him after all those years. Clad in deep navy blue Thalmor robes that cascaded to his ankles, the golden linings glinting faintly in the dim light, the fabric whispering with each step he took toward the stairs. His presence was commanding, more so than ever, and it took everything in me not to flinch beneath the weight of it. His eyes, a deeper, more intense gold than I remembered. A strand of silver hair fell over his face, the rest hidden beneath the hood that covered his ears, casting shadows that softened the sharp lines of his features.

When I finally managed to wrench my gaze away from him, I noticed the two figures flanking him-his minions, his guard dogs. A female and a male Mer, both clad in Thalmor armor that gleamed brighter and more pristine than the typical elven armors. Their expressions were cold, indifferent, as if they were merely extensions of him, existing solely to serve and protect.

But him... Was that really him? The one who had put the sacrament up for Elenwen? The very thought was inconceivable, and yet, here he was.

Why?

The question echoed in my mind, mingling with the countless others that had plagued me for years. Why would he, of all people, put a sacrament on one of his own? What could drive him to such betrayal, to such an unthinkable act?

And more hauntingly, why had he stayed silent after that day?

For now, I needed to stay composed, to not let the flood of emotions betray my thoughts. Because one thing was clear-whatever game he was playing, I was now a part of it, whether I wanted to be or not.

As he descended the stairs, I stayed close, blending into the shadows cast by the dim lighting. My heart pounded in my chest, the rhythmic beat echoing the growing realization that perhaps, just perhaps, Astrid had been right about him being an ally. The thought offered a glimmer of hope, a possibility of unexpected reprieve. Yet, I couldn't afford to let my guard down. A Thalmor was a Thalmor, and their motives were as inscrutable as they were dangerous.

He saved me that day.

The frustration twisted within me as I fought to push aside the memories of that day-the day he had intervened, the day that now seemed shrouded in mystery and uncertainty. I needed to focus on the present, on the task at hand.

Outside the Keep, he dismissed his guards with a casual wave, their stoic faces betraying no hint of concern as they turned away. He moved silently down the stone steps, the darkness of the night enveloping him as if it were his cloak. With every step he took, my pulse quickened, the pounding in my chest growing louder and more insistent.

When he halted beneath the brass door, his eyes scanned the surroundings with a practiced vigilance. I crouched low, merging with the shadows as he glanced back, ensuring he wasn't followed. The brief moment of tension felt like an eternity, and I barely dared to breathe. Finally, he opened the door with a smooth, almost imperceptible motion and slipped inside, his movements fluid and precise as if he was well accustomed to this covert entrance.

Why would he frequently slip into the shrine, moving with such stealth? Meetings? Secrets? The questions swirled in my mind, each one more pressing than the last.

I approached the door, my breath shallow and quick. My feet seemed to meld with the stone beneath me, every inch of movement a careful effort. As I stood there, poised to follow, a haunting thought gripped me-after all these years, would he recognize me?

I pushed the door open with a muted gasp, the hinges creaking slightly as it revealed the dimly lit shrine. The flickering light cast long shadows across the figure of Talos, his stern visage a silent witness to the meeting about to unfold. Beneath the statue, a hooded figure stood, his presence commanding and enigmatic.

As the door closed with a faint click, the figure turned to face me. His golden eyes, sharp and discerning, traced over me with a disquieting intensity. My breath hitched in my throat, caught between fear and an unfamiliar thrill.

I stepped forward, lowering my hood. To my surprise, he did the same, revealing a striking visage. His silver hair, longer now and cascading in loose waves over his shoulders, shimmered with a golden sheen in the dim light. The delicate play of light on his face only accentuated the sharpness of his features and the depth of his eyes.

"From the Brotherhood, are you?" His voice, laced with a familiar arrogance, cut through the quiet, the undertone of disdain mingling with a barely concealed curiosity. It was a tone I remembered all too well.

He didn't recognize me.

After a heartbeat of silence, I nodded with deliberate firmness, trying to meet his gaze without flinching.

"Well, I was looking forward to your arrival," he said, his voice a low rumble that seemed to echo in the confines of the shrine. There was a trace of impatience, but beneath it lay an unmistakable undercurrent of anticipation. "We need to discuss the terms."

"The terms?" I repeated, my voice tinged with ironic amusement. The terms were always the same, a transaction as old as the Brotherhood itself.

"You pay, and we kill. Those are the terms." I added sharply, with contempt in my voice. He knew me as an assassin; playing my part was second nature.

He stepped closer, the space between us narrowing as my heartbeat quickened, the tension between us growing thicker. "Look, the contract specifies what I want," he said, his shrug casual but his gaze intensely focused. "But I want to discuss more."

"More?" My eyes lifted to his, searching for the hidden motives in the depths of his golden gaze. The subtle arch of his brows and the barely concealed smirk on his lips spoke of something beyond a mere contract.

"Not here," he whispered, his voice dropping to a husky murmur that sent a shiver down my spine. "If we are to commit long-term, I should have you as a proper guest."

The idea of being a "guest" in his company was both enticing and unsettling. I crossed my arms, trying to quell the tumult of emotions that stirred within me.

"We are on the same side!" he insisted, his gaze piercing through me with an intensity that felt almost physical. His brows furrowed in a mix of frustration and something else-something more personal. "Doesn't that make us allies?"

An ally. A Thalmor.

The term was fraught with irony, but the way he looked at me, the heat in his voice, made it difficult to dismiss the notion entirely. The attraction was undeniable, yet fraught with danger.

"Does it? I don't even know your name." I said, keeping my tone steady despite the undercurrent of emotion that threatened to break through.

Ondolemar.

"Ondolemar." he purred, the name rolling off his tongue like a secret he was barely containing. He extended his hand toward me, the gesture both courteous and intimate. I didn't move to take it, my gaze locked onto his. His golden eyes bore into mine, filled with an intense curiosity that made my heart ache with a pang of longing and confusion.

"And you are?" he asked, his voice a soft whisper that seemed to resonate in the quiet of the shrine. The pure curiosity in his eyes was almost tangible, he had no idea who I was, no memory of the oath. All that remained was the stranger standing before me, his presence both alluring and unsettling. The past seemed to dissolve in the wake of his indifference, leaving me with the cold reality of being forgotten.

"Cylsa."

"Bosmer, aren't you?" His smirk widened, a glint of something almost nostalgic in his eyes. "A cousin."

The term struck me with irony. How casually he used it.

"Alright, alright," he continued, his tone shifting to one of almost palpable desperation. "Please, Cylsa of the Brotherhood, will you join me for a chat over coffee?"

Coffee? The word was foreign to me, almost absurd given the circumstances. I froze, my eyes widening slightly in shock at his too-familiar invitation. It felt disarmingly friendly, a jarring contrast to the tension that crackled between us. Was he truly that desperate for the Brotherhood's help?

Despite my better judgment, I found myself nodding softly. The gasp that escaped his lips was almost childlike, a rare crack in his composed facade.

"Wonderful!" he exclaimed, his voice filled with an eagerness that bordered on excitement. "Now, let's leave this damned shrine, shall we? I have the most amazing balcony in Markarth."

With that, he turned on his heel, his robe flowing behind him in a graceful arc as he moved towards the front door.

A balcony?

 

 

To be continued...

 

 

 

 

Chapter 23: Chapter 23

Notes:

Content Warning:

This chapter contains explicit depictions of torture, physical and psychological abuse, and non-consensual situations. The content includes elements that blend distressing themes with sexual undertones, which may be triggering or uncomfortable for some readers. Reader discretion is strongly advised.

As I stepped into Ondolemar’s home, the stark, imposing exterior of the Keep melted away, replaced by an unexpected sanctuary of opulence and comfort. The entryway opened into a grand hall, where the warmth of an enormous hearth chased away the chill of the outside world. Flames danced within it, casting flickering shadows on the intricate Dwemer carvings that adorned the hearth’s mantle—a showcase of trinkets and trophies, each one hinting at a life steeped in adventure and wealth.

Rich, dark wood paneling embraced the lower walls, rising to meet refined stonework above, while the floor beneath my feet was softened by luxurious rugs woven with Elven motifs and intricate patterns. Overstuffed armchairs and a grand sofa circled the hearth, their fine leather upholstery gleaming in the warm light of bronze sconces mounted along the walls. The room beckoned with an air of relaxation, but his presence in the space added a layer of intrigue that kept my guard on edge.

Sensing my astonishment, Ondolemar's lips curled into a knowing smirk as he spoke, his voice smooth and confident. "Wait till you see the view."

Curiosity sparked within me as he moved toward a door near the hearth. I followed, leaving my bag and blade draped over one of the chairs, though I kept my dagger close—an instinct I wasn’t about to ignore. He had no reason to harm me, I reminded myself. If he wanted the support of the Brotherhood, he would know that his best chance lay in earning my favor.

As he pushed the door open, the view beyond struck me with unexpected force. I had scaled the heights of Skyrim, witnessed breathtaking vistas, but the scene from this balcony was something else entirely. The tundras stretched out before me, merging with the dark expanse of the forest beyond, all beneath a sky adorned with countless stars. I could only imagine how it would look under the light of day.

“Why don’t you wait here while I ready the coffee?” he suggested, his voice softer now. My gaze remained locked on the night sky as I nodded absently. Coffee. The word was unfamiliar, but from his tone, I gathered it was some sort of consumable. My curiosity piqued.

As he walked back inside, a silent shiver ran down my spine. What was I doing here? In the house of a man I once knew—no, a man who once saved my life and kept silent about what happened. Now we were talking about assassinations, playing roles, acting as though we were different people. At least I was.

Trusting him blindly would be foolish. Just because he had been true to his word once didn’t mean he was trustworthy now, especially for the Brotherhood. The memory of his words about long commitments and terms churned frustration within me. My hands gripped the marble railing of the balcony as my thoughts whirled.

When the door behind me finally opened, a small sigh of relief escaped my lips. The solitude on the balcony had become unbearable, my mind racing with too many thoughts.

I turned to see him approaching with a silver tray in hand. There was something sacred about this place, I realized, a feeling not unlike the sanctity of the Courtyard in the Sanctuary—a place to think, to be alone with one’s thoughts.

I walked over to the table where he placed the tray, which held a small pot and two cups. So coffee was a drink, after all, with an incredible aroma that swirled around us as we took our seats.

“She can’t drink that, you know.”

The cold, familiar voice cut through the night air like a knife, its tone laced with mischief and contempt. Amon was behind me.

I turned, finding him casually leaning on the marble of the balcony, elbows propped up, his posture radiating an infuriating ease. He was clad in his usual black leather armor with deep red accents adorning it, matching mine with unsettling precision.

My brows furrowed as our eyes met—his gaze as shameless as ever, just standing there, being him, as if his presence here was the most natural thing in the world.

Sensing my shock, he merely shrugged, turning his gaze toward the sprawling view. “Some Bosmer thing.” he added, his voice laced with nonchalance.

When I finally turned back to Ondolemar, the warmth and hospitality he had shown earlier had vanished, replaced by a cold, steely demeanor. His face was expressionless, his eyes were sharp, focused on Amon with an intensity that could cut through steel.

A tense silence hung between them until Ondolemar blinked, his gaze shifting to me, the glimmer of fury dimming, though the tension lingered. “My fault, really,” he murmured, his voice tight.

His unexpected reply piqued my curiosity, and I arched an eyebrow. He continued, a hint of regret coloring his tone, “I thought only those in Valenwood still held the pact dear.”

Oh, coffee was made from the Green.

Ondolemar’s gaze dropped, his voice lowering as he slowly pulled the tray away from me, almost as if in apology. “An associate of yours?” he asked, deliberately avoiding both my eyes and Amon’s.

“Associate?” Amon’s voice came from behind me, a chuckle escaping his lips as he closed the distance between us. Each step he took sent a shiver down my spine until I felt the cold touch of his hand on my shoulder, perilously close to the scar he had left on my neck.

“We are way more than that,” he murmured, his breath ghosting over my skin. “Don’t you think?”

I gazed up, locking eyes with his mismatched gaze that burned with an intense, smoldering flame. But I was weary of the endlessness of his games, of the way he invaded my space, gnawing at my patience since the moment we met.

With a sharp shrug, I pushed his hand off my shoulder, a gesture that didn’t go unnoticed by Ondolemar, who watched us with an unwavering gaze, every movement silently cataloged.

“Why are you here?” I hissed, my brows knitting together in frustration.

Amon, unfazed by my cold reception, arched an eyebrow, his expression almost playful as he sank into one of the empty chairs at the table. “To discuss the terms,” he said casually, his eyes sliding to Ondolemar. “You were saying?”

“No.” 

My sharp tone cut through the air, but his smirk remained, lingering on his lips as he looked Ondolemar up and down, provoking an icy, unmoving response from the fellow Altmer.

“This is my mission alone. Leave.”

Amon’s gaze met mine, feigning shock as he tilted his head. “Really?”

“Really, Amon.” I fought the urge to slap that smug look off his face as I spoke, my eyes drilling into his.

Amon rose from his seat with deliberate slowness, throwing a final sharp glance at Ondolemar before turning to me, his voice low and urgent. “Can we have a moment, please?”

“Please.” His hand extended toward me, fingers twitching as if yearning for me to take it. Against my better judgment, I stood and followed him to the edge of the balcony, crossing my arms defensively as he leaned on the railing, his voice a soft whisper. “You can’t trust him.”

“Oh really?” I scoffed, nearly laughing. “Don’t worry about me.”

“How can I not?” His retort was quick, but my attention drifted back to Ondolemar, then returned to Amon.

“Why are you really here?”

“In truth,” he sighed, frustration lacing his voice, “I need to find someone named Muiri, for a contract—”

“Astrid sent you?”

“Nazir.” His smirk revealed the sharp edges of his fangs, a hunger simmering just beneath the surface.

I struggled to keep my frustration in check as the reality of Nazir’s involvement set in.

“Listen—” he began, but I cut him off.

“You listen, Amon.” My voice dropped to a whisper, my eyes locking onto his. “Just because you got into the Sanctuary thanks to me doesn’t mean you and I are a team.”

His gaze darkened at my words, shifting between me and Ondolemar, a storm brewing behind his eyes. But I leaned in closer, my voice a harsh whisper, “Leave.”

"Have it your way." he hissed, his gaze flickering between us one last time before settling on me. There was something in his eyes—a hesitation, as if he wanted to say something, to let me in on a secret, but instead, he looked away, his expression hardening. Without another word, he turned and let himself slip off the balcony’s edge, disappearing into the shadows below.

As usual.

A weary sigh escaped my lips as I turned on my heels, heading back to the table where Ondolemar sat alone, a cup of dark liquid cradled in his hand. My heart and mind raced, battling to find the right words.

"Can I get one?" I asked, trying to steady my voice.

His eyes lit up slightly, despite the coldness that had settled there with Amon's unexpected appearance.

"I apologize for our new initiate's behavior," I continued, lowering myself into the seat beside him. "He can be very… unbearable at times." My voice softened as I looked up at him, a tinge of embarrassment coloring my cheeks.

Ondolemar’s lips curved into a subtle, understanding smile as he raised his hand to pour the liquid into another cup. The rich, distinctive aroma filled the air, wrapping around us like a comforting blanket.

“He seemed like he was worried about you.” His voice was soft, a silent whisper but I could hear the question beneath.

“Like I said,” I murmured, my fingers tightening around the cup he handed me. “He can be unbearable.”

The rich aroma wafting from the cup pulled my attention, its intoxicating blend overwhelming my senses. It was a scent unlike any I had ever encountered, both foreign and alluring.

“I see,” Ondolemar replied, his voice smooth as silk, yet edged with something darker. He leaned back, his gaze never leaving me, as if savoring my every reaction.

I nodded, lifting the cup to my lips. The initial bitterness of the liquid soon gave way to a subtle sweetness that danced across my tongue, surprising me. A small smile tugged at the corners of my mouth, and I caught a glint of satisfaction in Ondolemar's eyes.

“Do you like it?” he asked, his voice cold, as ancient as death itself.

“I—”

Before I could respond, a sudden wave of nausea slammed into me.

So quick.

My jaw clenched involuntarily, and my hands trembled, the cup slipping from my grasp and shattering against the floor. Sharp, stabbing pain coursed through my limbs, spreading like wildfire. My breath hitched as I fought to stay upright, but the agony was relentless.

Poison?

My knees buckled, and I crumpled onto the balcony floor, the world spinning around me. My gaze locked onto Ondolemar as he rose with deliberate calm, his expression a mask of calculated indifference.

“What did you do to me?” I managed to choke out, my voice thick with anguish and disbelief. My hands, now trembling uncontrollably, clawed at the floor as if searching for an anchor in the storm of pain.

Without a word, he grasped me under the arms, his fingers digging into my skin with a cruel firmness. My body, limp and unresponsive, was dragged across the cold floor, my futile attempts to resist meeting only his cold determination. As he pulled me along, I fought against the numbness spreading through my limbs, my mind screaming for help, but my voice remained silent.

Once inside the room, his grip remained unyielding as he deposited me onto the bed with a rough shove. I struggled to move, my muscles refusing to obey, the poison coursing through me leaving only a hollow shell where strength once resided. Tears welled in my eyes, blurring my vision as I stared up at him, my foolish trust shattered into a thousand pieces, leaving nothing but paralyzing fear in its wake.

My heart pounded in my chest, each beat echoing the impending doom that loomed over me. The realization dawned with a sickening finality.

I may never find the answers I sought.

“Why…” The word escaped my lips as a strained whisper, my throat tight with pain and desperation. My jaw clenched as I fought to form the question, each syllable laced with agony. “Why are you doing this?”

Ondolemar finally spoke, his voice cold and distant, the icy detachment only intensifying the chill that spread through my veins.

“Calm down, love.”

The endearment, laced with venom, twisted in my gut. With calculated, deliberate movements, he retrieved my backpack from the hall and tossed it carelessly onto the floor in front of the bed.

“I expected more from the Thalmor.” he spat, his words dripping with contempt.

His hands found my waist, yanking me upright with a force that made my breath hitch. His rough touch sent a shiver through me, his fingers digging into my skin as they traveled up and down, tracing the curves of my body.

“What…” I began to protest, but the words barely escaped my lips before his hand cracked across my face, the sharp sting of the blow radiating through my skull.

Pain exploded behind my eyes, stars bursting in my vision as I tasted the warm, metallic tang of blood trickling from the corner of my lip. The bitterness of betrayal mixed with the iron, a sickening blend that made my stomach churn.

I recoiled from the blow, my breath catching in my throat as I tried to process the harsh reality of the situation. Every part of me trembled under the weight of his brutality, the shock of his actions making it hard to think, hard to breathe.

His hands parted my legs with a forceful shove, a silent whimper escaping my lips as I fought against the panic rising in my chest. With a rough tug, he ripped the blade and its leather strap from my thigh, tossing it to the ground with a dismissive clatter. The loss of the weapon left me feeling exposed, vulnerable, as his cold gaze bore into me, stripping away any semblance of control I thought I had.

"Did they really think they could infiltrate my house, my city, with their little spy?" His voice dripped with contempt, his golden gaze locking onto mine, blazing with fury. I thought I saw something more in those eyes—a simmering intensity that made my breath hitch, despite the terror that gripped me.

Confusion clouded my mind as I tried to grasp the meaning behind his accusations. My cheek throbbed from the force of his earlier blow, the sting sharp against my flushed skin. My eyes searched his, desperate for answers, but finding only that simmering rage.

"We have a little more time," Ondolemar declared, his arms crossing over his chest as he towered over me. His proximity was suffocating, his presence dominating the room. "You'd better clear your throat and start talking."

I tried to speak, but the words lodged in my throat, choked by the fear and pain that overwhelmed me. The intensity of his gaze seemed to burn through my defenses, making my pulse quicken despite myself. Suddenly, he gripped my face harshly, his fingers digging into my skin, forcing me to look at him. The closeness of his touch and the roughness of his hold sent a conflicting wave of fear and something unsettlingly warmer through me.

“Who sent you?” he hissed, his breath hot against my face as his eyes bore into mine with a hunger for the truth.

Tears welled up and trickled down my cheeks once more, glistening in the dim light. But there was no mercy in his fiery golden eyes, only a cold determination mixed with a predatory gleam that made my stomach twist.

“Speak!” he demanded, his grip tightening, his fingers brushing the skin just below my jaw, sending an involuntary shudder through me.

I couldn’t understand the reason for my tears, why they fell so freely, so uncontrollably. Was it the vulnerability that he so easily exploited? Was it the familiar feeling of helplessness, the same as when I was back on the farm? Or was it the strange, forbidden thrill that crawled up my spine under his touch?

“I…” I struggled, the words sticking in my sore throat, knowing I had no choice but to answer before he decided time had run out. “I am no Thalmor spy.” I confessed, my voice trembling, each word a painful admission as his fingers dug into my jaw.

With a rough shake, he released me, the sudden loss of his grip making me stumble back. My weakened body sagged against the wall as I fought to keep my balance.

“That sounds like something a Thalmor spy would say,” he hissed, a sly smirk curling his lips, his eyes lingering on me as if savoring my discomfort.

“If you’re no spy, then what are you?” he pressed, stepping closer, his tone a blend of accusation and something darker.

I searched his eyes, desperately seeking something, anything, that might spark a memory of who I was. But all I found was an icy void, as if any trace of warmth had been frozen over long ago.

“You…” My voice wavered, thick with the lump in my throat as I struggled to force the words out, “You don’t remember me?”

His gaze hardened, and for a brief moment, I thought I saw something flicker in those cold, golden eyes. But then they settled on mine with a heavy, unyielding resentment.

“I do.” He whispered, his voice laced with a bitterness that cut through me. “And I thought you were clever.”

His words struck like a blow, the realization washing over me like a freezing wave, dousing the burning in my throat with a cold, brutal clarity. My body tensed, every muscle locking up as the weight of his words sank in, crushing me under their unforgiving truth.

A thousand thoughts raced through my mind, each one more painful than the last, but I dared not speak. I couldn’t.

“You were a Thalmor then,” his voice cut through the air like a blade as he rifled through the contents of my bag, spilling them carelessly onto the floor. “With different company,” he added, a cold chuckle escaping his lips. “No wonder that fool is dead.”

His words sliced through me, reigniting the fire in my veins. The way he talked about him as if he were nothing, as if he meant nothing, fueled a rage so deep, so consuming, that I could barely contain it. I tried to lunge from my corner, driven by a primal need to tear into him, to claw his face, slit his throat for daring to speak of him that way.

“And the vampire, is he the replacement?” Ondolemar’s voice dripped with disdain, each word like a taunt.

Fueled by fury and desperation, I clawed my way across the bed, every movement a struggle as my weakened limbs strained to obey my commands. My nails dug into the fabric, propelling me forward with what little strength remained. But as I reached him, Ondolemar stood, his tall frame towering over me with a menacing presence. Before I could strike, his hand shot out, seizing a fistful of my hair. He yanked my head back with a vicious force, pulling my face up to meet his.

Pain exploded through my scalp, radiating down my neck and shoulders as I gasped, my body writhing under his brutal hold. My hands flew up, instinctively grabbing at his wrist, but his grip was unrelenting, iron-like. His eyes bored into mine, a cruel smile playing on his lips as he watched me struggle, once again, savoring the power he held over me.

“Better start talking, love.” Ondolemar's voice, a chilling whisper against my ear, sent a shiver down my spine, yet burned through me like wildfire.

“Who sent you? Was it Elenwen?”

“No…” The answer escaped me in a pitiful whimper, my control slipping as a numbness replaced the lump in my throat. It was as if my body was betraying me, responding to his presence in ways I couldn’t fully grasp.

My eyes darted up, catching the wicked smirk that curled his lips.

Veritas Draught?

The words echoed in my mind, the fear of what he might do with that potion gripping my heart. It was called Meridia’s Tears outside the Thalmor, the purifier of lies. I resisted the urge to speak, forcing my lips to clamp shut as I bit down hard, the taste of blood mingling with the terror coursing through me.

The smirk on his face faded into a frown, his eyebrows drawing together as a dangerous glint of fury flickered in his golden eyes. 

“Open that pretty mouth.” he hissed, his free hand gripping my jaw with painful force, prying my lips apart.

Panic surged through me, and with a desperate groan, I bit down on my tongue, the sharp pain barely registering as the taste of blood filled my mouth. His expression hardened instantly, the anger in his eyes flaring to life as his hand lashed out once more, slapping me hard across the face. The blow sent a fresh wave of pain shooting through my already bruised cheek, my head snapping to the side.

“You know,” Ondolemar sneered, his voice low and dangerous as he yanked me up by my hair again, a pained gasp escaping my lips as I was forced to look up at him, “the more you resist, the stronger it gets.”

He loomed over me, his gaze boring into mine with a mix of cruelty and something darker, more twisted. “Be a good girl,” he murmured, his tone softening as he brushed the bruise on my cheek with the back of his fingers, the touch deceptively tender, “and start talking.”

His fingers lingered on my skin, the contact sending a jolt of something electric through me—a twisted blend of fear and a strange, unwanted heat.

I can’t give in. Not to him. Not to this.

The moment I opened my mouth, I knew the truth would spill out unfiltered, raw, and uncontrollable. Every detail would be laid bare, dredged up from the depths of my mind. The potion had been used by the Thalmor a countless times to strip captives of their secrets. I knew it would draw out everything, and he was right, it only grew stronger with resistance.

With a heavy sigh and the last shred of control I clung to, I began, 

“I came here for you.”

Even I was startled by the choice of words that slipped past my lips, words my conscious mind had no control over. But as the meaning behind them sank in, he released his grip on my hair, realizing the potion was taking full effect.

“Sent by Astrid.”

Pain tightened around my throat like a noose, but I forced myself to continue. “I am an assassin,” I whispered, my voice rasping as the truth clawed its way out. “An assassin of the Brotherhood.”

His brow arched, a fleeting sign of curiosity, but he remained silent.

“I followed you… in the Keep, through the Shrine,” I coughed, the words scraping against my raw throat. “I think I was glad to see you.”

My heart pounded furiously in my chest, and beneath his icy exterior, I could hear the faint echo of his.

“I recognized you the moment I saw you,” I coughed again, the words slipping out before I could stop them. “The arrogant officer on active duty...” I tried to hold back, biting my lip as if that would stop the torrent, but it was useless. With a heavy sigh, I pressed on. “You stayed true to your word.”

“I did.” His voice was steady, his gaze locked onto mine with unwavering intensity. “And I hoped to never see you again.”

His words didn’t quite strike a chord, but they echoed in my mind for a fleeting moment. It was understandable, really—after all, to him, we were just fools. Fools, who believed we could murder our way out of the Thalmor’s grasp. Well, at least one of us did.

“Here you are,” he murmured, almost as if to himself, before his eyes narrowed. “What happened to him?”

“He—” I clamped my mouth shut, pleading with my eyes for him to stop, to not make me say it. But the potion wouldn’t allow silence for long.

“He died.” His voice was calm, but it cut through me like a blade.

I lowered my gaze to the floor, unable to speak, and nodded softly.

“And you-“ 

“I ran away.” The words were out before I could even think, stark in their simplicity, yet heavy with the weight of truth.

Deepened suspicion flickered across his face as he turned to me, his gaze sharp and assessing. Then, he looked out the window, his expression darkening.

“Nobody runs from them.”

The finality in his voice sent a shiver down my spine. He wasn’t wrong.

But,

“I did.” I growled, the words tearing at my throat as a feral sound rumbled up from deep within me. Another growl escaped my lips, more animal than human, but truth, “They fear me.”

His eyes locked onto mine again, but this time, there was something different—something softer. A deep sorrow lingered in his gaze as he approached with silent, deliberate steps. “And do you want to be feared?”

“I don’t.” The words came quickly, wrenched from me by the Veritas Draught’s unyielding grip. “I don’t want you to fear me.”

Ondolemar’s gaze dropped to the floor, a smirk tugging at the corners of his lips. “I don’t fear you—”

“Why else would you paralyze me with the potion?” The truth slipped from my lips, smoother than I expected, almost like a poison being purged. “Torture me? Because you’re so afraid of the Thalmor’s shadow..”

His eyes darkened, shadowed by the weight of old fears and new conflicts. As he straightened up, his imposing figure seemed to grow larger, looming over me with an air of controlled menace. A shiver ran through me, not just from the cold but from the oppressive presence of his gaze, like the edge of a blade brushing against my skin.

I had nothing left to hide, not anymore. Yet, I could sense he did, his secrets and doubts hanging in the space between us like a taut wire ready to snap.

I tried to straighten my posture, though every muscle in my body felt heavy, numbed by the truth potion’s lingering effects. A dull ache throbbed through my limbs, but I forced myself to speak, my voice trembling as I questioned him,

“I was Thalmor, if not today, then once. But, what are you?”

For a moment, his breath caught—a subtle hitch, almost imperceptible. The intensity in his eyes wavered before he looked away, as if hiding something deep within.

Regret, perhaps. It was a faint suspicion, but it was something I could cling to.

Tell him the truth.

“I never thought about using it, you know.” My gaze drifted to the blade and the leather strap now lying discarded on the floor. The sight of it, a symbol of my power stripped away, brought a bitter taste to my mouth. “Never thought I’d need it with you.”

His gaze snapped back to me, and in the corner of my eye, I caught a glimpse of something fierce and unspoken burning beneath the surface of his golden eyes.

“I was even heartbroken—” I hesitated, the word catching in my throat. Was I truly heartbroken? The memory of being unrecognized by him twisted in my chest. I swallowed, forcing the words out. “Surprised, when you didn’t recognize me.”

The truth.

“Not that it would still mean I could trust you—”

“That’s enough.” he cut me off, his voice sharp, almost desperate. He got up to leave the room, but I knew this moment was crucial, a turning point that I couldn’t afford to let slip away.

Regret. I needed to see it—even if it was buried deep within him.

“I think I chose to trust you. After all—”

His abrupt departure halted my words, leaving them hanging in the air, unfinished. I waited, my heart pounding in my chest, each beat resonating with the tension between us. My words were meant only for him, and I could only hope they would reach him, even in his absence.

“After all, you are an oathkeeper, aren’t you? You didn’t say a word about—”

“Enough!” He reentered the room, his movements quick and agitated, a bottle clutched tightly in his hand. He thrust it toward me, the lid already removed. “Drink it, the antidote.”

But my fingers, still numb from the potion, fumbled with the bottles, and it slipped from my grasp. He caught it, his hand steady and warm against mine, and for a fleeting moment, our fingers brushed, sending a jolt of electricity through my veins. He sighed, a sound that was almost weary, as if the weight of the world had settled on his shoulders.

“I always wondered why.”

“Drink.” His voice was low, commanding, but there was something else there, a plea hidden beneath the surface. He forced the bottle back into my hand, his touch lingering just a second too long, as if he didn’t want to let go.

“Why?” The word escaped me as a whisper, a plea more than a question.

It was the truth that had gnawed at me for so long, now coming to the surface, raw and unfiltered.

“I had to get to Markarth,” he hissed, straightening his shoulders, his posture rigid as if bracing himself against the weight of his own words. “By any means necessary, now drink this, and then we will speak.” His voice was softer now, almost coaxing, yet it still held that edge of command. He needed me to comply, but there was something else—something more intimate in the way he spoke, a need to explain, perhaps to confess.

“Now you trust me?” The words slipped out before I could stop them, tinged with bitterness. “How do you know I won’t slit your throat the moment I regain my strength?”

He paused, his gaze sharpening as he studied me. Then, with deliberate slowness, he stepped back, retrieved my dagger from the ground, and brought it to the bed, placing it beside me with careful precision.

“I heard you did more with less.” he whispered, his voice barely audible, as if confessing a secret. His eyes locked onto mine, and for a moment, the room felt too small, the air too thick. He hesitated, his breath catching before he asked,

“Snowleaf, was it?”

 

 

To be continued…

 

Chapter 24: Chapter 24

4E, 196

 

Rain had not been expected that day. Yet, as if the heavens themselves mourned, a steady downpour blanketed Alinor in a shroud of melancholy. The usually bustling streets, alive with the graceful movements of the Altmer, were now subdued, muted by the somber weight of the day. High Instructor Serille believed that even the skies wept for the loss of Clamcora's finest.

Ondolemar stood among the gathered crowd, their presence mandated by duty, their faces impassive beneath the relentless rain. Each droplet that struck his skin despite the umbrella in his hand felt like a reminder of the tragedy that had brought them all here. His robes, heavy with moisture, clung to his form, a physical manifestation of the burden he now carried.

The ceremony unfolded with a chilling formality, a stark contrast to the chaotic force that had claimed so many lives. The caskets, painted in deep navy blue and gold, were lined up along the edge of the cliff, overlooking the stormy expanse of the Abecean Sea. Each one was a hollow vessel, symbolic of those lost, their remains scattered between magic and reality—reduced to ash by the catastrophic explosion.

"An anomaly of magic." Flean murmured, his voice barely audible above the sound of the rain. He leaned back against a stone wall, trying to shield himself from the cold, biting rain, his shoulders hunched as if the very weight of the world rested upon them.

Ondolemar's gaze flicked toward Flean, then back to the caskets, his expression tightening as the gravity of the situation settled deeper into his bones. He felt a strange hollowness in his chest, an emptiness that the rain could not wash away.

"It was an explosion so immense that even Falkreath felt its tremors." Tolmyn added, her voice edged with a mix of awe and fear. She stood stiffly, her fair hair plastered to her face by the rain, her usually pristine demeanor marred by the weather and the weight of her words.

Ondolemar sighed, a slow exhalation that mingled with the rain. "Don't exaggerate, Tolmyn." he replied, though his tone lacked conviction.

"I'm not!" Tolmyn retorted, her voice carrying a hint of desperation as if clinging to any explanation that could make sense of the senseless. Her eyes, like so many others, were drawn to the row of caskets, as she added, "The officers of the Embassy told us."

Flean nodded solemnly, his gaze distant as he pointed with his chin toward the caskets. "All of them," he said softly, "along with High Instructor Alhonir. That explosion didn't just take their lives, they say that it shattered them."

Ondolemar's eyes lingered on the caskets, empty yet heavy with the collective grief of the Thalmor. The ceremony, with all its grandeur and formality, felt like a farce, a public display of mourning meant to distract from the truth—a truth that lay buried under layers of secrecy and guilt.

The Thalmor were not just mourning the dead, they were mourning their own mistakes.

"Did you know any of them?" Tolmyn's voice broke the silence, her tone curious as she looked up at Ondolemar, her eyes wide with a mix of intrigue and disbelief.

"I heard Snowleaf was among them." Flean added, the name slipping from his lips like a secret.

"Snowleaf?" Tolmyn's voice faltered, her expression darkening as the weight of the name settled in. "What a waste!" she whined, the words tinged with genuine regret.

The name was unknown to Ondolemar, yet his mind wondered what a mere student had done to earn a name so early on. He crossed his arms, his gaze fixed on the line of caskets below, each one a silent testament to the lives lost. "Who?"

"The pride of the Four Towers," Flean interjected, his voice flat, almost indifferent. "At least, that's what Alhonir always said about her." He shrugged, pushing himself away from the wall he had been leaning against. "It's starting."

With a shared glance, the three High Officers of the Crystal Tower descended the steps to the theater, their boots splashing in the puddles that had formed on the rain-soaked ground. The wooden platform creaked under their weight, a stark contrast to the soft, rhythmic patter of the rain.

High Justiciar Marlence stood at the microphone, his presence commanding and beside him, Elenwen, ever the stoic, stood with her chin held high, her sharp gaze sweeping over the gathered crowd. A few Instructors from Clamcora stood near them, their faces painted with glistening tears that Ondolemar suspected were as artificial as the ceremony itself. To him, the entire scene reeked of theatrics. The Thalmor were masters of manipulation, and this funeral, staged under the relentless rain, was yet another display of their penchant for spectacle. 

He had seen the likes of this Snowleaf come and go, their lives spent in service to the Thalmor's relentless pursuit of power, only to be discarded when they were no longer useful.

As he stood there, watching the ceremony unfold, a sudden tightness gripped his throat. He reached up, fingers tugging at the collar of his uniform, trying to ease the constriction. 

Many soldiers, like Snowleaf, had been consumed by the Thalmor's ambitions. And many more, like himself, were still trapped, serving a cause that demanded everything but gave nothing in return.

"Esteemed colleagues, honored guests, and distinguished members of the Aldmeri Dominion,

Today, we gather to honor and remember the courageous individuals who tragically lost their lives in the recent event. 

Our hearts are heavy as we reflect on the profound loss that has befallen us, and we stand united in our grief and in our resolve..."

Ondolemar's gaze swept once more over the caskets as the speech began, their stark navy blue and gold insignia glistening under the relentless rain. The scene was somber, with each casket symbolizing not just a life lost but a promise unfulfilled. He studied the delicate gold lettering on the tablets before each coffin. The names, inscribed in honor, stood out against the deep blue of the Thalmor insignia:

Brellin.

Fara.

Elamoril.

A jolt of recognition hit Ondolemar as he saw the name of the red-headed Bosmer with an almost perfect plan to escape.

"Niolenyl. That's her!" Tolmyn's voice cut through his reverie as she grasped his arm, drawing his attention to the coffin at the far end.

Niolenyl.

Nio as the other called her. The imperfection of his plan. 

A pang of sorrow gripped Ondolemar as he absorbed the weight of the moment. He remembered the snow haired forest girl he had saved at Karthspire. The one who had convinced the red-head to go back and himself to spare them with a promise. A promise that he kept. And now, she was a part of this somber tableau, symbolically awaiting her reunion with the souls in Aetherius.

A sorrowful smirk tugged at his lips as he turned to Tolmyn. "She is the Snowleaf you're talking about?"

"She is! Was!" Tolmyn exhaled, her gaze still fixed on the distant coffin. "If I had the chance, I would have appointed her to Anequina where I'll be transferred! Incredible control over the blade, though even more menacing with bare hands."

Ondolemar recalled their fight with the Forsworn. Back then, she had been a mere student on a useless duty, and her fierceness had been almost reckless. Clearly, she had changed, molded by her experiences.

"Wasn't she the one they sent after some Blades hiding in The Rift?" Flean asked, crossing his arms and watching as the coffins were set ablaze, one by one.

"Thalira swears it was a sight to behold!" Tolmyn's eyes sparkled with a mix of admiration and nostalgia. "Clean cuts! And a lot of blood."

Ondolemar's jaw tightened at the recollection. He shifted uncomfortably and with a gentle but firm motion, he pulled his shoulder from Tolmyn's overly enthusiastic grasp.

"Let's go. It's done," His voice tinged with finality as he turned away from the burning caskets.

"You still haven't told us where you'll be transferred next year." Tolmyn complained, her tone a mix of curiosity and annoyance as she and Flean followed Ondolemar up the stairs.

"Better not be Hammerfell," Flean added with a grumble. "It's all dust and sand over there!"

Ondolemar cut him off with a dismissive wave, murmuring his response with a quiet but resolute tone.

"Skyrim."

 

 

To be continued...

 

Chapter 25: Chapter 25

My heart clenched at the name, a wave of nostalgia crashing over me.

Snowleaf.

I missed her dearly. The naive girl I once was, the innocence I had lost so long ago. My gaze lifted to his eyes, and for the first time, I saw it clearly-the solemn regret buried deep within the gold.

"I thought you died in The Catastrophe of Four Towers, thats what we were told. Seeing you again, I-" he sighed as he trailed off.

The Catastrophe?

"Drink." he urged again, his voice softer now, almost pleading. His eyes held mine, a silent understanding passing between us, and in that moment, the lines between captor and captive blurred.

I could feel the sickness building in me, the known sensation of the potion's grip loosening. The nausea rose, and I knew it wouldn't be long before my body rejected it entirely, purging it from my system. If only the captives beneath Clamcora had known this small, bitter solace. To just tell the truth.

Instead of accepting the bottle, I chose to let it all out, leaning on my knees onto the rich wood floor beneath me. The room spun around as I expelled the contents of my stomach, my breath ragged and uneven. Ondolemar stirred beside me, vanishing and reappearing with a plush towel. He handed it to me with a wordless gesture, allowing me to clean my face.

As I sat there, trying to regain my strength, the sight of the mess around me made my frustration grow. Suddenly, without warning, I was lifted effortlessly, my arms straining against the unexpected weight while my legs felt like lead, dangling uselessly.

"Let me go." I demanded, my voice barely more than a whisper, but he remained steadfast, his determination cold and unyielding.

Ondolemar opened a door to reveal a bathroom that was the epitome of grandeur. The floor was covered in polished marble tiles, streaked with gold and subtle veins of grey, creating an intricate pattern that sparkled faintly in the soft light. The walls were adorned with elegant mosaics, and in the center stood a grand bathtub, carved from pure white marble and edged with intricate, gilded trim.

He gently placed me into the tub, the cool water lapping around me providing a momentary respite from my dizziness. As his hands moved to unbuckle the shoulder piece of my armor, I mustered every ounce of strength I had left, forcing myself to stand straight despite the spinning world around me.

"Just leave." I pleaded, "Please." my voice trembling with a mix of exhaustion and desperation.

With just a slight brush of his cold fingers against my bruised cheek, he rose and left, leaving me in a sudden silence that felt unbearably heavy.

I tried to lift myself from the tub, but my legs were as numb as they had been moments ago. Not taking the antidote when I had the chance made me curse under my breath. I reached for the edge, pulling myself upright and leaning my back against it. With slow, deliberate movements, I began shedding the pieces of my armor, laying them outside the tub only to keep my tunic on. The idea of being fully naked in his house made me uneasy, especially with the door unlocked.

My head throbbed, the side effects wreaking havoc on my mind. My thoughts felt sluggish, as though they were too heavy to hold onto, but the clouds obscuring my judgment were beginning to clear. With a flick of my finger, I pulled the lever next to the tub, setting the ancient Dwemer machinery into motion with a quiet crack as the tub slowly began to fill with warm water.

Amon's silent warning echoed in my ears, his gaze before he leaped out the balcony lingering in my mind. His warning not to trust him.

If I had only listened...

I could feel life slowly returning to my muscles as the warm water washed away the numbness and remnants of sickness. Yet, the pain in my head remained, stubborn and unyielding. I leaned my head back gently, closing my eyes in a futile attempt to escape it.

Why am I here?

The question lingered unanswered.

Worse still, I didn't know where to run.

As I began to drift toward slumber, the voices returned, this time more insistent. The fear that gripped me was far more intense than before. Hearing them again made the terror feel more real.

The cacophony of voices that had echoed through the bathhouse haunted me once more, this time shorter in duration but more overwhelming. My eyes flew open, meeting the dim moonlight that filtered through the window, mingling with the cold night air.

Desperation clawed at me as I reached for my magic, unsure if I had the strength to wield it in my current state. Still, I had to try, the darkness seemed to suffocate me.

With a determined pull, I summoned the warmth that the water had enveloped me in. I focused on the rising heat as it fought against the remnants of cold that clung to me.

A few of the candles around the bathroom flickered to life, their soft flames offering a fragile solace from the oppressive darkness. The light seemed to push back against the shadows, granting me a brief respite.

With a silent sigh, I leaned back once more, my eyes and ears scanning the room for any sign of disturbance. Silence was all I had now-silence that I hoped would bring a dreamless sleep.

 

 

---

 

 

The rhythmic drip of water roused me from a fragile slumber. As I straightened my posture, a dull ache pulsed in my limbs, the last vestiges of numbness slowly ebbing away. But a sharp, stabbing pain at my temple reminded me that I was far from healed.

I blinked, my vision adjusting to the golden light seeping into the room, casting a warm glow over the marble. The tub, once overflowing with warmth, was now filled to the brim with cool water, droplets cascading down its sides, splashing onto the stone floor with a hollow echo.

A sigh escaped my lips, trembling as it left me. My fingers brushed against my temples, rubbing in small circles, as if I could soothe the pain away with sheer will. My body felt heavy, like a leaden weight that resisted every movement. Still, I forced myself to rise from the water, the cold air biting at my damp skin, raising goosebumps in its wake.

I made my way to the mirror, each step a small battle, the wet marble chilling the soles of my feet. My eyes roamed over the image before me, my battered figure that had once been strong, now marred by bruises and fatigue. The bruise on my cheek, though fading, was still a stark reminder of recent violence. My gaze traveled to my neck, where the scar, once vivid and angry, had softened, healing with time, but never truly disappearing.

I inhaled a shaky breath, feeling the tightness in my chest, the weight of all I had endured pressing down on me. I, Silencer of the Brotherhood, Ashenblade, was just one woman beneath it all.

But as I stared into the ashen eyes in the mirror, I saw more than just pain. I saw resilience, a flicker of defiance that refused to be extinguished. Not a mere survivor but a fierce spirit, scarred but unbroken.

Each day I lived, I vowed to honor that and never pity the woman in the mirror.

My gaze swept the room, searching for my gear, only to find it absent. A surge of relief washed over me-at least I hadn't undressed completely. But the wet tunic clung to my skin, its cold, clammy touch leeching warmth from my body with every passing second. Shivering, I slipped out of it, the fabric peeling away like a second skin. My eyes darted around, desperate for something to cover myself with, and I spotted dark towels hanging near the sink.

I grabbed one, wrapping it tightly around my body, the rough texture scratching against my skin as I dried myself off. The act brought a fleeting sense of cleanliness, a small comfort in the wake of the night's horrors.

My hand hesitated on the doorknob, a shudder running through me as I stilled.

Where am I going?

The numbness was gone, and the haze that clouded my mind had lifted, yet the thought of stepping out of this bathroom, of facing him again, filled me with a sickening dread.

I took a step back, instinctively retreating, as if the very idea of leaving was an affront to my survival. My gaze flicked to the window-could I escape through it? But the sight of the abyss below reminded me where I was. Ondolemar's house perched high on the stone stairs of Markarth, nearly as elevated as the Dibella temple. There would be no escape through windows or balconies.

I have to walk right out.

I exhaled a determined breath, steeling myself as I reached for the door again. The moment I cracked it open, the scent hit me-coffee, faint but unmistakable, drifting through the air. My stomach churned at the memory of last night, the bitter tang of fear mixing with the scent, and I wasn't sure I could ever stomach it again.

I moved cautiously, my bare feet barely making a sound as I navigated through the living room, eyes scanning for any sign of movement. My gaze caught on the hearth, then the balcony door, and finally, the room he had dragged me into. The house was silent, almost eerily so.

Seizing the moment, I slipped through the living room, gliding across the cold stone floor, my breath held tight in my chest. I slid into the room, my heart pounding as I listened for any sound, any hint that he might still be here.

My leather armor, pristine and polished-curiously so-was laid out neatly on the bed, alongside my boots and gloves. A frown creased my brow.

He placed these here?

My eyes darted around, searching for my dagger, but it was nowhere to be found. My sword remained in place, but my dagger was missing. A wave of frustration gnawed at me, but I forced it down. I couldn't afford to dwell on it, I just needed to leave.

I slipped into my gear, lacing my boots and gloves with hurried fingers. My damp hair clung to my neck, its length heavy and suffocating, each strand a reminder of the vulnerability I couldn't shake.

When I finally stood, I grabbed my bag, not bothering to check its contents. My only thought was escape. Securing my mantle around my shoulders, I tugged the hood up softly, the fabric shielding me as I walked down the entrance hall. The sound of my own footsteps echoed in my ears, a hollow rhythm that matched the frantic beating of my heart.

Then came the creak-a silent, almost imperceptible sound that made me freeze. The door in front of me opened, and Ondolemar's tall figure loomed in the doorway, his silhouette dark against the light streaming in from behind him.

"Leaving?" His voice was smooth, as if nothing had transpired, as if he hadn't tormented me the night before. He stepped inside, closing the door with a quiet finality, his gaze trailing up and down my armor, scrutinizing every detail.

I knew I owed him no more answers. Steeling myself, I took a step forward, closing the distance between us, though my eyes remained locked on the door, my escape.

"We haven't had the time to discuss." he whispered as I neared the door. His words slid under my skin like cold steel, and I glanced up at him, a flash of anger breaking through the fog of my thoughts.

"Good luck to you." I murmured, my voice barely more than a breath as I turned my gaze forward, hand reaching for the handle.

His hand moved to intercept mine, but I was quicker, fingers tightening around the hilt of my sword.

Yet he didn't flinch, his hand settling over mine with a warmth that felt like a mockery of the torment he had inflicted.

"Nio." The sound of my name on his lips was a cold dagger, and I felt myself still under the weight of his palm, my breath catching in my throat.

"At least, let me make it up to you." His voice was soft, almost tender, as if he believed his touch could erase it all. His grip tightened, sliding my hand away from the handle as if he had any right to control me. I yanked my hand away from his grasp, the revulsion like a wave crashing over me.

He can't call me that.

"That's your name, isn't it? That's what he called you-"

My eyes shot up to meet his, a blaze of fury igniting in my chest. My fingers tightened around the hilt of my sword, the urge to draw it rising with every beat of my heart. "Don't you fucking dare."

He lifted his hands, and only then did I notice the bags he was holding. With a heavy exhale, he began, "Just a dinner, if you please. And nothing more, I promise."

"You promise?" I scoffed, a bitter laugh escaping me as my hand tightened around the door handle.

"I promise," he repeated, stepping forward, his movement slow and deliberate as he placed the bags on the floor. His hand reached up, and I flinched as the back of his fingers brushed against my bruised cheek,

"I promise, I will pay the price of truth."

I turned my face away, the sudden display of affection clashing violently with the memories of last night.

I have so many questions.

"Please." His breath was warm against my mantle, but his voice was so close, it felt like it was right by my ear, sending a shiver down my spine. "Let me."

My grip on the hilt of my sword loosened, my resolve wavering for just a moment. I forced myself to let the moment pass and I pulled the door open, leaving him standing there, his hand still in the air. I moved swiftly, my feet carrying me down the stairs with a speed driven by the need to escape, even if just for a little while.

My steps carried me down to the bridge, suspended above the river that flowed relentlessly below. The air felt thick, almost suffocating, each breath a struggle as if the very atmosphere had turned solid. I fought back the frantic beating of my heart, the erratic rhythm echoing in my ears. The cause of my distress eluded me, a nameless dread coiling within my chest.

Last night felt like a sick joke-a cruel jest aimed at my very existence. Me, after a thousand souls taken, reduced to this?

I had been tricked, and worse, I had willingly walked into it. I had asked for the poison he offered, disregarding every rule, every instinct that should have warned me not to drink from a stranger's hand.

He isn't a stranger.

Yet, he was. Choosing to be one, as he had acted as if he didn't know me at all, as if I were just another faceless entity, a Thalmor-a role I had long since abandoned. Why, after the news of my death, did he still cling to that belief?

The question echoed in my mind, one of many that haunted me.

I stood on the bridge, beneath the shadow of another above, for what felt like an eternity, the weight of my thoughts pressing down on me. The water below rushed on, uncaring, relentless, while I remained frozen in place.

I didn't want to go to dinner. I didn't want to see him again. But I had questions to ask, and I had a contract that I owed.

What had I lost, really? A fair piece of my dignity, and my dagger-nothing more. Or so I told myself as I finally pushed away from the bridge and made my way toward the stables, each step heavier than the last.

I knew, beneath the surface of my thoughts, that it was merely an excuse. The sudden, intrusive questions were a desperate attempt to mask the profound unease that churned within me. It was the same unsettling sensation that had made me feel ill all over again.

The truth was that his presence stirred a deep-seated nostalgia. He was the only one who had ever truly remembered Elamoril, who had witnessed his essence. Unlike the others I had spoken of, who dismissed him as a faceless ghost from a distant past, his recognition was a rare, precious comfort that I clung to with a bittersweet intensity.

My brows furrowed as I scanned my surroundings before mounting Shadowmere. He had called Elamoril a fool, and even that derisive comment felt like a tender gesture. The smallest hint of acknowledgment was enough to unravel my heart into a cascade of fragmented stars.

He was a fool, yes, but he was my fool.

I took the route toward the dense pine forests on the eastern side, the cold wind stinging my face as I rode. A solitary tear welled up in my eye, and the gusts whisked it away before it could fall. The dying daylight struggled to pierce the thick canopy of the trees, casting eerie shadows around me.

I knew he would come.

The shadows deepened as the darkness enveloped me. I guided Shadowmere to a halt, where the soft thud of her hooves on the snow provided a small comfort amidst my growing tension. The evening air was crisp, carrying the faintest hint of frost.

He will come.

The distant sound of hooves reached my ears, and I braced myself. As I lowered my hood and scanned the darkness, a dark figure emerged from the gloom. Amon rode toward me with the fluid grace of a predator, his steed moving silently through the snow.

He stopped beside Shadowmere, and our eyes met his mismatched gaze searching mine.

"Is it too late to say I told you so?" Amon's smirk was both familiar and irritating, his tone carrying a trace of his usual nonchalance.

"Did you know?" I asked sharply, my frustration evident.

"Tears?" Amon shrugged nonchalantly. "I could smell it."

I leaned closer, our steeds almost touching, the warmth of his leg brushing against mine. "And you chose not to tell me."

"I told you not to trust him."

Another game.

I could feel the cold anger simmering inside me, coiling like a serpent ready to strike. My mind churned with icy resolve as I stared at Amon, his presence both infuriating and hauntingly familiar. I needed him to understand, to feel the depth of my anguish, and to realize that his games were no longer amusing.

Without a word, I turned my attention to the towering pine trees around us. My magic reached out, and the water within the green needles began to shimmer and harden, transforming them into countless razor-sharp ice shards. It was a silent, almost imperceptible transformation; a delicate frost forming on the needles before they turned into deadly projectiles. Unnoticed by Amon as he leaned closer, his gaze fixed on my cheek, filled with a mixture of concern and anger. "He hurt you?" he asked, his voice tinged with a dark intensity.

The pine needles, once soft and pliable, now glistened with a deadly edge behind him and with a determined wave of my hand, I sent them hurtling towards him.

The shards struck Amon's back with a stinging impact, each needle-like fragment piercing through his clothing and embedding itself in his flesh. Though small, the shards were numerous, a relentless swarm of icy needles that punctured his skin in rapid succession. Each impact forced a burst of blood to seep from the tiny puncture wounds, staining his dark clothing with vivid crimson droplets.

Amon's body jerked in response to the sudden assault. The shards, though individually minor, combined to create an unbearable, maddening staccato of pain. His dark steed, startled by the sudden, violent disruption, reared up in a panicked frenzy, causing Amon to lose his balance and be violently thrown from his mount.

He tumbled through the air, his form crashing down onto the snow-covered ground with a heavy thud. The fall was jarring, driving him face-first into the cold, white surface. The shards embedded in his back were driven deeper by the force of the fall, amplifying the sharp, biting pain. Blood mingled with snow, creating a grotesque, crimson-streaked landscape around him.

"What in the Harbor was that?" he spat out, his voice a mixture of anger and confusion as he scrambled to his feet. He grunted and swore under his breath, his frustration palpable in the harsh lines of his face.

Indifference washed over me as I watched him. He would heal from this by tomorrow, and likely offer a new and fresh start, but the reason for his clinginess remained elusive and unsettling.

"Get back to the Sanctuary after your contract is done." I ordered, turning Shadowmere back towards the stone city.

The ice around the pine needles silently melted away as I began to ride off, leaving Amon behind.

I heard his frustrated cough before he called out, "I get what I want, Nio." He exhaled heavily, his voice edged with a dark certainty.

"I always do."

 

To be continued...

 

Chapter 26: Chapter 26

"Tell me about The Catastrophe." My voice was sharp, commanding, slicing through the air with a tone that left no room for hesitation. The unspoken message was clear: nothing else mattered.

Ondolemar leaned back in his chair, his gaze dropping to the meal laid out before us. The table was a feast of excess, every dish meticulously prepared, yet there was an emptiness to it—a lack of life, of green.

"Let's not spoil our dinner with such—"

"Tell me." I interrupted, my voice firmer, more insistent. I took a deliberate bite of the rabbit leg, savoring the rich, gamey taste as I waved it casually in his direction. My gods, it was delicious.

 

He sighed, a soft sound of resignation, as he took up his knife and fork. His movements were slow, deliberate, as though stalling for time. He sliced into his steak with precision, eyes flicking up to meet mine briefly. “I was informed of it during my time at the Crystal Tower,” he began, his voice lowering as if the very mention of that place pulled at old, buried memories. “An unexpected weave of magic that tore everything apart.” His eyes lingered on me just a fraction longer than necessary, a hint of something darker beneath the surface.

I leaned forward slightly, the corners of my lips twitching into a faint smirk. "An unexpected weave of magic?" I echoed, tilting my head just enough to suggest curiosity, even as my gaze bore into him, unyielding.

With a subtle roll of his eyes, Ondolemar set down his chalice, the movement slow, almost deliberate, as though contemplating his next move in this unspoken game. "They typically adjust the levels of power, the magic that lies beyond the forest—within the trial grounds."

"The trial grounds." I repeated internally. 

More like a slaughter house.

"They told us the adjustments were off," he continued, his voice softening as he leaned in, almost conspiratorially. "The intensity of the magic was too great, leading to an explosion that consumed the place... and everyone within it. The students, the instructors—everyone, with you."

The rabbit leg in my hand suddenly felt cold, lifeless. I let it drop onto the plate, the sound faint but heavy in the silence that followed.

That's what they told everyone?

His eyes traced the movement, then lifted back to mine, a glimmer of something unreadable in their depths.

He leaned back slightly, the tension coiled tight between us, but I remained still, poised, my fingers lingering near my untouched chalice.

"You know, the Jagga wine is exceptional tonight." he remarked, his tone smooth, almost teasing as his gaze dipped to my untouched chalice.

My widened stare took in his curiosity as he reached for his chalice once more, refraining from asking me what really happened that day. It was as if he was suppressing the urge, holding back questions that lingered just beneath the surface. After the forceful truths he had wrested from me, was he attempting to be... considerate?

I mirrored his motion, reaching for my own chalice. The rich aroma of Jagga filled my nostrils, and for a fleeting moment, it transported me back to a different time, a different place—home. A flash of green surged into my memory, quickly replaced by a familiar, haunting red.

"You want to replace Elenwen as the Ambassador of Skyrim, don't you?" I asked, my voice cutting through the tension like a blade.

His reaction was telling. The chalice paused midair, his fingers tightening around it before he carefully set it back on the table. The brief flicker of surprise in his eyes didn't go unnoticed.

"Correct." He licked his lips before taking another sip, his demeanor cool but deliberate. "With that, we can at least do something to prevent this Civil War."

I arched an eyebrow, skepticism lacing my tone. "The war has already begun."

"And Elenwen will make sure it lasts," he responded smoothly, almost too smoothly, as if stating an obvious truth. His tone carried a weight that suggested this was something everyone should already understand.

The Thalmor thrived on chaos—of that, I was certain. A land engulfed in Civil War, besieged by dragons, was a land that served their interests well. But Ondolemar... Could he genuinely be different? 

"You would end it?" I shrugged as I posed the question, my gaze sharpening, testing the sincerity in his voice.

"War never ends, Nio." His voice softened as he said my name, and I found it suddenly difficult to hold his gaze. There was something disconcerting about the way he spoke it, something that made my resolve falter for a heartbeat. "But we can at least try to do something to end the suffering it causes."

His words left a trail of confusion in my mind, a puzzle that didn't quite fit with what I knew of him. Was this genuine? Or another layer to the game he was playing?

His gaze remained locked on mine, challenging and enigmatic, as if daring me to believe in the possibility of his intentions. My brow furrowed slightly, the conflict between my instinct and his words waging a silent war within me.

"With me in the Embassy, I can protect the Blades. At least, what is left of them."

"The Blades are history," I shot back, reaching for a cheese wedge, biting into it with a sense of finality.

"So says the Thalmor," he countered, his voice tinged with frustration as it lowered to almost a whisper. "There are still a few out there, ones the Thalmor haven't gotten their hands on."

I paused mid-chew, his words unsettling something within me. I continued, but at a slower, more deliberate pace, as if I could dissect his intentions along with the food.

"As the Ambassador, I can let people believe whatever they want to believe in."  he added, his voice calm but carrying an undercurrent of conviction.

I swallowed the cheese, my gaze sharpening as I looked up at him. "You? You would just overlook the White-Gold Concordat?"

"I can at least try to loosen their grip on this land!" he finally spat out, his fist slamming down on the table, rattling the silverware.

For a brief moment, I felt a pang of pity for him. His resolve was strong, but beneath it, I sensed a fragility—a belief in the preventability of this war and the restoration of Talos worship that seemed almost naive to me. Yet, with the power of the Ambassador's title and perhaps the Brotherhood's influence behind him, he might have a chance, however slim.

His clenched fist, the tension in his posture, the desperation in his voice—it all painted a picture of a man on the edge, grappling with the weight of ideals that felt more like illusions. Despite my reservations, a part of me wondered if there was merit in his ambition, or if it was merely the desperate grasp of a man trying to reshape a world slipping through his fingers.

His gaze bore into mine, seeking something—validation, perhaps, or an acknowledgment of the futility of his quest.

Could Ondolemar, of all people, truly make a difference? Or was this just another layer of the intricate game we were both caught up in?

"What do you want from the Brotherhood, other than Elenwen's murder?" I narrowed my eyes, my tongue trailing along my lip as I tasted the tension in the air.

"Help me rid this land from the grasp of Thalmor, to cleanse it." he replied, his voice carrying a weight that hung between us.

I leaned back in my chair, a silent smirk curling through my lips. "You truly despise them, don't you?"

"More than words can convey." he growled, his voice deepening, each word striking a chord within me.

Another one, just like Elamoril and I, fueled by hatred. Another who sought vengeance on his own way.

Though he was an Altmer and a Justiciar with all the privileges that came with those titles, Ondolemar seemed to harbor the same burning resentment toward the Thalmor. It was almost startling, seeing that bitterness in someone who had risen so high within their ranks.

"Why?" I pressed, my curiosity mingling with something else—a darker, more personal interest.

His golden eyes shot up from his plate, and he carefully placed his fork down, tapping his mouth with a napkin as if trying to maintain his composure. "This does not—"

"The price of the truth, love." I interrupted, letting his accent slip into my words, savoring the way it felt on my tongue.

His gaze flickered, a momentary flash of something vulnerable before it was quickly masked. He hesitated, clearly torn between the impulse to guard his secrets and the need to confide in someone who might understand, even just a little. His lips parted as if to speak, but he paused, his eyes narrowing slightly as if weighing his options. Then, with a resigned sigh, he leaned forward, his tone dropping to something almost intimate, "Because they took everything I ever believed in and twisted it into something unrecognizable."

His confession, barely above a whisper, hung in the air like a fragile thread, connecting us in a shared understanding of loss, betrayal, and the thirst for vengeance. For a moment, our roles blurred, interrogator and captive, enemy and ally, leaving us both uncertain of the game we were playing.

His shoulders straightened, but there was a tension in his posture that hadn't been there before. "I know what it feels like." he finally said, his voice carrying a quiet weight.

It was all he could manage before a cough shattered the silence, his hand trembling as it reached for his chalice, grasping it as if it could somehow anchor him. He took a sip, his fingers instinctively brushing against his neck, the motion almost desperate, as if some unseen force was tightening around his throat. "I know how they can be." he added, but his voice faltered, the words emerging strangled, choked by memories he hadn't yet dared to reveal.

Compared to what they had put us through, what they had inflicted upon innocents, his suffering was nothing. He had likely never been beaten, never punished for a misstep in training. Instead, he was probably rewarded for his good work—a reward, at Clamcora, usually meant another task, more gruesome than the last.

"You don't know a thing." I hissed, leaning forward across the table, the anger seething in my chest. "Up in your tower, in those fancy Isles, you have no idea what they're truly capable of. What they can do."

The bitterness of my words clung to the air between us, thick and suffocating. I bit my tongue to keep myself from saying more, but the damage was done. I could see it in the way his eyes narrowed, a glint of something—curiosity, maybe, or suspicion—sparkling within them. He was watching me closely, too closely, but still, he refrained from asking the questions I knew were burning in his mind.

I couldn't tell him the reality of what had happened. I didn't even fully understand it myself. The memories  of the trial were fractured, pieces of it sharp and painful, others obscured by the haze of survival. I was haunted by it, by the sheer, raw terror of it. And I was terrified that if I tried to put it into words, it would consume me all over again.

But Ondolemar didn't press. He just watched me, his gaze heavy with a knowing that made me uneasy. He might not know the details, but he recognized the scars—maybe because he had his own.

For a moment, the walls closed in on us as we both grappled with the ghosts of our pasts. And despite myself, I felt a pang of something that wasn't quite pity, wasn't quite sympathy. It was something else, something darker and more complicated, something that made me feel like we were two sides of the same coin.

Though I relished prying answers from him, his presence sent an unsettling current through me. The calm, friendly warmth in his eyes was a stark contrast to the fierce blaze they held the night before.

A subtle tension tightened in my body, my thighs pressing together as if to anchor myself, while I straightened my posture. My gaze dropped to the chalice in my hand, seeking distraction in the rich aroma of the wine.

"I am sorry, Niolenyl." His voice, now a deep and solemn note, cut through the silence and drew my attention back to him. "For your loss. I know he meant everything to you."

His words struck like a blade, slicing through the fragile walls I had built around my grief. My heart felt as though it were dissolving, melting away under the searing weight of memories I had buried deep.

No one had ever said those words to me. Not like this.

Ondolemar's eyes held only warmth, a quiet understanding. He had seen the love in my eyes when I was begging Elamoril to stop the madness he was about to unleash that day, he had witnessed my whispered promises that I would find a way, as long as he was with me.

But he wasn't with me.

My gaze faltered, lowering once more to the chalice, my heart heavy with the suffocating truth that no amount of time or distance could heal. I would never truly recover from this.

"He would want you to—"

"Thank you, Ondolemar." I cut him off, forcing the words out, my eyes meeting his with a vulnerability I rarely allowed myself to show. The tears that threatened to spill were held back, but the moisture still glistened at the corners, betraying my internal struggle.

He had seen me and made me cry the night before, had seen the rawness of my pain, yet now his jaw clenched at the sight of those unshed tears. There was a different light in his eyes—perhaps regret, perhaps something more.

"Dinner has been lovely." I added, my voice tight as I averted my gaze, focusing on the napkin that I used to blot away the remnants of emotion. I slowly pushed back my chair and rose to my feet, my movements deliberate, controlled.

"When will I see you again?" His words, softer now, carried a weight that lingered in the air, as he rose too, a question that held far more than it revealed.

"I'll come to collect after Elenwen is dealt with." I replied, my voice steady despite the storm that brewed beneath the surface. The tension between us crackled, refusing to dissipate, like a fire waiting to ignite.

Turning away, I walked with measured steps, though my mind was anything but calm. I could feel his eyes on me, their gaze heavy, as if searching for answers in the silence I left behind.

"Perhaps I can help you," his voice cut through the air, his footsteps echoing behind me.

I halted, my fists clenching with unease at the unexpected offer. A thousand souls meant a thousand contracts. A thousand hidden murderers who had made their plea heard by the Night Mother, performing the sacrament. Yet no one, until now, had ever offered to help an assassin with their contract.

I spun on my heel, my voice laced with frustration and curiosity. "How could you possibly help me? Will you let me in on her bedroom?"

"If you're asking if I slept with her, the answer is no." He chuckled softly, shaking his head. "But technically, yes. I can get you into the Embassy at least."

"The Embassy? How?" I questioned, crossing my arms. He tilted his head, a faint smile playing on his lips.

"We can discuss the details over coffee." he offered, his tone inviting, though I was perfectly capable of opening doors without keys.

My gaze swept the room, searching for my lost dagger, the one I carried around my thigh. Leaving it behind the other day had weighed heavily on me, but I couldn't catch a glimpse of it anywhere in the living room.

"Are you looking for this?" His calm voice came from across the room. I turned, and my eyes caught the glint of something dark and ominous in his hand. His hand was raised, holding a black leather strap with my dagger hanging from it. But this dagger was different, transformed—more.. delicate in its appearance.

The hilt, once vulgar in its simplicity, now bore a single, stormy ruby embedded within it, the gemstone swirling with deep crimson and shadow, like a brewing tempest. Surrounding the ruby were shards of obsidian, their jagged edges catching the dim light, not in a shine, but with a muted, dangerous glimmer—like distant lightning flickering within dark clouds. The sheath was adorned with more of these stormy crystals, each ruby and obsidian piece uneven and raw, as though ripped from the heart of a maelstrom. The blade itself shimmered faintly, not with the brilliance of polished steel, but with a subdued, almost ethereal glow, as if it had been forged from the very darkness that filled the room.

My eyes widened at the faint, almost ominous shimmer on the blade. As Ondolemar took measured steps toward me, my gaze was drawn from the blade to him. His presence seemed to fill the room, a silent satisfaction flickering in his eyes as he lifted the weapon between us, his gaze dropping to it with an intensity that sent a ripple through me.

"May I?" His voice was smooth, yet it carried a weight that settled in the air between us.

I froze, the question reverberating in my mind. My heart pounded against my ribs, each thud a sharp reminder of the tension crackling between us. There was no need to nod or grant approval; he had already crossed an unseen line when he dared to snap it from my thigh.

As the silence stretched between us, it felt like the very air was thickening, each moment passing like a noose tightening around my neck. The chance of refusing him dwindled, leaving me with nothing but the inevitability of his actions. He knelt before me, his movements deliberate, his presence commanding.

His fingers brushed against my skin, the touch searing through the thin barrier of my clothing, leaving a trail of heat that ignited my senses. My breath caught in my throat as he began to secure the strap around my thigh, the leather pressing into my flesh with a firmness that bordered on possessiveness. His gaze lifted to meet mine, the gold in his eyes burning with an intensity that was both unnerving and irresistible, nearly eclipsed by the stormy rubies embedded in the blade.

I could feel my breath hitching, a subtle betrayal of the emotions swirling within me. My gaze was locked on his hands, his slender fingers that laced the leather with a familiarity that spoke of years of practice—years spent learning the art of control, of dominance. After all, the technique was a rope tie used by the Thalmor, a reminder of the world we both inhabited—a world where trust was a luxury neither of us could afford.

As he slid his hand from my thigh, the absence of his touch was almost as profound as the touch itself. The blade, now secured against my skin, seemed to darken as it disappeared beneath the folds of my skirt, a shadow lurking just out of sight. He rose to his feet with a slow, deliberate grace, his eyes never leaving mine. They held me captive, relentless in their pursuit of something unspoken, something I wasn't sure I was ready to face.

"Will you ever forgive me?" His voice was soft, almost a whisper, yet it carried the weight of everything that had passed between us—the unspoken truths, the betrayals, the lingering pain.

His question caught me off guard, a rare query that lingered in the air like an unwelcome guest. For which part did he seek forgiveness? I wondered. For tricking me into drinking the potion? For pretending he didn't recognize me? For the sting of his hand against my cheek?

"I'll probably only forget."

The truth slipped out, raw and unfiltered, needing no potion to coax it from my lips. That's what I did—I buried every fragment of pain, every shard of the past deep within. I knew I could never fully rid myself of it, never scrub my hands clean of the blood of my victims.

I turned to face the door, the weight of his gaze heavy on my back. But before I could take a step, his hand closed around my wrist, halting me in place.

"I know." His voice softened as he took another step forward, closing the distance between us. "I was wrong about you. That, I deeply regret."

His hand lifted, fingers gently brushing against my cheek—tender where yesterday they had been harsh. His other hand still encircled my wrist, his thumb tracing soft, deliberate circles against my skin, sending an involuntary shiver down my spine.

"Stay a little longer, please."

His golden eyes searched mine, pleading beneath the dim light of the living room. The intensity in his gaze was almost unbearable, pulling at something deep within me that I wasn't sure I wanted to confront.

"You told us that day," I began, my voice edged with the bitterness that had been simmering beneath the surface since the start of our dinner, "that once they own you, they own you for life. Do they still own us?"

His eyes flickered downward, the weight of my words hitting him like a physical blow. His hand slid from my cheek as if burned, his fingers lingering on my skin for just a moment before retreating. He stepped back, a small but noticeable distance growing between us, as if the question had pushed him away.

"They may have molded us into what we are now," he finally murmured, his voice barely audible as he spoke to the floor. "After all, even the straightness of your shoulders gives away that you were once Thalmor."

I felt the familiar stiffness in my posture, a subconscious reminder of the discipline drilled into me long ago.

"The way you move," he continued, his voice gaining strength as his eyes lifted to meet mine once more, "in the shadows of the Keep, the way you stalk your prey—it all speaks of their handiwork."

His gaze locked onto mine, and for a moment, the air between us was thick with unspoken truths. They had indeed made us, shaped us into weapons, but they hadn't fully claimed our souls. Not yet.

"I will brew the coffee. Please, make yourself comfortable."

With that, he turned away, moving with a fluid grace through the hearth of the house. I lingered, caught between staying or leaving, my thoughts drifting back to the moments of our dinner. There was an ease in his company, a familiarity that I hadn't expected but had somehow slipped into. The way he refrained from asking too many questions made the evening more bearable, as though he understood the weight of silence.

With quiet, measured steps, I wandered into his living room, my gaze drawn to the rows of bookshelves that lined the walls. My fingers brushed along the spines, the smooth leather and worn fabric covers telling stories of their own. I wasn't searching for anything in particular, yet my attention was snagged by a black-covered tome with strange letters carved into its side. I pulled it from the shelf, feeling the heft of its age and importance. As I opened it, the first page revealed the script in our tongue: Dovahzul.

A dictionary?

I stared at the ancient symbols, my mind racing to place the language. Despite my best efforts to recall any lessons, the words were unfamiliar, their meanings lost to time. The pages were filled with these strange characters, translations written beneath them, but the sentences made no sense—mere fragments that failed to form a coherent whole.

As the rich aroma of coffee wafted through the air, I realized how quickly time had passed. The scent was warm and inviting, a stark contrast to the cold thoughts that still lingered in the corners of my mind.

Without a second thought, I slipped the book into my sleeve, its weight against my arm a silent souvenir of this strange evening. I followed the trail of the coffee's scent, making my way toward the partially open balcony door.

The threshold loomed before me, a place where, not long ago, I had been dragged out, poisoned, and left numb. My pulse quickened, memories flashing before my eyes, but I forced myself to step forward.

He stood by the railing, his back to me, holding a cup of coffee in one hand. The evening breeze played with his long hair, strands of silver silk dancing just above his shoulders. He didn't sit, but remained standing, his posture relaxed yet attentive, as though the night had drawn him into its quiet embrace.

The sound of my boots tapping against the floor drew his attention. He turned slightly as I approached, his gaze meeting mine for just a moment before drifting back to the horizon. I came to a stop beside him, drawn by the serene view that spread out before us. The sky was a canvas of orange and violet, the last rays of sunlight casting a golden glow over the peaks of the stone city's ruins.

His eyes flicked to the side, meeting mine with a soft, probing glare. Words hung unspoken between us, thickening the tension as we both lingered in silence. He turned on his heel, the only sound in the air being the gentle pouring of liquid. His steps grew louder as he approached again, setting a cup down on the marble railing and pushing it toward me with the tip of his fingers.

The scent, rich and unfamiliar, a fragrance from some distant land. I wrapped my fingers around the cup, lifting it with a slight tremble as hesitation gripped me. Memories of the previous night resurfaced but I forced my hand to steady, bringing the cup to my lips, the warmth spreading through me. The bitterness of the liquid hit first, quickly followed by a surprising sweetness as it slid down my throat, warming me from the inside out.

"Do you really expect me to believe that you turned against the Thalmor simply because they twisted your ideals?" My voice was sharp, cutting through the quiet. I wanted the truth, but I wasn't sure I had the patience to endure his answer.

He arched an eyebrow, his retort quick and laden with a hidden bitterness. "My ideals?" He let out a short, humorless laugh. "I wish it were only my ideals that they twisted."

His face turned back to the view, a weary look shadowing his features. The subject seemed to weigh heavily on him, as if the mere mention of it dredged up old wounds. Perhaps they had taken more than just his beliefs—perhaps they had taken someone, something, that he could never reclaim.

The silence returned, but this time it was different, tinged with the sorrow of things lost to the past. His pain was palpable, and for a brief moment, I saw a side of him that was raw and unguarded, a glimpse into the depths of what the Thalmor had truly cost him.

"You don't believe yourself superior to a Bosmer like me?" I asked, a hint of challenge lacing my words.

He tilted his head back, cracking his neck as a soft laugh escaped him, the sound melodic and genuine. It wasn't often I heard that kind of laughter—free from the weight of all that came with our lives.

"Altmer supremacy... it's something I used to believe in, to a certain degree." His admission caught me off guard, my hand trembling slightly as I held the cup, the warmth barely steadying me.

"Places like Clamcora are meant for Bosmer training. There are many like it," he continued, a nonchalant shrug accompanying his words. "But Altmers like me? We were trained in our fancy Isles." He brought the cup to his lips, a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth as he spoke, the bitterness of his words softened by that sick humor I knew all too well.

He wasn't wrong. Clamcora's towers were filled with Bosmer like me,  who were trained to tear through anything in their path. I knew what the soldiers from such places were called within the Thalmor ranks, the moniker both a badge of honor and a curse.

"Mad dogs of the Dominion." I murmured, echoing the words that had been seared into our identities. I took a sip from my cup, the liquid grounding me, even as my mind drifted back to the past.

His gaze lingered on me, thoughtful, as he lowered his cup. "We knew your training was harsh, all those active duties where we would only get once we graduated."

His words brought back memories of my first active duty, the adrenaline, the fear, the blood. A shiver ran down my spine, lifting the hairs on the back of my neck. I had to think of something else. 

"But we can still kick your ass, you know." I blurted out, the words slipping past my lips before I could stop them. Was it the coffee or the remnants of the wine from earlier? Either way, the boldness of my statement sent a flush of heat to my cheeks.

His response was a smirk, followed by a chuckle, but his eyes remained on my face a moment too long. They trailed down, taking in the fading bruise on my cheek, a reminder of the pain I tried to bury.

I quickly turned forward, my cheek retreating from his gaze.

"Niolenyl," he whispered, my name barely more than a breath, a thread of sound that almost vanished into the night. "I cannot express how much I regret—"

"The Embassy," I interrupted, my voice sharp, cutting through his attempt at an apology. My eyes remained fixed on the horizon, where the last remnants of daylight were being swallowed by the encroaching darkness. "Start with that."

A heavy sigh escaped him as he leaned forward, elbows resting on the railing, the cup cradled between his hands hanging precariously over the abyss below. His posture lowered, bringing him closer to my height, his form shadowed against the dimming sky. "A party," he began, the word lingering in the air.

My blank stare prompted him to continue, sensing my unfamiliarity. "Elenwen often throws parties at the Embassy," he explained, his tone casual as though discussing something trivial, "She always has, ever since my days working for her."

"Don't you still work for her?" I asked, arching an eyebrow as I looked up at him, the question more pointed than I intended.

"Before my appointment to Markarth as a Justiciar, I served as an officer at the Embassy." he clarified, the words slipping out with a practiced ease.

"Go on." I urged, bringing the cup to my lips, the warmth soothing as I took a sip.

"That's it! I told you, we never slept together." he added, his voice softer now, almost defensive.

"Sure." I replied, my tone laced with skepticism, though the truth was irrelevant to me. Was it?

He sighed again, heavier this time, frustration coloring the sound. "Well, she enjoys parties. She always did. And she will throw one very soon."

"You're invited?" I asked, though the answer was obvious.

He nodded, a smirk tugging at the corners of his lips. Slowly, deliberately, his hand moved to cover mine, the warmth of his palm pressing against my skin over the cool marble. "You are too." he murmured, his voice dripping with a mischief that matched the glint in his golden eyes.

I searched his gaze, trying to decipher the depth of his intentions. The weight of his plan began to settle on my shoulders, a mix of anticipation and dread intertwining within me.

He is dying to crash that party. 

 

 

To be continued...

 

Chapter 27: Chapter 27

"You and I will pose as esteemed guests of the Thalmor at the door. You, as my consort, will not raise suspicion." Ondolemar's voice was a soft murmur, a shadow of sound that lingered in the cool night air as we sat close together on the balcony. The pale moonlight bathed us in silver, casting his sharp features in an ethereal glow.

His consort.

The word echoed in my mind, heavy with implications that sent a shiver down my spine. 

"We will slip inside unnoticed," he continued, his eyes locking onto mine with a quiet intensity. "You will eliminate Elenwen, while I, with the assistance of my contact, will search for the files.”

The plan seemed as fragile as the moonlit mist that curled around us, but my unease wasn't rooted in its details. "Your inside man?" I asked, my voice barely more than a breath, yet thick with suspicion.

"One of our own," he replied, his gaze drifting to the star-studded sky above. He sighed, a soft exhalation that carried a weight I hadn’t noticed before. "Someone with as much reason to despise the Thalmor as we do."

There are others like us? 

The thought struck me like a bolt, making me lurch forward slightly as I struggled to control the sudden, wild pounding of my heart. My breath caught in my throat, the realization unsettling yet thrilling.

“They’ll recognize me.” I murmured, half to myself.

Ondolemar tilted his head slightly, a faint, knowing smile playing at the edges of his lips. “With the armor you wear, it is inevitable.” he replied, his voice calm and composed, each word carefully measured.

“Silver hair? Fair eyes? Many among us Altmer could be mistaken for the Ashenblade,” he remarked with a soft scoff, his tone cool, though a flicker of disdain colored his words. “The Nords are not known for their perceptiveness.”

A faint smile tugged at the corner of my lips, amused by the subtle flare of irritation in his voice. The sharp edge of his contempt was intoxicating, and I found myself leaning in, eager for more. Yet he quickly composed himself, his expression smoothing over like a polished stone.

“Nevertheless,” he continued, his voice taking on a more deliberate tone, “they will know you as my consort. I shall see to it.”

His words were like a silk thread, binding and reassuring in their quiet authority. To be perceived as unimportant in the eyes of the Thalmor, while secretly playing a crucial role, carried its own twisted allure. I had been to the Embassy before, though my time had been spent in its dungeons. The thought of freely roaming its halls now, after all that had transpired, sent a shiver of excitement through me.

"How?" I asked, my voice carrying a sudden note of doubt. The question felt as though it exposed a rift between us—one of trust that was beginning to fray at the edges.

Ondolemar's gaze darkened as it fell upon me, his amber eyes gleaming with an intensity that made my pulse quicken. Slowly, he crossed his arms over his chest, the motion deliberate, calculated. His presence seemed to fill the space between us, pressing down with unspoken authority.

"How," he repeated, his tone soft yet cold, "will you murder Elenwen?"

The weight of his words lingered in the air, heavy and dangerous. I felt the chill of them settle over my skin, like frost creeping in where warmth should be.

Was this the line between us? The edge of trust, of partnership? Would secrecy define how we worked together from this point forward.

I crossed my arms, keeping my expression carefully neutral. Of course, I had no intention of sharing the intricacies of my craft with him, nor would he expect me to. But at the very least, we could share enough of the plan to make it easier for us both. It didn’t escape my notice that he had been evasive about this mysterious associate of his, offering little more than vague mentions with an air of irritation. He didn’t want me probing further—that much was clear.

It was as if he stood behind a wall of secrets, shadows clinging to him like specters of a past that haunted him more often than he cared to admit.

"When is this party?" I asked, my voice calm though my mind churned with thoughts of what lay ahead.

"In a few weeks," he replied, his tone laced with subtle disdain. "It’s set for the second planting, under the pretense of celebrating the summer’s influence on the land. More nonsense for Elenwen to justify yet another one of her insufferable, lavish gatherings."

The corners of his mouth twitched into a cynical smirk as he spoke, his disdain for Elenwen and her indulgent excesses starkly evident. I felt a strange sense of relief at his openness, the tension between us loosening just a fraction. And yet, as much as I willed myself to trust him on this mission, I couldn’t bring myself to do so entirely. 

"And after all that?" I asked, my voice edged with skepticism. "We just walk out, as if nothing happened?"

"Hardly," he scoffed, his lip curling in mild disdain. "There’s a cave beneath the Embassy. We can slip away unnoticed, provided we time it well."

His confidence was palpable, but I wasn’t ready to be placated so easily. I leaned in slightly, eyes narrowing as I met his gaze. "If I’m risking my life for these private files, I deserve to know what it is you’re truly after."

His eyes lowered onto mine, the amber glow of them darkening like molten gold. They shimmered, catching the dim light, unreadable yet intense, as though he weighed every word that followed with the gravity of a secret too heavy to share.

"Something that will help us against the looming threat of dragons, of course."

I stiffened, taken aback by the unexpected answer. Dragons? I had been prepared for many possibilities, but this was beyond what I had imagined. The question formed on my lips before I could stop it.

"Do you believe the Thalmor have something to do with the dragons’ return?"

My voice held more disbelief than I intended, and I found myself searching his face, looking for any sign of hesitation. But Ondolemar’s gaze remained unwavering, his expression cool and composed, as though he had already considered the possibility in great depth.

"I have my suspicions." Ondolemar muttered, his voice carrying an unsettling weight as his gaze turned toward me, cold and unyielding, like the chill of death itself.

I blinked, taken aback by the sheer gravity of his words. "What—like they just create these monsters?" I retorted, my mind racing to grasp the absurdity of the idea. The thought alone felt impossible, yet... unsettlingly plausible.

The air around us seemed to thicken, growing heavier as Ondolemar averted his gaze, the tension between us swelling. His silence was more damning than anything he could have said aloud. 

"They are not just returning," he finally breathed, his voice barely a whisper, as though the secret itself was too dangerous to speak aloud. "They are coming back to life."

I froze, my breath catching in my throat as a chill swept through me. The words of the witnesses flooded my mind—the whispers of the dragon that rose from the earth, reformed from ground and ash. 

"Resurrection?" I scoffed, though my voice faltered slightly. "You think the Thalmor are behind this?" A hollow laugh escaped me, bitter and disbelieving. "I always knew they’d go to any length to see the world burn for their own twisted pleasure, but dragons?"

I shook my head, trying to make sense of the madness. And yet, as the words settled between us, something inside me whispered that it might just be true.

"They would.” Ondolemar replied, his voice steady, though there was a heaviness in his tone, a resignation to the truth he bore. He sighed, his eyes drifting from mine as though the weight of it all was too much to carry.

For a moment, the distance between us felt palpable, like a chasm filled with the secrets neither of us were willing to fully reveal. The silence stretched, thick and suffocating, leaving me to wonder just how deep this conspiracy ran—and whether either of us would survive it.

I knew better than to trust him fully. Ondolemar’s hatred for the Thalmor mirrored my own, but even a shared enemy couldn’t erase the uncertainty that clouded every word he spoke. Walking into the Embassy unarmed was madness—worse yet, being recognized would mean the end of me.

I drew in a breath, straightening my posture, and rose from my seat with deliberate calm, though the weight of the plan hung heavy in my mind.

"Wait—"

His voice reached for me, but the words that followed blurred as I made my way toward the door, my focus splintering with each step. Behind me, his footsteps grew louder, hurried, closing the distance between us.

"Will you come back?"

There was something in his voice that froze me in place, an edge of vulnerability I hadn’t expected. It almost trembled, as though he feared the answer more than he cared to admit. For a moment, the question hovered between us, pinning me to the ground.

Would I?

I needed time to think, away from the suffocating pull of his presence. Every second spent near him made thinking harder, clouding my judgment with the storm of his intensity. Even now, I could feel the tension mounting, the leather strap around my thigh suddenly tightening with each step, warming against my skin as though it had come alive, reminding me of the silent weight I carried.

I turned my head slightly, my voice low as I replied, "Perhaps."

The word lingered in the air, neither a promise nor a refusal. With that, I slipped out the door, leaving the question and him behind.

For now.

 

As I descended the worn stone steps of the city, the distant hum of life fading behind me, my mind churned in an endless whirlpool of thoughts. The wine I had indulged in earlier still clung to my limbs, making my steps clumsy, my feet catching on the uneven stone beneath. I stumbled, hands shooting out instinctively to catch myself against the rough wall beside me.

A cold breath slipped from my lips, misting in the chilled air, and then I heard them again.

The voices.

Clearer now, yet still tangled in the haze that clouded my mind whenever they surfaced.

I pressed my back against the wall, willing the world to stop spinning, to give me a moment of clarity. My heart pounded in my chest as I strained to listen. The fog in my thoughts thickened with every breath I took, blurring the syllables just out of reach.

I leaned heavily against the wall, struggling to find something solid to anchor me as the dizziness of my mind swirled like a tempest. The voices, persistent and maddening, continued their chant, but their meaning eluded me, slipping through my grasp as quickly as it had come.

I opened my eyes, and the world presented itself to me in muted shades of moonlight. The night was silent, the moon casting a pale, indifferent glow over the empty streets. There was nothing—just the quiet expanse of darkness and the faint shimmer of starlight.

Desperately, I looked up at the sky, as if the answers might descend from the heavens themselves. The voices seemed to come from above, ethereal and distant, as though reaching from another realm.

What do you want from me?

The weight of what had been taken from me pressed heavily on my chest. Too much, I thought bitterly. Too damn much.

A grim chuckle bubbled up within me, a dark echo of Amon’s laughter from before. It was both a mockery and a resignation, the cruel irony that I was now conversing with nothingness, losing myself in the absurdity of it all.

Could the Khajiit be the source of these voices? The thought was unsettling, though I was certain that seeing him for the first time had felt like a brush with death itself—my mind’s final, desperate illusion.

Yet, it seemed that the voices weren’t just his, but a chorus of many, all merging into a single, insistent echo in my mind. They spoke not of names or places, but of one commanding, unnatural word that resonated with a chilling authority.

The sound was relentless, piercing through the fog of my thoughts, an eerie summons that seemed to come from deep within the recesses of my own mind. I couldn’t decipher the echo’s meaning or its purpose, only that it was both foreign and unnervingly familiar, demanding attention and stirring a deep, instinctual fear.

 

---

 

"You strike the metal like a mother slappin' her runt!" An Orc woman barked from behind the counter of her shop, her voice a low growl that made the man hammering on the anvil flinch in fear. "Hit it harder, ya soft-handed skeever!"

"I'm sorry, Ghorza... I just... flinch, and... uh..." he whimpered, his eyes darting nervously toward her, clearly intimidated by the Orc woman’s towering presence.

"If you can't pound the dust outta that iron, it's gonna snap like a twig when you're done. HIT. IT. HARDER!" she snarled, her tusks bared as her eyes narrowed on the pathetic display before her.

The blade he was working on was a mess, the edges jagged and uneven, a poor excuse for craftsmanship. I glanced up at his face—sweat beading on his brow, hands trembling at the task before him. It was clear he had no talent for this. A lost cause.

I leaned against the counter, tugging my hood lower over my face, my voice low as I spoke. "Do you have anything he hasn’t ruined with his hands?"

Ghorza let out a rough, guttural chuckle that sounded more like a snarl. "Of course. Something in particular yer after?" Her eyes scaled me up and down, the weight of her scrutiny heavy with anticipation and... a hint of condescension.

I knew exactly what I wanted. More importantly, I knew who I wanted it for.

“Silver.”

 

 

To be continued…

Chapter 28: Chapter 28

 

“Are you certain we can trust him?”

Astrid’s fingers tapped out a slow, measured rhythm against the wooden table. The sound was deliberate, calculated—like the ticking of a clock. Her voice was calm, her words cool and detached, as if she were merely discussing the weather rather than a decision that could determine our survival.

Her chambers were dimly lit, the glow of scattered candles throwing restless shadows along the walls. The air smelled of melted wax and old parchment, mingled with the lingering scent of wine. A half-eaten meal sat abandoned on the desk beside her, untouched for hours, maybe longer.

It had been a few hours since I returned to the Sanctuary, only to find it quieter than ever. Not the kind of silence that comforted, but the kind that unsettled. An absence. A void. Many of our Brothers and Sisters had gone, scattered across Skyrim in search of allies. Those who remained drifted through the halls like ghosts, their voices hushed, their presence fleeting.

Even Astrid, the one who never faltered, seemed frayed at the edges. The room around her bore the signs of sleepless nights—crumpled letters, overturned ink bottles, maps with lines and circles drawn over them in a frantic scrawl.

“You never really know with them.” I murmured, lifting my chalice to my lips, letting the familiar burn of honeyed wine settle in my throat.

Ondolemar.

He carried the same hatred for the Thalmor as I did. That much was clear. But hatred wasn’t trust. It wasn’t loyalty. He was a man who lived in shadows, who played his own game, and whose words always seemed to hide more than they revealed. He could be an ally—or a knife waiting for the right moment to strike.

“What other choice do we have, anyway?” I sighed, running a finger along the rim of my cup, tracing the polished metal as if the answer lay somewhere in its reflection.

Astrid exhaled through her nose, slow and measured. “Not much.” She poured herself another drink, her movements uncharacteristically sluggish. “Grodyl and Festus have gone to meet with exiled mages from the College. Arnbjorn is in Riften, securing our ties with Delvin and his Guild.”

I glanced at her, studying the exhaustion carved into her face. It wasn’t just the sleepless nights—it was the weight of everything. The weight of command.

The Brotherhood thrived in shadows, in secrecy. But now we were desperate. We weren’t just hunting—we were being hunted. And Astrid, for all her iron will, knew that our numbers weren’t enough.

Delvin would help. His thieves were no warriors, but they knew how to survive, how to weave through the cracks of society and pull information from places no one else could. But information wouldn’t be enough when steel was drawn.

“Thieves and mages,” I mused, leaning back. “Quite the fine team, don’t you think?”

“Not you too,” she scoffed, though there was no real venom in it. She leaned into her chair, crossing her arms over her chest. “I’d take thieves and mages over drunk Nords and Imperial soldiers any day.”

A smirk ghosted my lips. “I never took you for someone with a preference.”

She huffed, shaking her head, but she didn’t argue.

I studied her a moment longer, watching the flickering candlelight cast shadows under her eyes.

“And the Black Hand?” I finally asked.

She hesitated. It was brief, but I caught it—the way her fingers tightened just slightly around her chalice, the way her gaze flickered to the table as if unwilling to meet mine.

“We’ve sent ravens to the Sanctuaries in Elsweyr and Morrowind,” she said. “Nothing.”

“Yet,” I murmured.

Her head lifted, her sharp brown gaze meeting mine. And for the first time since I’d entered the room, I saw something—something beyond the exhaustion, beyond the calculations.

A glimmer of hope. Small. Fragile.

“They’ll come,” I added. “Sooner or later.”

She wanted to believe me. I could see it in the way her lips parted, in the way her fingers hovered over the table as if reaching for something she couldn’t quite grasp.

But doubt had rooted itself deep. And Astrid—who had always been the one to have answers, to guide us forward—was now faced with uncertainty.

She hid it well. But I could feel it, settling between us like an unseen presence.

A ghost of a smile tugged at her lips, faint, almost bitter. She lifted her chalice and drank deeply, the wine sliding down her throat with reckless ease.

How many had she had?

Then her gaze shifted—lower, toward my wrist.

“Tell me,” she said, setting her cup down with a quiet thud. “Any side effects from the bonding?”

I followed her stare, lifting my arm. The scar had long since healed. I had expected more—pain, weakness, something unnatural lingering beneath my skin. But there was nothing. Just a pale line, a faint reminder of what had been done.

“Nothing, really,” I admitted, rolling my wrist.

She nodded slowly. “Good. It means your body didn’t reject it.”

Before I could question her, she pulled back the sleeve of her tunic.

And I froze.

A matching scar marred her wrist.

She hadn’t cut hers. Not when she did mine. And yet, there it was—a mirrored mark.

I looked at her, the question forming on my tongue, but she spoke before I could give it voice.

“The bond,” she murmured, “is more than a mere ritual. It connects us. Remember that.”

“How?” I asked, but she only smiled.

That smile. That knowing, infuriating smile.

“You—”

“Go now,” she cut in smoothly, rising from her chair with an air of finality. “I need time to think on Ondolemar’s plan. Perfect it, if necessary.”

Something cold crawled down my spine.

Her voice had shifted. This was no longer my sister speaking to me. This was my Speaker, giving an order.

I clenched my jaw, but I knew better than to push. The conversation was over.

With a silent turmoil twisting inside me, I rose from my seat and turned toward the door.

How far did this bond truly go?

 

 

---

 

 

“You’re back! Finally!”

Fen’s voice rang through the dimly lit hallway, bright and unguarded, a stark contrast to the silence that had clung to the Sanctuary in my absence.

Before I could brace myself, she pulled me into an embrace—soft, warm, and wholly unexpected.

It unsettled me to the core.

I hesitated, my body stiff against hers, before I placed my hands against her shoulders and took a deliberate step back. Not forceful, not unkind, but just enough to put distance between us. Enough to remind myself that I was not used to such things.

Her deep blue eyes shimmered, undeterred by the darkness surrounding us. Unyielding. Always so effortlessly open, as if she had never learned to be afraid of closeness.

“The Sanctuary has been unbearably silent and boring,” she sighed, a teasing lilt to her voice. “I’m glad you’ve finally returned.”

I crossed my arms beneath my chest, a familiar movement—one of defense, of habit. A shield between myself and whatever unfamiliar warmth she tried to bring. My gaze swept over her, taking in the ease in her stance, the way she always seemed to carry herself without the weight I bore.

“Amon’s not around? I thought you two were keeping each other company.”

The words left my lips before I could stop them, laced with something that shouldn’t be there. It wasn’t accusation. Not quite. But something close.

Fen hesitated.

Just for a moment. Just long enough for regret to curl in my gut.

I should have bitten my tongue. Swallowed the words before they took shape. I had no right to be irritated by whatever she and Amon chose to be to each other. And yet, I was.

The worst part? I didn’t even know why.

She shook her head, her gaze dropping to the stone beneath our feet. “He—”

A pause. A swallow, as if forcing the words past her throat was a battle in itself.

“He is in the infirmary still.”

The world around me dulled.

“Infirmary?” The question left me too quickly, my voice sharper than intended as I took a step toward her. “Why?”

She lifted her head then, meeting my gaze, and something in her expression sent an icy thread curling down my spine.

“He appeared at the Black Door some days before your arrival. Hurt, beyond measure. I couldn’t have imagined a vampire being in pain that bad.”

Hurt. Amon.

The words didn’t fit together in my mind. Not easily. He was fast, sharp, calculated. He played his games, moved like a predator, always two steps ahead. To imagine him hurt—truly hurt—was an image I had never been forced to conjure before.

“Hurt?” I repeated, and despite my efforts to sound indifferent, my voice betrayed me.

Fen noticed. She always noticed.

“Too many wounds to count,” she murmured, watching me now, studying the way my fingers curled into the fabric of my sleeves. “Millions of cuts across his back. Surely will leave a scar. But he wouldn’t tell us who or what had done it.”

Millions of cuts.

The realization struck like the crack of ice beneath my boots.

The shards. The ice. Could it be?

“Visit him and see for yourself,” she added, tilting her head as if gauging my reaction. “Rather a grim and unusual sight for a vampire.”

I barely nodded, forcing a thin smile to my lips. “Thank you, Fen.”

She lingered for a breath, her expression unreadable before she turned and melted into the corridor’s shadows.

And I was left alone.

Speechless. Motionless.

I could leave it at this. I should.

Amon had his own demons, his own choices. He was not my concern.

But my feet betrayed me.

Before I could rationalize why, my boots struck the stone, carrying me down the corridor, down the stairs, toward the infirmary door.

Was it concern that led me there? Or something else entirely?

I did not know. But I didn’t stop.

When I pushed open the door, the scent hit me first.

Not just the familiar iron tang of blood, but something worse. Decay. Stagnant death clung to the air, thicker here than in the rest of the Sanctuary. The infirmary had never been a place of comfort—only a delaying of the inevitable.

We did not fight death. We accepted it. Welcomed it. Prayed for Sithis to take us into his embrace without struggle.

But Amon was not like us.

His wounds would not guide him into the Void. He had no place among the souls we sent to Father’s embrace. He was something else entirely—a creature, more than a man. An immortal.

And so, he had been left alone to rot.

The sight of him stopped me cold.

He lay motionless on the fur-covered cot, sprawled on his stomach, his silver-white hair spilling over the edge like liquid moonlight. His breath was ragged, uneven. His arms dangled over the sides, fingers curled loosely, as if even the effort to grip something had long abandoned him.

For a moment, he didn’t stir.

Then, a sharp inhale. A shift.

“Who is it?”

His voice was rough, scraping against the silence as he attempted to lift his head. A deep, guttural groan of pain cut him short, his body tensing before he let it fall back against the cot.

I said nothing, my eyes locked on his ruined back.

Scars. Wounds that refused to close. They ran along his shoulders, down his arms, curling around his ribs and up his neck like jagged, uneven scripts of suffering carved into his flesh. Tiny cuts—too many to count—marred his once-pristine skin. They did not bleed, yet something about them looked wrong. The flesh surrounding them was not healing, not closing as it should.

Instead, it was dying.

The color of his skin had shifted, his usual flawlessness lost beneath the bruised hues of decay—green, blue, and something deeper, something unnatural.

Then, a sniff. A low, dry chuckle that barely stirred his chest.

“Oh.” His voice was hoarse, edged with something that wasn’t quite amusement. “It’s you.”

I hesitated.

“Came to bask in the work of your magic?”

The accusation was soft. Not spoken in malice, nor hatred—just the quiet weight of knowing.

He did not have to see me to understand.

Still, I found myself moving closer, drawn forward by something I could not name. My gaze dragged over the wounds, taking in the unnatural stillness of his form, the way his fingers twitched slightly before going still again.

The silence that hung between us seemed to stretch, the air thick with tension, laden with the weight of unspoken words. I felt the pull of his gaze, even though his eyes were closed. It was as if he could see me without looking, his presence seeping into the space around us, wrapping itself around me like an invisible thread.

I could feel his thoughts swirling, just beneath the surface. The hurt, the betrayal, the anger—he wore it all like a cloak. But there was something else too, something I couldn’t quite place. A deeper current, a sense of acceptance, perhaps, or resignation.

I swallowed, fighting the urge to speak, to defend myself, to explain. But the words caught in my throat, bitter and foreign.

“No,” I finally managed, my voice quieter than I intended. “I didn’t come for that.”

I wanted to reach out, to touch him, to soothe the agony that radiated from him in waves. But the sight of those wounds stopped me, like an invisible wall that kept me just out of reach.

His lips curled into a faint, almost imperceptible smirk. “Then what did you come for?”

I didn’t know what had drawn me here, nor what tethered me to this place. My gaze lingered on him, on the jagged scars that marred his skin, winding around him like a cruel tapestry—a second skin forged from suffering.

These were the remnants of my own hand, a consequence of the attack in the woods, when I had wished him gone. Had I truly wished it?

The thought gnawed at me, a bitter weight on my chest. I must have. I should have.

But this—this was not what I had expected. The wounds, they should have healed by now. As a vampire, his body should have been mending, regenerating, restoring itself. Ice, I had used—nothing more. Not silver, not fire. He should have been whole again in mere hours.

And yet, he wasn’t.

It wasn’t just curiosity that made me trace the scars with trembling fingers—each one a silent testament to the damage I’d caused. No, it was something deeper, something I couldn’t name.

The soft touch of my hand made him gasp, a sharp exhale that twisted into a grunt of raw pain.

Suddenly, with a fluid motion, he turned to face me. His hand reached out, grasping mine with surprising strength, despite the weariness that clung to him. His fingers were cold, but there was a roughness in the way he held me, as though he was clinging to the last remnants of something precious.

His crimson eye, once a burning abyss of hunger and power, had faded. Now, it was a pale shadow of its former intensity, replaced by a soft, sickly pink. Life itself seemed to be bleeding from him, the fire extinguishing bit by bit, until only ash remained.

A lump formed in my throat, and I couldn’t stop my breath from catching. My heart clenched in response, overwhelmed with a pity I couldn’t shake. A pity for him, for the state I had left him in, for what he had become, and what I had done.

"Amon, I—" The words faltered before they could leave my lips, as if even the attempt to apologize was too small, too fragile to repair what I had broken. The weight of guilt pressed down on me, and somewhere, deep inside, I couldn't shake the nagging feeling that, in some twisted way, he had deserved it.

"I deserve it," he whispered, his voice raw and distant, as if the words had been pulled from him by some unseen force. His eyes, now dull and hollow, met mine. "To die in a shithole like this one."

His words struck harder than any physical blow could. With that, he pushed my hand away, his body trembling beneath the strain of lifting his head, before it fell back against the bed.

"When was the last time you fed?" My voice cracked, barely a whisper, as if the very act of speaking would fracture what little stability remained in the room.

Gabriel, as cold and unyielding as ever, answered before Amon had the chance to respond. "Every day," he said, his voice devoid of any trace of compassion. He appeared in the doorway, a cloth in one hand and a bucket in the other, the stench of sickness clinging to his form. "Though each time, he throws up more than the last."

The only healer the Sanctuary had left, was a Breton bound by some oath I never quite understood. His hands, stained with more than just blood, had mended us time and again. He was a man of few words, his demeanor harsh and uncompromising. But beneath his callous exterior, there was a man who had sworn to prevent death as long as he still had the power to fight it. Or at least, that’s how I always saw him. I thought his oath would keep him pushing, even when hope seemed lost. Yet, standing there now, it felt like all the attempts had turned into nothing more than futile motions.

"Go away and leave me be, old man." Amon growled, his voice thick with bitterness. He turned his face toward the shadows, refusing to meet either of our gazes. His eyes, once fierce and full of life, now looked like they belonged to someone already gone.

I lifted my gaze to meet Gabriel’s, but the coldness in his eyes was something I could never quite get used to. It wasn’t just indifference; it was the look of someone who had seen too much, who had worn the weight of despair for too long. With a quiet shake of his head, he approached the bed with a practiced ease, his movements efficient, as if this routine had been etched into him. He dipped the cloth into the bucket, the water dark and thick with the stench of whatever concoction it held. The smell hit me before I could even identify it, some foul mix that made my stomach twist in a way I couldn’t ignore.

I had never been skilled with alchemy or herbology—not like him. The scents always lingered too long in my memory, a reminder of how little I understood of the healing arts.

"You’ve already tried restoration spells, I suppose?" I asked, the words leaving me as a quiet plea for any sliver of hope.

"Every last one of them," he replied with a weary sigh, his shoulders sagging slightly as he lowered the cloth over Amon’s back. As it brushed against the jagged, broken skin, the slimy, acrid substance soaked into the wounds, a smell so nauseating I almost couldn’t bear it. Yet Gabriel worked without hesitation, his movements clinical, as if he had no room left for disgust.

Amon’s uneven breathing filled the silence between us, each sharp inhale a painful reminder of his suffering. The agony in the air was palpable, suffocating.

"Let me." My voice barely rose above a whisper, yet it was enough to catch Gabriel’s attention. His gaze lingered on me for a moment, hesitation flickering in the cold depths of his eyes. But under my insistent look, he finally relented, passing the cloth to me with a quiet sigh.

I held it with an almost reverent care, feeling the weight of my actions as I pressed the cloth gently against the raw, broken skin of Amon’s shoulders. His body stiffened at the touch, but then, slowly, his breathing steadied, the deep, agonized gasps tapering off, as if he had slipped into unconsciousness.

A heaviness settled in the room, and Gabriel’s voice broke the silence, low and regretful. "He doesn’t have long. Another week, at best, if it goes like this."

The words hit me harder than I wanted to admit.

A week? 

"Have you seen anything like this before?" I asked, my voice barely steady as I dipped the cloth back into the mixture, the foul liquid clinging to the fabric as I lifted it once more to Amon’s arm, dragging it slowly over the bruises, the wounds that had turned his once-vibrant skin into a map of pain.

Gabriel’s gaze dropped to the floor, his shoulders slumping in an unspoken admission of helplessness. His hand, still holding the bucket, trembled ever so slightly as he spoke, his voice rough with the weight of his own defeat. “No.” He sighed, the sound heavy, like something inside him had withered at the thought. “It’s said that vampires restore themselves, no matter how long it takes, but this one…” He trailed off, his eyes distant as if searching for something that didn’t exist. “This one is different. In what way, I cannot say. If we had more time—”

The sentence fractured on his lips, his words too heavy to continue, as if the mere act of voicing time—that impossible, fleeting thing—was too painful to acknowledge. The silence that followed felt like a weight pressing on my chest, suffocating me.

How could he see my pain? How could he sense the flicker of regret, the thread of guilt that wove its way through every breath I took? How could he know that it was my doing, that it was my hand that had delivered this suffering, that it was my fault Amon lay like this, slipping away from us, from life itself?

“Ice,” I murmured, the words coming out more like a confession than an explanation. "It was only ice."

Gabriel's eyes flickered briefly toward me, his face unreadable, but there was a softness in his gaze—something far too quiet for the coldness he usually wore. Yet he didn’t argue, didn’t point out the futility of it. Instead, he sighed again, the sound thick with something too complex to name.

“It doesn’t matter, sister,” he said, his voice rough but oddly tender as he turned away. He took a step back, almost like he was trying to distance himself from the scene, from the truth that weighed down on all of us. “Let us pray that Father decides to take him soon, if he ever would.”

The words hung in the air, and though he spoke them with the cold detachment of someone who had long accepted that death was the only mercy left to offer, there was an undercurrent of something else. Something human.

But for me, it was no comfort. There was no solace in waiting for the inevitable. There was no redemption in praying for an end to the pain that I had caused. All I could do was watch as time slipped away—like the ice I had wielded, cold and unyielding.

The sudden, unexpected weight of guilt gripped my chest, heavy and suffocating, as I was left alone in the infirmary with what remained of Amon. The silence of the room pressed in on me, louder than any words could be.

Why?

The question swirled in my mind, but the answer remained just out of reach, like a fleeting shadow slipping between the cracks. What was this unrelenting ache in my heart? Why did it feel like the very air around me had thickened with the weight of something far too heavy for me to carry?

He had been an uninvited guest from the moment we'd crossed paths. His recklessness had no bounds, his sharp tongue never faltered, always poking and prodding, pushing me into places I didn’t want to go. He had been a thorn in my side, a constant irritant with his incessant games and challenges that had never once ceased.

But now, in the silence of this moment, it hit me like a wave. In such a short time, Amon had carved himself into my life in a way I hadn’t realized until now. He had become something I couldn’t easily dismiss. And now... now I couldn’t find it in myself to let go.

It was unlike me to sit by, to linger in the presence of someone I had harmed, waiting for them to draw their last breath. I had never been one for the slow burn of torture, nor had I ever cared for the lingering agony of those I’d wronged. It was not my way.

But now, the thought of ending it—freeing him of this unbearable torment, ending it for both of us—felt like the only choice. The silver dagger strapped to my thigh was close, always within reach, but my hand refused to move. I couldn’t bring myself to do it. How could I? I had been the one to place him here, the one who had inflicted this suffering, unknowingly, in a moment of rage.

Maybe that was it. The truth I had refused to acknowledge. I hadn’t known. I hadn’t known how deeply my actions would reach, how the anger that had flared inside me in that fleeting moment would manifest into something irreversible. My will to erase him, to rid myself of him in that instant, had come true—only in a way I hadn’t imagined. And now, I would live with the regret of it.

Why?

The question repeated in my mind, but the answer slipped away like water through my fingers. I had no idea. No real understanding of why this felt so wrong.

When the last of the slimy liquid covered his wounds, I let go of the cloth, its limp weight sinking back into the bucket with a soft splash.

If Gabriel had said there was nothing more to be done, then there was nothing more to be done. He would know. After all, the Breton had seen it all—he was the one who understood the limits of healing and death better than anyone else. If there was hope, he would have found it.

Yet, despite the finality of his words, something inside me refused to believe that this was the end. Not the end of Amon. Not the end of us.

Us... that strange, tangled bond he had fixated on. Something I had never truly learned to accept, never really given the time to understand.

But in that moment, as I stood over him, all I could feel was the suffocating weight of unfinished things. Things I had never said, things I had never allowed myself to acknowledge.

 

 

To be continued...

Chapter 29: Chapter 29

The library was quiet, save for the faint rustling of pages, as the weight of countless tomes lay scattered across the table. The dim light of the late afternoon cast long shadows, illuminating the weary figure of Fen, slouched over the books. Her tired eyes, half-lidded with exhaustion, flickered with the barest trace of hope—a fragile thread she clung to, praying for some miracle, some answer that might save him.

“Found something?” My voice was sharper than I intended, a sudden intrusion that sliced through the silence, rousing her from her foggy stupor.

She stretched in her chair, as though trying to shake off the weight of her sorrow, but when her eyes met mine, there was no joy in them—only the empty, desperate kind of sadness that had claimed her. She shook her head slowly, her fingers brushing over the edge of the books, as if the words written within might somehow offer salvation.

“Nothing.”

A long, frustrated sigh escaped me as I lowered myself into the chair opposite her. I didn’t dare glance at her again—there was too much sorrow in her face, too much fragility in her form. It was a weight that threatened to drown her. And yet, as I turned my attention to the pages in front of me, I knew nothing would change. Not from these books.

“Why are you here, Nio?” The question, so simple, so direct, cut through the air like a blade. I felt it before I could even process it, her words hanging heavily between us, accusing in their quiet clarity. “I know you never liked Amon. You despised him, in fact.”

The words hit me harder than I was willing to admit. My hand faltered over the page of a book I hadn’t truly read in ages. I raised my gaze, my eyes meeting hers—the deep blue of her gaze, bloodshot from tears, looking straight through me.

It was the look of someone who had given everything—of someone who cared so much that the weight of it was breaking her. To see it in Fen, of all people, felt like a cruel reminder of how much we had all been slowly unraveling, the seams of our lives loosening with each passing day.

Did she really care for him this much? I could barely reconcile the thought. The Fen I knew—unyielding, strong—had never shown vulnerability like this. To see her so utterly shattered, her soul laid bare, was both heartbreaking and strange.

And me? What was I doing here? If she knew the truth—that I was the cause of Amon’s pain—would she even still look at me as she did now? Could she still be my friend?

“For you, of course,” I lied, my voice cold and hollow, so unlike the warmth I once used to speak with. I couldn’t bring myself to tell her the truth. She didn’t need to know I was here out of guilt. The shame that weighed on me, the shame of knowing I had brought this suffering upon Amon—upon them both—was far too heavy to bear.

“I know you care about him more than you admit,” I added softly, my gaze dropping back to the open book, where nothing of use could be found.

“I do.”

Her words came like a whisper, but they froze me in place. I couldn’t move. The air around us thickened, and every part of me wanted to look away. But I couldn’t. Not when she had laid herself so bare, so vulnerable before me.

“He is kind, you see.” She spoke softly, so tenderly that it twisted something deep inside me. But even through the ache in her voice, I knew there was more to it—much more than kindness. Fen had fallen for him, not just because of his kindness, but because of something far deeper, far more dangerous to her heart.

My throat tightened as I forced myself to speak. “We will find a way.” The words left my mouth, but I wasn’t sure I believed them. As I turned the pages, my hands shook ever so slightly. None of the potions, none of the treatments we had scoured through offered even the slightest hint of a cure.

The room fell into silence again, heavy and oppressive, until the sound of the door creaking open broke through it.

We both turned our heads in unison, our eyes falling on the figure who entered. The Jester, with his unsettling grin, his eyes wild with madness, as if the very air he breathed was tainted with delirium.

“What is it, Cicero?” I asked, my voice strained from the tension that had built up between us, my heart heavy with thoughts I didn’t dare express.

Cicero stumbled into the room, his eyes wide and unfocused, as if he were seeing two worlds at once. A fleeting, almost eerie glimmer of recognition passed through them before he took a slow, deliberate step toward the center of the library. His voice, like his movements, was erratic and unpredictable.

“You seek… a cure, yes?” His chuckle pierced the air, too high-pitched and unnatural, like the ringing of a cracked bell. “But to heal, there must be truth in the blood—the blood… yes, the blood.”

“Ugh, not again, you madman!” Fen snapped, turning sharply in her chair to glare at Cicero. Her voice was sharp, filled with frustration. “Enough with the damn riddle!”

A riddle. The maddening way Cicero often communicated—never straightforward, always dancing around the truth. But we had learned over time that if there was even a sliver of sense buried in his madness, it might just be worth grasping.

“What riddle?” I asked, glancing at Fen, dismissing the absurdity of Cicero’s presence, though his cryptic words still echoed in my mind. She shook her head with a frustrated sigh, her brows furrowing in exasperation.

“The lunatics just jesting and babbling, what do you think?” she replied, the irritation clear in her voice.

But Cicero wasn’t finished. His voice grew louder, more frantic, as if the very air itself could carry his riddle into our minds. “It’s all here, in the blood, in the magic. You’ll see, yes? You’ll see.”

His words spiraled, spiraled like a vortex, pulling at my thoughts until they became tangled in his madness. Before I could speak, Fen snapped, tossing a candlestick at him with surprising accuracy, her voice cutting through his ramblings.

“Enough!” she shouted.

With that, Cicero shuffled out of the room, leaving an eerie silence in his wake, as if he were holding back a fit of manic laughter or some other riddle that he had chosen to spare us. His absence was oddly peaceful, like a storm that had suddenly and inexplicably passed.

“Fen, you need some rest.” I sighed, my words heavy with concern. “I’ll let you know if I find anything, alright?”

She hesitated, her gaze lingering on the open pages in front of her, as if hoping that some answer might leap from the text, but deep down, she knew I was right. The weariness in her shoulders spoke louder than any words could.

“Fine.” Her voice was soft, almost defeated, as she slowly rose from her seat, making her way toward the door. But before she left, she paused, turning to me with a glance that held more than simple gratitude.

“And Nio, thank you.”

Her words were simple, yet they crushed me under their weight. I could feel the sincerity in them, the rawness of her gratitude, and it hit me like a tidal wave. The ache in my chest tightened, and I wanted nothing more than to bury myself beneath the shame of it all, to hide from the truth that her thanks only reminded me of how little I deserved it.

The answer we so desperately sought lay hidden, never to be found in the books Fen had laid out before us. No words, no spells, no remedy that could tell us how to save Amon, a vampire whose suffering had no end. How could it be?

The only conclusion that seemed possible was that Amon wasn’t just any vampire. But he was too far gone now—too far lost in his pain to tell us what made him different, what could possibly explain his unhealing state.

I leaned back in my chair, tilting my head back to stare out the window. The fading sunlight flickered, casting a warm glow across the room, but its light only served as a cruel reminder. The day was slipping away. Time, slipping faster than I could grasp it. The clock was ticking, and the weight of it pressed against my chest.

 

---

 

“Mages are with us,” Grodyl reported, his voice flat against the cold, hollow air of the hall. The walls, once steeped in whispers and purpose, felt emptier than ever. “Shall we make preparations for their arrival?”

Astrid sat hunched over her cup, the shadows beneath her eyes deepening like bruises carved by sleepless nights. She gave a slow, weary nod before dismissing him with a flick of her fingers, her attention already drowning in whatever solace she sought at the bottom of her drink.

“Slow down, love.” Arnbjorn muttered, a note of caution in his voice.

Astrid lifted her gaze to him—cold, sharp, and unforgiving. It was all the warning he needed. He fell silent, chewing down whatever protest had lingered on his tongue.

Her eyes swept the room and found mine. I lowered my head quickly, staring into the untouched stew on my plate as if it held the answers to the unease twisting inside me. The weight in my stomach had nothing to do with hunger. There was something wrong. I felt it in my bones.

“Yet another alliance to burden our backs, if you ask me.” Festus scoffed, sinking into a chair with the ease of a man too old and too tired to pretend he cared.

The tension in the room thickened, pressing against us like damp air before a storm. Day by day, the disagreements festered beneath the weight of our Speaker’s desperation. We could all feel it—smell it in the way she carried herself, in the silence between her orders.

And that, more than anything, unsettled me.

“Any luck with the cure?”

Fen’s voice startled me. I looked up, meeting the quiet desperation burning in her blue eyes—a thread of hope she was clinging to, fragile and fraying. It hurt me more than it hurt her to shake my head.

She exhaled softly and sank into the chair beside me, her meal untouched. Her gaze fell to the floor, heavy with the weight of disappointment. I could almost hear the tears she refused to shed, swallowing them down with sheer will.

“I’m sorry,” I murmured, though I wasn’t sure what exactly I was apologizing for.

“Don’t be.” She shrugged, lifting her mug of mead to her lips and draining it in one go.

But I knew I should be. Not for attacking Amon. Not for what I had done to him. I should be sorry for hurting Fen. For breaking something in her—her trust, her joy. I had stolen something from her, and I hated myself for it.

People thought assassins were made of steel, hardened and unfeeling. And outside these walls, perhaps that was true. But within the Sanctuary, we were something else entirely. We were mortals. Fallible. Full of wounds we couldn’t stitch shut, weaknesses we couldn’t carve away, heartaches we carried like ghosts on our shoulders.

“You two seem to care about the vampire more than you should.”

The voice of Grodyl cut through the air like a blade. Fen and I both looked up as he sat across from us, setting down his plate with an air of indifference. “A spawn of Bal in our sacred home was an insult to Father anyway.”

“Shut up, Grodyl.”

The words came sharp and immediate, surprising even myself. Fen flinched, but I caught the flicker of gratitude in her eyes—a silent approval.

“Woah, fine fine.” Grodyl raised his hands in mock surrender before tearing another bite of bread. “Seems Fen isn’t the only thrall around here.”

“I am no thrall,” Fen bit out. “Amon is not like that.”

Not like what?

Not like a vampire who would manipulate and use us to serve his own ends? Not like someone who had already done exactly that?

Because he had.

He had used me to step into this Sanctuary—one that would have never accepted him had he approached with anyone but me.

And for that, I had no defense.

“Seems you got to know him well.”

Grodyl’s voice dripped with amusement, his sly grin a taunt neither of us could stand. It took everything in me not to wipe it off his face.

“They say he’s rotting from the inside out,” he went on, savoring every word. “Turns out our first alliance didn’t go as smoothly as we hoped.”

The scrape of wood against stone cut through the room as Fen shoved her chair back, rising to her feet with a force that nearly sent it toppling over. She had heard enough. I could feel her silent rage, mirroring my own, though I didn’t move—not beyond lifting my cup to my lips in a feigned indifference I didn’t truly feel.

Without a word, Fen turned and strode toward one of the doors leading to the bath, her disgust written in every tense line of her body.

It was understandable.

After all, what we were doing—what we had been doing—was only delaying the inevitable. And the others took every chance to remind us of that. But what they didn’t know, what she didn’t know, was that I had been the one to bring that inevitable upon her lover.

She wouldn’t expect it. She wouldn’t believe it—not unless the words came from me.

The weight of that truth settled deeper into my bones, pressing me further into my seat. Shame curled around my spine like a vice, heavier with every breath.

There had to be a way.

There had to be something I could do.

No matter how much I searched for an answer, the void only deepened.

There was nothing.

Nothing at all.

 

---

 

The moment I stepped into the infirmary, the air pressed against my chest like a weight I couldn’t shake. The scent of herbs and something stale—something lifeless—clung to the room, unchanged since the last time I had set foot here. Or maybe it wasn’t the room that had changed. Maybe it was just something I could never get used to.

Amon lay motionless, his body an unmoving husk of what he once was. The man I remembered—the sharp wit, the relentless arrogance, the fire behind his mismatched eyes—was nothing more than a shadow now. A hollow remnant. His beauty, once so striking, had withered into something fragile, something broken.

I sat beside him, but the sight of him only deepened the gnawing guilt that had taken root inside me. It festered, coiling tighter with every second that stretched unbearably long.

I couldn’t bear it.

Pushing up from my seat, I turned toward the door, each step quick, desperate. I regretted coming here. Regretted seeing him like this. More than anything, I didn’t want this to be the way I remembered him.

No matter how infuriating he had been, at least he had been alive. And I wanted to remember him that way—the way his mismatched gaze had burned through the night as we rode in silence, the rare flicker of his smile breaking through the darkness like something untouchable, something real.

I didn’t know why.

I only knew that I would remember.

“Please.”

His voice was barely more than a whisper, cracked and fragile, but it pinned me in place.

“Stay.”

I hesitated, caught between the instinct to flee and the pull of something deeper, something I couldn’t name.

Slowly, deliberately, I turned back. And without a word, I sat beside him once more.

“Let me pass with you around, at least,” his words were as weak as his voice—fragile, barely more than a whisper. “I don’t trust anyone else.”

“And you trust your killer?”

I bit my tongue the moment the words slipped out, but there was no taking them back. I braced for bitterness, for anger—but instead, a faint smile ghosted his lips, easing something tight in my chest.

“My killer,” he repeated, his voice rough, “and my salvation too.”

“What does that mean?” I asked, but his gaze wavered. His eyes rolled back for a brief moment before he forced them open again, clinging to wakefulness, to life.

Then came the coughing—harsh, unrelenting. Blood spilled from his lips, staining the sheets beneath him a deep, dark red.

His salvation.

I realized what he meant. It wasn’t life. It wasn’t healing. It was death.

A creature caught between worlds, unable to heal, unable to die. Trapped where no gods, no divines, would claim him. Not Father. Not even Bal himself.

I reached for a cup of water, my hands unsteady as I filled it, but before I could lift it to his lips, his trembling fingers pushed it aside. They clutched at my wrist instead—desperate, shaking. The cup tumbled from my grasp, water spilling across the floor.

His eyes, faded and glassy, met mine. There was something still alive in them, just barely. Clinging to the last ember of existence.

“It means what it means,” he murmured, his breath unsteady. Another cough wracked his frame. Blood again. “It was you. It had always been you.”

Me?

“I don’t understand,” I whispered, my voice breaking under the weight of my own helplessness. Even now, even at death’s edge, he still spoke in riddles, still wove his words in circles I could never untangle.

“Don’t,” he purred weakly. “Just, please… don’t go until I—”

“Stop.”

I pulled my hand back, and his own fell to the bed like a lifeline cut. As if I had been the only thing tethering him to this world.

“We will find a way.” I swore.

A small, breathless chuckle slipped from his lips, but it quickly turned into another fit of coughing—deep, ragged, unrelenting. Blood splattered onto the bedding, onto the floor. His eyes rolled back again, and for a terrible moment, I thought he was slipping away for good.

“Gabriel!” I called, my voice sharp with urgency, though I already knew the healer had given up long ago.

Footsteps. A shadow in the doorway.

But before Gabriel stepped in, I saw her .

Oh no.

Fen stood just beyond the threshold, frozen in place. Bloodshot eyes bore into mine, filled with something I couldn’t yet name—hurt, betrayal, fury.

She had heard.

All of it.

My stomach turned to stone.

Gabriel pushed past her, rushing to Amon’s side. But I couldn’t move, couldn’t speak.

Because Fen knew .

 

To be continued…

Chapter 30: Chapter 30

 

4E, 180

 

“Babysitting?” The Half-Elf's voice cracked through the stone chamber, raw with disbelief and resentment. His dark hair clung to his sweat-dampened skin, and his bright blue eyes gleamed with barely contained fury. “That’s my duty, Father?”

The elder God stood unmoved. His gaze, cold as the tundras of Atmora, bore into his son with the weight of millennia. The sorrow etched into his features did not soften his stance; it only made the disappointment cut deeper.

“When the time is right, the girl must reach Sovngarde,” the father declared, his voice like iron striking stone. The chamber walls swallowed his words, but they rang in the young Half-Elf's chest, settling into something heavy and suffocating.

The son let out a harsh breath, his fingers curling into fists. “You’ve kept me locked away for too long,” he spat, the chains of memory heavier than any physical bonds. “All for what? Because I sought power? Because I refused to rot in mediocrity like you wanted?”

The father exhaled slowly, as if even acknowledging such foolishness exhausted him. “You are lucky enough to have escaped those savages in that castle.” he said, his voice sharp as an executioner’s blade.

The son laughed bitterly. “Escaped? That’s what you call it? You think I ran from them?” He took a step forward, defiance burning in his veins. “I was made into something greater. You call them savages, but they gave me strength. Strength you never gave me.”

The father’s gaze darkened. “You call this hunger for power strength? You turned yourself into a monster, and you dare speak to me of greatness?”

The words landed like hammer blows, but the son did not flinch. He had already been broken and remade, shaped by his own ambitions. Yet, beneath his bravado, a flicker of desperation stirred. He had suffered too long in this cell, stripped of the very power he had sold his soul for. He would take any salvation, any path to freedom, even if it meant bending to his father’s will—for now.

“I am your son now, aren’t I?” he challenged, though the words tasted like ash on his tongue.

The father did not hesitate. “This changes nothing.” he said. His voice was a wall, immovable and final. “Until you take her there, you will remain in the form you chose so eagerly—a shame, a creature of the night, the very thing you let yourself become.”

The son stiffened. He had expected rage, but this quiet condemnation cut far deeper. He had already lost his freedom, his dignity. But this? This was the loss of something he hadn't even realized he still craved.

His father’s back was already turning when the final blow came.

“Until you get her safely to Tsun,” the elder god said, “until your task is complete—” He hesitated, as if giving his son one last chance to prove him wrong. But no redemption came.

The words fell, cold and merciless,

“You are not my son.”

A sharp breath, then silence.

The son’s fingers trembled. His bright blue eyes, the same shade as his father’s, welled with tears, though he refused to let them fall. He had failed him in ways beyond counting, but to hear it spoken—to hear it made real—shattered something inside him.

For a moment, the father allowed himself to grieve.

Once, long ago, he had looked into those same blue eyes and seen a future worth believing in. But that future had burned away, swallowed by ambition, by choices that could never be undone.

Still, despite it all, he clung to the last hope that his son would return from this trial as something more than what he had become.

And the girl would be safe.

That, at least, was certain.

 

To be continued…

Chapter 31: Chapter 31

“Fen, I—”

I rose from my seat, my hands trembling as I reached out, desperate to close the ever-widening chasm between us. “I can explain.” The words came weak, fragile, already breaking apart before they even reached her.

A twisted smile flickered across her lips—bitter, hollow. It was a mask, barely holding together beneath the raw fury in her eyes. The tears pooling there didn’t soften her rage; they only sharpened it.

“Explain?” she hissed, the word dripping with venom. “Explain what, Nio? How much of a hypocrite you are?”

She stepped back as if my very presence burned her, as if I had become something repulsive, something she couldn’t bear to be near.

“Please…” My voice was barely more than a breath, trembling as I took a hesitant step forward. The space between us stretched like an abyss, widening with every heartbeat, and the farther she withdrew, the heavier my chest became. It felt like the ground itself was crumbling away beneath me, leaving me stranded, reaching for something just out of grasp. “Please, let me talk to you.”

“Talk?” She let out a sharp, humorless laugh, the sound cutting through me like a blade. “I can’t even look at you.”

Then she turned, her steps quick and deliberate, carrying her toward Gabriel and Amon as if seeking refuge in their presence. As if I had become a danger to her. The rejection hit harder than I could have ever imagined, a phantom blade driven straight into my ribs.

“Sister, I—”

“Sister?” She spun to face me, and the word came out cracked, as if it physically hurt her to say it. The weight of it trembled on her tongue before crashing down between us, shattering into a thousand jagged pieces. Her eyes, once so full of trust, now held nothing but betrayal. The look alone made something deep inside me break.

“Sister,” she repeated, stepping forward now, her voice raw, her fists clenched at her sides. The dam had broken. The tears she had been holding back finally spilled over, leaving streaks of anguish down her cheeks. “Now you remember we’re sisters?”

“Sisters!” Gabriel’s voice rang out, urgent, a futile attempt to cut through the storm. But it was too late. The battle had already begun. We were locked in this moment, our souls crashing against each other, neither of us willing—neither of us able—to back down.

Fen’s breath hitched as she stared at me, as if she were truly seeing me for the first time. And whatever she saw in me, she despised.

“I should have known.” Her voice wavered, thick with emotion, but her eyes… her eyes had gone cold. “I should have seen it coming. I should have realized you were never really one of us.”

The words cut deeper than any blade ever could. A slow, deliberate carving away of something I had thought unbreakable.

I tried to speak—to explain, to plead—but the words caught in my throat, strangled by the weight of the truth.

Fen’s gaze hardened, her face twisting into something caught between sorrow and fury. “The mighty, pretty Ashenblade,” she sneered, her voice laced with venom. A bitter smile ghosted her lips, even as fresh tears streaked down her cheeks. “Speaker and Listener’s favorite. I knew it the moment you walked in… we were doomed. You never truly belonged here. Not with us.”

The words struck like a lash, sharp and unforgiving. I had never imagined Fen would look at me this way, let alone say something so cruel. It hollowed out something inside me, left a raw, aching space where our bond had once been. I opened my mouth, but no words came—only the tight, unbearable knot in my throat.

“Sisters, please!” Gabriel’s voice cut through the tension, firm but weary. He stepped forward, exasperation flickering beneath his usual calm. “Take this outside. This isn’t helping anyone.”

I tore my gaze away from Fen, my eyes landing on Gabriel. He was trying to feed Amon, his movements strained, his patience wearing thin. Amon, however, looked as though he weren’t even there—silent, detached, slipping away into some distant place only he could reach.

I swallowed hard, nodding.

Pride tasted bitter on my tongue as I stepped back, retreating before Fen could hurl more words like blades. I turned on my heel, forcing my legs to move, forcing my breath to stay steady. But each step felt heavier than the last, and the tears I had long learned to bury burned at the edges of my vision. Fen’s words had cracked something in me, something I had thought was unshakable.

But I couldn’t break. Not now. Not ever.

I could fix this.

I had to fix this.

Think.

I climbed the stairs, one floor, then another, my mind racing, grasping for a solution that refused to come. By the time I reached the courtyard, the open air hit me like a wave, cool and sharp against my burning skin. My breath came deep and ragged as I gripped the stone railing, holding on as if the ground beneath me was no longer steady.

Think of something.

Fen was right.

She was right.

I deserved the accusations, the hatred, the grudge she would probably hold against me forever. It wasn’t just about Amon—it never had been. Beyond her newfound love for him, it was the disappointment that had driven her words, the realization that I could go so far as to hurt one of our own.

Even if Amon had only been an initiate, even if he never truly belonged here, he was one of us.

And that was all that mattered.

Once you walked with the Void, it became your family, your home. Your shelter, if you were a lost soul.

Like me. Like I once was. Like her. 

“Fuck!”

The curse tore from my lips before I could stop it. The frustration, the self-loathing, the sickening weight of my own actions—I couldn’t hold it in. My foot lashed out, striking the side of the stone railing with enough force to send pain jolting up my leg. It wasn’t enough. It would never be enough.

Think.

Then—

“A curse.”

The voice came from the shadows, slithering into the night like an echo of my own torment.

I tensed, whirling around, but the darkness was thick, the moonless sky offering no answers.

“A gift.”

The voice stepped closer, finally revealing itself under the faint glow of distant torchlight.

Cicero.

“A song of doom .”

I exhaled sharply, dragging my gaze upward, as if the stars held some hidden answer, some truth I had yet to see. Anything to avoid the jester’s infuriating, unwelcome presence.

The courtyard had been the only place I could run to. Now, even here, I wasn’t alone.

“What do you want , Cicero?” I hissed, refusing to meet his ever-maddening gaze. Instead, I turned my back on him, leaning against the railing, forcing my eyes to the abyss beyond.

But the Keeper was silent. For once.

And yet, his footsteps carried him closer, until he stood beside me, his presence a whisper against the night.

“Cicero knows,” he murmured, voice lilting like a melody just shy of discord, “sees—the ways to kill, and the ways to mend.”

A sharp sigh slipped past my lips. My head tilted just enough to glance at him, his expression unreadable, his usual wildness tempered by something cold. Almost sharp. Rare .

“Please,” I scoffed. “Spare me the riddles.”

“Riddles?” He echoed, his grin stretching wide—too wide.

Then, laughter.

A shrill, grating sound that sliced through the stillness like a blade, jagged and unrelenting. My hands curled into fists, nails biting into my palms as I swallowed the urge to strangle him.

“Then let me give you one , sister,” he crooned, his voice dripping with mischief. “If you’re so eager.”

I clenched my jaw, my patience fraying at the seams. “Fuck.” I muttered under my breath, my gaze snapping back to the sky.

Why can’t the lunatic just go away ?

“Ah, listen close, dear sister of the night. They say the damned must sip their killer’s blight.”

I exhaled sharply, pinching the bridge of my nose. “Here we go.” My fingers dragged over my temple, bracing for the inevitable nonsense, the usual performance.

But Cicero’s voice didn’t dance with its usual manic glee.

“A draught that burns with searing, fiery might, yet chills the veins like winter’s cruel bite.”

Something in his tone shifted—a quiet, unsettling gravity settling beneath the words. It was the calm before the storm, and my ears caught it. My body tensed before I could stop it.

He tilted his head, grinning just enough to unnerve. 

“In that twisted brew, healing and havoc entwine—”

His voice lingered on the air, stretching the silence just long enough for the weight of it to settle in my chest.

Then, as I turned my gaze to him, the final verse landed like a blade pressed to my throat:

“Will you mend your heart… or seal your fate divine?”

I swallowed, my mouth suddenly dry.

For once, I had no sharp response.

To be continued…

Chapter 32: Chapter 32

Somewhere in the thin veil of my dreamless sleep, I heard them. Voices—distant at first, a cacophony like wind howling through the trees, yet sharpening with each repetition, as if parting the fog of unconsciousness. For the first time, I could make out the words. A language unknown to me, yet strangely familiar, each syllable cutting through the stillness like the edge of a blade.

“Faal suut meyz, tiid los kosaan.”

The words sent a tremor through me. I willed myself to wake, to break free from the suffocating weight of sleep, but my body betrayed me. My eyelids were stone, unyielding no matter how desperately I tried to lift them.

“Bo, zok laan, ahrk laan, ven maar do tiid!”

The voices grew louder, closer—insistent. The unknown language pressed against my mind like a puzzle I was meant to solve, yet the meaning eluded me. I struggled, caught in the void between sleep and waking, trapped in a prison of my own body.

Then, a final command, sharp as a battle cry:

“Vis krif!”

A gasp tore from my throat as I shot upright, lungs burning as if I had surfaced from drowning. My chest heaved, but no breath seemed enough—air itself felt thin, fleeting, slipping through me as though the world had momentarily forgotten how to sustain me.

What was that? Who is speaking to me?

Wild-eyed, I scanned the room, searching for a presence I already knew wasn’t there. Shadows stretched long in the darkness, undisturbed. Not even the creak of my bed broke the silence as I shifted.

And yet, I wasn’t alone.

My head pulsed with a dull, relentless ache, each thought sending a fresh spike of pain through my skull. The voices had vanished, yet their presence lingered—a ghost of sound, an echo pressing against the edges of my mind.

Am I going mad?

Since my return from Markarth—they had been silent. But tonight, they had been clearer than ever. Urgent. Commanding.

I still didn’t understand the words, but I understood their weight.

They are calling for me.

A shiver crept down my spine as I pressed my fingertips to my temple, trying to knead away the ache that settled there. The silence was almost worse than the voices. Because now, I knew.

They weren’t going away.

And they wouldn’t stop until I listened.

Leaving my room, I stepped into the hall, its vast emptiness magnified by the first pale slivers of dawn creeping through the cracks in the wooden beams. The air was still, thick with the remnants of last night’s gatherings, yet the silence was telling—no one was awake. Or so I thought.

A lone figure sat at the far end of the hall, barely a shadow against the dim light. I hadn’t noticed him at first, but my senses caught up before my eyes did—his scent, unmistakable, tinged with mead and something heavier, something bitter.

“Arnbjorn?”

He stirred slightly, lifting his head from where it had nearly slumped against his tankard. His grip on the cup was loose, unsteady, and when his empty gaze met mine, it was clear he had long since lost himself in whatever thoughts plagued him.

“A bit early for drinking, isn’t it?” My voice carried more concern than I intended, but I couldn’t mask the curiosity curling at the edges of my words. Arnbjorn wasn’t one to sit here alone. Usually, if he was in the hall, Astrid was by his side. Something was off.

He didn’t answer, nor did he look inclined to. Instead, he raised the cup to his lips and drank, as if my presence was as inconsequential as the growing daylight.

I let out a quiet breath and stepped further inside, making my way toward his table. The dryness in my throat scratched like sandpaper, so I reached for one of the tankards, filling it with water in an attempt to soothe the lingering discomfort.

Whatever weighed on Arnbjorn, it was heavy enough to pull him from the comfort of his bed before sunrise.

“Early enough for you to piss off.”

His words were thick with drink, slurred and gruff. Arnbjorn and I had never been close, but I knew him well enough—he was a good Nord at heart. Too good to be an assassin, even.

I sighed, letting the silence stretch between us as I drank from my tankard, the cool water pressing down the burn in my throat.

“Astrid?”

His eyes snapped up from his drink, sharpening in an instant. The mead haze that had dulled them just moments ago burned away, leaving only something raw. I hadn’t asked out of concern for him—I didn’t care enough for that. But if Arnbjorn was here, alone, drinking at this hour, it meant one thing.

Astrid had sent him away.

Something had happened. And I wanted to know.

Lately, she’d been restless. Sleepless. Drinking too much. She carried herself with that same iron-clad confidence, but I could see the cracks forming beneath it. Now here he was, stewing in his sorrow, and it was clear—whatever was wrong had only gotten worse.

“Mind yer own damn business, Ash.”

“She is my business,” I shot back. “And stop making up names for me, would you?”

He scoffed. “Ain’t callin’ you sister . And those names of yours? Long. Stupid.”

He shook his head and downed the rest of his drink, finally meeting my gaze.

“Fine.” I scoffed right back, pushing myself up from my seat. He was useless. As a man, as an assassin. The only reason he was here at all was because Astrid loved him—loved him more than she loved the rest of her faithful dogs.

My gaze lingered on him, brow furrowed, wondering—not for the first time—what exactly she had seen in him.

Then, just as I turned to leave, his voice cut through the silence.

“The Black Hand.”

I froze.

“They’re comin’.”

 

---

 

“Magnificent!” The voice of Festus echoed in the quiet infirmary, piercing the air with its unnerving cheerfulness. I hesitated at the door, a knot tightening in my stomach as I braced myself for whatever bizarre comment he was about to make. “Truly magnificent.” he repeated, his words dripping with a twisted enthusiasm.

I forced my gaze past the cluttered shelves and into the dimly lit room where Amon lay—still and silent, his body unmoving save for the faint rise and fall of his chest. He looked far worse than he had days ago, his skin almost pallid in the low light. His usual presence, so commanding, was nowhere to be found.

“What is it?” I stepped into the room, moving closer to Amon’s bed. My arms crossed tightly over my chest, instinctively warding off whatever unsettling thought Festus was preparing to share. “What’s got you so excited?”

Festus didn’t immediately respond. His thin lips twisted into a peculiar smile, his eyes gleaming with a morbid curiosity. Then, as if he couldn’t contain himself, he let it spill out.

“The death of an immortal, of course! Never witnessed anything like it. The ebb and flow of life… or the lack thereof. A fascinating thing, really. A glimpse into a world beyond our grasp.” His words sent a chill down my spine, twisting something deep inside of me. He might have been old and eccentric, but there was something inherently unnerving about the way he spoke.

I couldn’t tear my eyes away from Amon’s still form. It was hard to believe he was here, that this was happening. He was supposed to be something more than human—something untouchable by death.

“He’s not dead.” I muttered, almost to myself.

“He is not living either,” Festus responded quickly, his voice strangely eager. He stood with his hands clasped behind his back, an old habit of his when he wanted to look particularly self-important. His gaze shifted briefly to Gabriel, who stood silently by the bed, watching the scene unfold. “Gabriel, you must promise me, when it happens… when he crosses the line—let me know. The thought of witnessing such a thing sends a shiver through my old bones. It’s almost too much to bear,” he added, a dark gleam in his eyes.

Sick bastard.

The words slipped from my mouth before I could stop them, cold and cutting: “Get out, Krex. And quick. I don’t care how old you are.”

The room felt smaller, the air heavier, as if the very walls were pressing in on me. I knew it was difficult to face, to confront the reality that Amon might not pull through. But Festus’s gleeful fascination with the prospect of an immortal’s death made me want to turn away in disgust. I didn’t want to witness it, let alone hear it from him.

I stood, trembling, yet with a quiet resolve. The truth was hard to face, but it was inescapable.

Amon wasn’t just any immortal. He was the one thing I hadn’t expected to care about. And if this was the end… I wasn’t prepared for it.

“How long?” The question slipped out before I could stop it. My throat felt tight, my chest heavy with the weight of the uncertainty I could no longer ignore. Gabriel only shrugged, a gesture that offered no comfort.

“He’s caught between, that’s all I can say. Not quite dead, not quite alive. It could be any moment, but never at once.” Gabriel murmured, his voice distant, as if he himself wasn’t sure of the meaning behind his words.

The cryptic answer did nothing to ease the confusion and growing frustration gnawing at me. My brow furrowed, my lips pressing into a thin line. “How long?”

He met my gaze for a brief moment, sensing the frustration building inside me, before his expression softened. “It seems soon enough.” he added, his voice tinged with a sadness that couldn’t be ignored.

I closed my eyes for a moment, trying to block out the barrage of thoughts that threatened to overwhelm me. It felt like I’d been hearing the same thing over and over—he wasn’t dead, but he wasn’t living, either. And each time, the weight of those words seemed heavier than the last.

“Keep an eye on him, will you?” Gabriel’s tone softened, almost as if he was trying to ease the burden. “I need to gather some herbs for his medication. It won’t be long.”

I nodded, the movement mechanical, my eyes lingering on Amon’s still form as Gabriel turned to leave, his footsteps echoing softly in the hallway.

And then I was left with him. The silence of the room felt suffocating.

I sank into the chair by his side, my gaze tracing his face. Each passing day seemed to drain the color from him. His skin had turned ghostly pale, and his hair had lost its luster, now a dull, lifeless white. The longer I stared, the more I felt his figure begin to fade, as though the essence of him was slowly slipping through my fingers.

It was as though life itself was bleeding from him—his immortality, the one thing that had always set him apart from everyone else, was beginning to unravel. And I wasn’t sure how to stop it.

The exhaustion hit me then, the kind that settles deep in your bones. My hand instinctively reached for his, my fingers brushing against his cold skin. The warmth of his presence was still there, faint but real, and I couldn’t help but cling to it as I leaned back in my chair, my head tilting back in weariness.

“I am here.” I whispered into the stillness, the words slipping past my lips before I could stop them. My voice was soft, barely a murmur, and I couldn’t tell if he could hear me—whether his mind was too far beyond the veil of sleep to grasp the meaning behind my words. But in that moment, it didn’t matter.

I was here.

And for now, that was all I could give him.

The situation was hopeless. No cure, no way out.

I could feel the weight of that truth settling over me like a heavy shroud, suffocating the air from my lungs. My thoughts began to unravel, and I clung to the one thing that had once felt real—our first encounter.

It had been at the Pale, at that crossroads, the fog swirling around us like the mysteries of fate itself. He stood there, waiting for me. I didn’t know why or how, but somehow, I knew he was waiting for me . Of all the people, it had to be me.

And in some twisted way, it almost felt like a strange stroke of luck— his luck, or perhaps mine. But then, I wondered if it was a curse disguised as a blessing. Was I the answer he had been looking for, or was I the beginning of something far darker?

I couldn’t tell anymore.

The moment his eyes locked with mine for the first time—piercing, as if they could see straight into my soul—it stole my breath away. I couldn’t make sense of it. Was it the haunting color of his eyes, shifting between shades that didn’t belong to this world? Or was it the way his smile curved, enigmatic and knowing?

In that instant, everything else faded away.

I never did figure it out. But now, it didn’t matter.

My fingers grazed the long-healed scar on my neck, the one he had left behind. The rush of blood surged to my cheeks as I recalled the feel of his tongue across that very same scar, the coldness of his blade, the way his presence had slipped into me like poison.

It was the moment I had fallen.

The moment I had been vulnerable in a way I loathed, and the memory of that vulnerability was a jagged reminder of my own powerlessness.

Maybe that was why I hated him.

Because he reminded me of how little control I had, how easily I had crumbled beneath his touch. How effortlessly he had carved his mark on me—physically, yes, but more so in ways that went deeper, that I couldn’t escape.

I hated him for making me feel weak. For making me feel helpless.

I remembered his voice, low and raspy, brushing against my skin in the dark. The first time it made me shiver in a way I couldn’t understand.

“Cold,” he had murmured, “yet hot.”

The words lingered, etched into my mind like some twisted riddle. I didn’t know why they had stirred something deep inside me, something I had no intention of naming. Something I didn’t want to acknowledge, but couldn’t ignore. The way his touch had felt—like fire and ice in a single breath. And his comment on my blood, the first time he had tasted it, still haunted me. What had he meant by that? What was his purpose in doing so?

It wasn’t just his touch, or the lingering sensation of his mouth on my skin. It was how he made my heart race, made my thoughts scatter in disarray. How he drove me to the edge of something I couldn’t define, made my mind scream for help—and for more.

That was why I hated him, I thought. Because every part of me was torn between loathing and desire, between the cold and the heat.

But then—

I felt a jolt run through me, and I shot up from my chair, my breath sharp in the sudden silence. The absurd words of the jester came rushing back to me, unbidden.

“A draught that burns with searing, fiery might, yet chills the veins like winter’s cruel bite.”

Cicero.

My eyes widened as the realization hit me, and I cursed under my breath.

Oh, that lunatic. That fool.

“In that twisted brew, healing and havoc entwine—”

“Amon!” My voice was frantic, desperate. I shook him, my hands trembling with a growing dread that gripped my chest. His eyelids remained firmly shut, unyielding. “Amon, wake up!”

There was no response.

“Wake up!” I shouted again, trying to force him into awareness, but his body remained limp, lifeless against the bed.

Is he gone?

The thought struck me like a knife, and for a moment, I felt the world tilt beneath me. My heart, once pounding, now seemed to stop altogether, a hollow silence filling the space around me. The next beat never came.

No. No, not yet.

I shot up in a panic, eyes darting around the room as I searched for anything, anything to bring him back. My gaze fell upon a bucket of water on the counter. Without thinking, I reached out with my magic, a cold rush of power flowing through me, freezing the water until it was as cold as ice itself. Then, with a forceful motion, I threw it over his body, watching as he jerked in response to the shock.

Not this time.

His body twitched, his eyes fluttered, and he murmured, “What…” His voice was weak, his gaze unfocused, but I could see the confusion and uncertainty in his eyes as he turned toward me. His damp hair clung to his forehead, dripping with cold water.

“Shh,” I whispered, pressing my hand to his lips to silence him. My heart was hammering in my chest. “Keep your strength now.”

Not again.

His brow furrowed, his voice barely above a whisper, “Nio, what are you—”

“Trust me, okay?” I said, my eyes locking with his, willing him to understand, to fight. I slowly lowered myself to kneel beside him, my heart aching with each passing moment.

He stared at me, confusion still in his eyes, but I would rather have him lost in confusion than to see that emptiness—the void that had haunted me in my nightmares for the last few days. It was a darkness I couldn’t escape. It reminded me of my own guilt, a weight I carried with every breath.

After a long pause, he finally managed to murmur, “Always.” His voice was weak but resolute, and he nodded slightly, trying to reassure me.

I had to try. I had to see, to know if this would work. The weight of the decision pressed on me with every breath, but there was no other choice.

I reached for the end table, my fingers trembling as I grasped a sharp tool—Gabriel’s, though I had no idea what it was meant for. Its cold metal seemed to pulse with an ominous energy as I lifted it, feeling the sharp edge against my palm. Without hesitation, I dragged it across my skin, wincing as a trickle of red blood began to flow, spilling recklessly down my wrist and dripping onto the floor and the side of Amon’s bed.

I watched as the blood pooled, but my attention quickly returned to him. His eyes, still heavy with sleep, met mine. I saw the flash of confusion in them, the hesitation. But I couldn’t afford indecision.

One more look into his eyes. This time, there was no room for fear. I pressed my bleeding hand to his mouth, feeling the warmth of his breath against my skin as he stared at me, uncertain.

He hesitated for a moment, his gaze flickering between my eyes and the blood. Then, perhaps sensing my desperation—or perhaps something deeper, something that bound us—I saw the hesitation break. His mouth parted slightly, and with a quiet gasp, he leaned forward.

Slowly at first, as if testing the waters, his lips touched my hand. He drew the blood in cautiously, almost reverently. But then, something shifted. His grip tightened around my wrist, his hold morphing from a gentle touch to something desperate, something primal.

His hunger began to overpower him, and I felt the pull of his need, the weight of his longing to live, to survive. Each pull was stronger than the last, his body trembling slightly as he drank, and I could feel the sensation seeping into me, as if a part of me was being drawn away, feeding him.

It had to work. It was the only chance we had.

The cold rush of fear that gripped me before had faded, replaced by a quiet hope. A hope that perhaps, just perhaps, Cicero’s riddle was more than nonsense. That the impossible could be achieved. That maybe, in this moment, I could fix what had been broken.

The sensation was soft at first, like a gentle pressure beneath the surface, but soon it began to spread, seeping through my arm, my chest, my entire body. Slowly but surely, Amon was taking it in—taking me in. And to my relief, nothing happened. No burning, no sickness like Gabriel had warned. He didn’t spit it out. He didn’t recoil. Instead, he fed , drawing from me with an intensity that made my heart skip.

And with each pull, I willed it—no, I prayed—that the impossible was about to become possible. That whatever strange magic was at work here, whatever force had guided us to this moment, would allow it to work.

Then, with a sharp tug, Amon yanked me closer. His eyes, once hazy and unfocused, locked onto mine. The crimson burned brightly, fierce with hunger—there was no mistaking it. It wasn’t a mere desire; it was raw, unrelenting hunger. Starvation. He needed it, as much as I needed to give it.

“Trust me?” he asked, his voice low, rough, like the rasp of something ancient clawing to the surface.

I froze for a moment, uncertainty gnawing at the edge of my mind. What was he asking for? What was he about to do? It was unlike him to ask for permission. It made him feel… vulnerable in a way I wasn’t used to. Like someone else entirely.

“Will you mend your heart… or seal your fate divine?”

“Always.” The words slipped from my lips before I could second-guess them.

With that, he pushed himself up from the bed, his body trembling with the effort, and before I could brace myself, he collapsed onto me, his weight driving me into the cold floor. The air rushed from my lungs with a soft grunt as my back hit the stone, the impact jarring, but all I could do was look up at him. The apology in his gaze was instant, and I saw it flicker for a moment—the kind of apology that came not with words, but with a look that spoke of regret and guilt.

I didn’t have time to respond before he let my hand fall from his mouth, his own hand covering mine, and then—without hesitation—he lowered himself down to my neck.

And suddenly, I was transported back to that moment. The same vulnerability. The same fall .

The bite was not painful, his fangs slid into the scar, reopening it with a smoothness that made my breath catch. There was no sting, no sharp agony like the first time. This was different. It was… intimate. Almost tender.

And then the sensation began, unlike anything I had ever felt before. I felt like his presence consumed me, drawing everything into focus in a way I couldn’t describe.

I could feel it, the intoxication that spread through my veins, filling me up and emptying me at the same time. His bite, his presence, everything about him—every drop of blood that slipped from me—was a wave of contradiction. It was a pull, a draining, a giving, and yet, there was a strange comfort in it. His teeth at my neck were both a violation and an offering.

I didn’t know why I did it, but my fingers moved instinctively, threading through his hair, pulling him closer. I felt his warmth against me, his body pressing down with every shift, every movement. I had no words for it. No understanding. Just the instinct to hold on, to keep him near. It felt like an unspoken need—something deeper than anything I had felt before. My body, my blood, my soul—they all seemed to call for him.

And then, the heat started to pool in my core, building with every breath, every heartbeat. My legs pressed together instinctively as his body pressed against mine, and I felt the pull between us. Was this… what it was like? To be consumed like this? To feel every inch of him? The warmth, the weight, the intimacy—was this truly what the vampires’ bite felt like?

The blend of sensations was overwhelming. A crushing wave of violence and something far deeper, more primal. Was it always this way? To be prey, to be the hunt? To feel that thrill, the fear mingling with arousal, the danger and the need?

And yet… I felt something more in it than I never expected. A strange, violent beauty that seemed to pull me in further, to make me question everything I had ever known.

Was it this beautiful, every time? Or was it something about him , about us, that made this moment unlike any other?

As my thoughts flitted to him and Fen, I felt the sharp, irrational sting of jealousy gnawing at me, a bitter taste in the back of my throat. But even as it rose, it felt like a fleeting shadow, insignificant in comparison to what I was experiencing now. Did she feel this way? Did Fen tremble the way I did under his touch, desperately holding back the sounds that threatened to spill from my lips?

I wanted to pull away from the thoughts, but they wouldn’t release their grip. And yet, even as jealousy clawed at my insides, it seemed irrelevant. Unimportant. The feelings that stirred within me in this moment felt far stronger, far more consuming. I had made my choice, and there was no room for doubt, no space for regret.

The moment stretched on, each second a lifetime, every breath shared between us, every pulse in my neck, his lips, his teeth, a promise and a reminder. We existed in this space together, and that was all that mattered now.

The world around me was slowly dimming, the edges of my vision blurring, and I couldn’t tell if it was the darkness creeping in or if it was him, pulling the life from me in the most intimate way possible. 

Is he draining me?

Panic flared within me, a brief flicker that stirred my senses. I felt the tension in my body, a sudden surge of fear that I might not wake up from this. But even as that fear rose, something deeper, something darker, held me still. I couldn’t stop him. I wouldn’t.

To die in the hands of a vampire didn’t seem like the horror I had always imagined. No, it was a strange sort of peace, a blissful surrender. As his mouth pressed against my neck, the bite not painful but soothing, my body, stiff with tension only moments ago, relaxed. Each pulse of blood that left me was replaced by something else—an emptiness that felt oddly comforting.

I knew I should be terrified. I knew that what he was doing could kill me, but in this moment, I didn’t want to fight it. The urge to pull away, to scream, to stop him, faded into nothing as my mind clouded with a heavy fog. I wanted to stay here. I wanted to stay with him.

I told myself it was the vampire’s power, that it was the bite’s enchantment, that it was the seduction of his hunger, that kept me here, grounded in this blissful surrender. I didn’t want to break free. Not yet. Not now.

The pull of sleep was undeniable. The weight of it pressed down on me like a physical force, lulling me further into the abyss of darkness that encroached with each passing moment. My eyelids grew heavier, my breaths more shallow, and all I could do was sink into him, into this moment, this connection. A part of me, somewhere deep inside, wanted to stay awake, to fight against the pull. But it was futile.

Sleep wrapped around me like a blanket, the weight of it almost comforting, even as it took me further away from the world I knew.

His arm tightened around my waist, lifting me with a tenderness that contrasted the urgency in his movements. His body pressed against mine, and even through the layers of clothing between us, I could feel the frantic thrum of his heartbeat against my chest. It was like a rhythm of life—steady, strong, insistent—and in that moment, it gave me a hope I had not allowed myself to feel before.

He will live.

The weight of that thought settled within me, a promise I had made to myself and to him. He would survive this.

But as the world tilted and my vision blurred further, I could feel the pull of sleep, the gentle tug of darkness urging me to give in. My body felt heavy, my limbs unresponsive, but his arms around me kept me tethered to the waking world.

This time, he will live.

To be continued…

Chapter 33: Chapter 33

 

“What in Oblivion happened here?”

“Gabriel! What is this about?”

The distant voices, familiar yet fractured, sliced through the fog of my sleep. They felt like shards of glass, each one piercing deeper into my subconscious.

“Speaker, I—”

“I told you, love, I told you it wasn’t a good idea to keep him!”

“Shut up, Arnbjorn!”

The words crashed into me, forcing me to pry my eyes open. The light, dim but sharp, seared my senses like a fresh wound. I blinked through the pain, the world slowly coming into focus. My gaze turned toward the source of the voices, their footsteps echoing closer with a furious rhythm.

Astrid, with Gabriel and Arnbjorn in tow, stormed into the infirmary, fury burning in her eyes like a wildfire. She looked nothing short of relentless.

And then, the truth crashed into me like a tidal wave. My position. My body sprawled across Amon’s chest, his arms around me like iron, holding me against him with an unyielding grip. My heart skipped a beat, sending shockwaves of panic through my veins.

“Niolenyl!” Astrid’s voice rang in my ears, sharp and frantic as I struggled to sit up, her words jarring enough to snap Amon awake. His eyes snapped open, instantly narrowing at the sight of her. A quiet tension pulsed between them.

“What is this?” Astrid’s question hung in the air, heavy and accusing, aimed at both of us.

The dizziness hit me again, a wave that made my vision blur, my legs shaky beneath me. I stumbled to my feet, my balance teetering like a flame caught in a breeze. It was then that I saw it—the blood. My blood. Streaked across our clothes, staining the floor beneath us. And there, trickling down Amon’s lips, a slow trail of crimson that made the air feel thicker, heavier.

Amon rose swiftly, steadying me with a hand on my waist, his touch softer than I expected, almost tender in its gentleness. But it was too soft—too gentle, considering the blood that painted both our bodies.

“Astrid, I—”

The words felt foreign on my tongue, caught between the fog of my mind and the weight of the moment.

“What have you done?” Astrid spat, her voice thick with disbelief and anger as she took a step closer, her gaze flicking between us, demanding answers.

And then, Amon spoke, his voice calm, almost detached in its certainty.

“She saved me.”

The fog in my mind began to clear, a fractured memory slipping into place—the bite, the draining sensation as my life slipped away from me, the heavy, dreamless sleep that followed. So that was it. I hadn’t died. Instead, I had been cradled by Amon, caught between the realms of life and death, suspended in a sleep that was as endless as it was silent.

Astrid’s eyes darted between us, confusion and disbelief wrestling within them. She couldn’t fathom what had happened. Neither could I.

“Impossible!” Gabriel’s voice was laced with disbelief as he stepped closer, his gaze darting between Amon and me, as if searching for some unspoken truth written across our faces. His eyes traced every detail, trying to piece together the puzzle, yet seeing Amon standing tall, unscathed, should have been proof enough. “How could this be?”

“You can drown in the details later,” Amon’s voice cut through the tension, colder now, sharper than before. “She needs to rest.”

I felt my legs wobble beneath me, like they were too fragile to hold my weight. The dizziness twisted my mind in a suffocating haze, and I could feel myself leaning further into Amon’s steady grip, my only anchor to the world around me. The effort to stand straight was unbearable, each second a struggle not to collapse.

“What have you done to her?” Astrid’s voice was an icy blade, slicing through the already-thick air. Her fury burned in her words, and I couldn’t bring myself to meet her gaze. I knew what she saw—blood, pain, and a nightmare she wasn’t ready to confront.

Amon, however, stood silent, his expression unreadable. There was nothing he needed to say. The truth was written on my skin, in the bite mark on my neck, and in the blood that stained us both. Astrid didn’t need the details.

I didn’t need to hear them.

“Nearly killed her, it seems! Look at her! She’s as pale as a snowflake!” Arnbjorn’s voice was a low growl, thick with accusation.

“I would never do that, wolf.” Amon’s words were quick, sharp, cutting through Arnbjorn’s fury like a knife. There was a flicker of something dark, almost mocking, in his voice as he leaned into the tension. “Unlike you, I’m good at keeping myself together when I turn into the monster I am.”

“You little—” Arnbjorn’s fists clenched, his anger crackling in the air between us, but before he could take another step, Astrid’s commanding voice rang out, cutting him off.

“Take her to her room.” Her tone left no room for argument. “Gabriel, make sure she recovers quickly.”

“Of course, Speaker,” Gabriel responded swiftly, his voice more composed now, though still tinged with concern. He stepped forward, his presence a quiet reassurance, but his eyes flickered to Amon briefly, his discomfort palpable.

With one last, lingering glare in my direction, Astrid turned sharply, her cloak swirling behind her as she strode out of the infirmary, followed by Arnbjorn, who shot one last menacing glance before the door closed behind them.

As the sound of their footsteps faded into the distance, a wave of exhaustion crashed over me, too heavy to fight. My legs, once reliable, no longer seemed to answer my command. The effort to remain standing became unbearable, and I felt myself tipping, my body betraying me.

But before I could collapse, his hands were there—steady, unyielding. His grip tightened around me as my muscles gave way, his strength lifting me effortlessly as if I weighed nothing at all.

“I got you.”

His voice was low, steady, like a promise, and I could feel the warmth of his touch anchoring me. The dizziness intensified, my vision flickering in and out, the walls around me dimming, like I was sinking deeper into the dark.

It became a battle I knew I couldn’t win. The pull of unconsciousness was relentless, a silent whisper that invited me to surrender, to give in to the soothing oblivion.

“I got you.” His voice, firm yet comforting, repeated the words like a mantra. The steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath my ear seemed to cradle me, lulling me into submission. “Sleep.”

And with that, I allowed myself to drift. My head found its place against his chest, resting beneath his neck, the steady beat of his heart filling my senses. I let go, the world fading away as his presence became my anchor, guiding me down into the welcoming embrace of another slumber.

 

---

 

The green eyes flashed through my mind—once vibrant, filled with warmth, now emptying of life with each passing heartbeat. The relentless snowfall gathered around them, tiny flakes melting against fading heat.

Green.

The green of my childhood. The green of Elamoril’s eyes—my love, my only.

I saw the light in them dim, swallowed by the creeping dusk, like the last glow of a dying sun slipping behind the mountains. No matter how desperately I wished to hold on, to stop time, the inevitable pull of death stole the color from them, second by agonizing second.

Green.

Before it all drowned in red.

A deep ache bloomed inside my skull, sharp and unrelenting, as though my head had been split open and never mended. A dull ringing hummed through my ears, drowning out everything until—

“Gabriel!”

The voice sliced through the haze. Familiar. Desperate.

Fen.

“She’s waking up!”

I forced my eyes open, but they felt heavier than stone, my lashes sticking together like they had been sealed shut for forever. Light seared my vision, and my body protested the effort, my senses sluggish, my limbs weighed down as if shackled.

And then I saw her.

Fen’s dark blue eyes hovered above me, filled with raw concern. Bloodshot. Glassy with unshed tears. Yet, despite it all, she forced a smile.

“Finally.” she breathed, her lips curling upward as relief softened her expression.

I tried to shift, to glance around the room, but even the smallest movement sent a sharp, stabbing pain through my head. A deep throbbing spread from my temples to the base of my skull, a dull reminder that I had been broken.

“What—” The word caught in my throat, foreign and unfamiliar, as if I had forgotten how to speak. My voice was hoarse, brittle.

“What happened to me?”

The question lingered in the air, unanswered, as if even the truth feared being spoken aloud.

The world around me was a haze, shifting and unstable, but as my senses sharpened, I realized—I was in my room. The familiar scent of cold stone and aged wood grounded me, but something felt… off. Something inside me had been taken . Something felt wrong .

The door swung open with a force that rattled my skull, and Gabriel strode in, bottles clinking in his grip. He barely hesitated before pressing them into Fen’s hands. She moved to my bedside, her gaze sharp as it locked onto mine, scanning, searching.

I was awake. Yet, it felt as though I had lost something.

“Not red. That’s a good sign.”

Gabriel’s murmur was quiet, but the relief in Fen’s exhale was unmistakable. I could see it in the way her shoulders loosened, in the way her lips parted as if she’d been holding her breath for too long.

The world remained blurred at first, shifting like a dream yet to settle into focus. My body was sluggish, detached from the pulse of life around me. But with every second, I felt it creeping back—heat in my fingertips, a dull ache in my limbs. I was here. I was alive.

Gabriel carefully lifted my chin, his touch gentle but deliberate. That was when I noticed the bandages wrapped around my neck. My pulse quickened, a sickening realization creeping up my spine.

He examined the wound beneath the layers of cloth, his brow furrowing before he gave a small, satisfied nod. Without a word, Fen passed him a vial, and he took it without hesitation.

They said nothing. As if words were unnecessary. As if the only thing that mattered was me waking up .

“How long have I been—”

“Days.” Gabriel cut in before I could finish. His voice was calm, but there was a weight behind it. He pressed a damp cloth against my neck, and a sharp, searing burn shot through me. I gasped, my fingers gripping the sheets.

“You are awake, that’s all that matters for now.”

Days?

My eyes darted to Fen, searching, pleading for answers. But her lips remained pressed together, the silence thick between us.

Then, like a blade dragging across my thoughts, the memories surfaced.

The bite. The warmth draining from my body. The unbearable exhaustion pulling me into the abyss.

I tried to push myself up on my elbow, desperate to shake off the weight pressing me down, but my body refused to cooperate. My muscles trembled with the effort, useless, lifeless. I was a dead weight.

It was maddening.

“Easy.” Gabriel’s hand pressed lightly against my chest, guiding me back down. His voice was firm but not unkind. “You need more rest before you try to move.”

But I needed to get up . The bandages felt suffocating, the weight of my own weakness unbearable.

Then, as if the thought had pulled the memory from the depths—

My hand.

The one I had cut. To feed him.

My gaze lingered on my palm, the faintest tremble in my fingers. The bandages wrapped around it were stiff with dried blood.

Amon.

The name sat heavy on my tongue before I forced it out. “Amon?”

Fen’s expression flickered, something unreadable flashing across her face. I couldn’t meet her eyes as she answered.

“Dungeons.”

Cold. Detached. Yet, there was something else in the way she said it—something hesitant, something unspoken.

Dungeons?

“Where he belongs.”

Astrid’s voice cut through the air like a blade. The room seemed to shrink with her presence, the weight of her authority pressing down on all of us. Gabriel rose swiftly, straightening his posture, hands clasped before him like a soldier before his commander.

I turned my gaze to her, forcing myself to meet those sharp brown eyes. There was something burning in them—not quite fury, but certainly not concern.

“How do you feel?” she asked.

Not a question of comfort. Not a question of worry.

“I’m fine.”

The words barely left my lips before I realized how empty they sounded. A feeble attempt at reassurance. But Astrid was not one to be fooled by false strength. Her sharp brown eyes held me in place, scanning, assessing, doubting.

Her gaze flicked to Gabriel instead. “She will be better in days, for sure.” he offered, but his tone betrayed him. He was uncertain.

Astrid’s expression hardened. “We don’t have days. I need her ready for the council.”

The weight of her words settled over me like a suffocating fog. They were coming.

The Black Council.

The Speakers of the other three Sanctuaries. The true overseers of the Brotherhood, who rarely convened unless something demanded their presence.

Gabriel straightened, but his eyes remained low. “Right, Speaker.”

Astrid didn’t let the silence stretch. “Can’t you use spells?”

Gabriel’s head shook—a sharp, desperate refusal. “No spell can replace the blood she’s lost.”

The statement was final, and though my body ached with exhaustion, I felt it keenly.

Drained.

It wasn’t just the soreness, the sluggishness, or the emptiness inside me. It was a fundamental absence, a lack of something vital. My blood. My strength. It had been taken, and my body now struggled to function with what little remained.

Astrid’s sigh cut through my haze of thoughts, filled with an edge of frustration, though whether at the situation or me, I couldn’t tell.

“Do whatever’s necessary. She is important to me.”

Something inside me twisted at those words, a low rumble stirring in my chest before I even realized it.

Important?

I lifted my gaze to hers, and for the first time, I thought I saw something flicker beneath her composed exterior. Was it fear?

No—Astrid did not fear. At least, not in a way she would ever show. But there was something there, something deeper than authority, something more than necessity.

She needed me.

Not as just another blade in her arsenal, nor as another pawn on the board. She needed me intact.

She needed me alive.

Gabriel bowed his head in understanding. “We will, Speaker.”

With one last lingering glance, Astrid turned, her dark robes shifting as she moved toward the door. But in that fleeting moment, something else caught my attention— her hand.

Wrapped in fresh bandages, stark against the darkness of her clothing. She had been wounded.

The thought nagged at me. Astrid rarely took to the field herself. If she had been hurt, it meant she had fought for something—or someone.

But before I could find the words to ask, the door slammed shut behind her, leaving us in silence.

Gabriel exhaled slowly, breaking the tension she left in her wake. “Did they bring the juniper berries as I ordered?”

Fen, who had remained quiet through the exchange, nodded. “They did.”

“Good.”

Juniper berries?

I furrowed my brow, shaking my head slightly. “I can’t—”

“You will, sister.”

Gabriel leaned in, his voice gentler now, but the seriousness in his eyes remained.

“You heard Astrid. And they are necessary for the medicine.”

There was something else in his gaze—concern. Not just for my recovery. Not just because I was too weak to fight.

But because he knew something I didn’t.

I nodded softly, and Gabriel pulled back. “I’ll get the potion. Make sure she stays resting.”

Fen inclined her head in silent agreement, and without another word, Gabriel turned on his heel and left the room, his steps swift and purposeful.

The door shut behind him, and the silence that followed was heavier than before.

I exhaled slowly, leaning my head back against the pillow. My hands tightened against the sheets, the fabric bunching between my fingers as frustration welled up inside me.

How did I let this happen?

How had I let myself become this weak, this drained, this… dependent?

A sigh beside me pulled me from my thoughts.

“He will be fine.”

My gaze turned to Fen. Her blue eyes, still rimmed with red, held something distant—a cold warmth, lingering for old time’s sake.

I knew who she was speaking of. 

The mere mention of him sent my pulse stammering, a sudden, frantic rhythm against my ribs before I forced myself to breathe evenly again.

Relief washed over me, replacing the shame that had nestled in my chest since the moment I’d given him my blood. It had worked.

He is alive.

Even though it had left me like this—weak, useless, drained— it was worth it.

Was it?

The doubt gnawed at the edges of my relief, an unwelcome whisper in the back of my mind.

I swallowed, my throat aching, my voice hoarse as I finally spoke.

“I’m sorry.”

Fen’s eyes flickered, a small shift in the sea of blue as she held my gaze. Even as the whites of her eyes remained bloodshot from crying, I still didn’t know who—or what —she had wept for.

Before I could wonder, she moved. She kneeled beside the bed, her hands trembling as she reached for mine, clasping my fingers tightly within her grasp.

“No.”

Her voice cracked, breaking with something deeper than anger, deeper than grief.

She lowered her head, staring at our intertwined hands.

“I’m sorry, Nio.”

My eyes widened, a jolt of shock rushing through me, as if her words had struck a chord buried deep beneath my ribs.

“I’m sorry for the things I said,” she continued, her voice trembling. “You are my only friend. No—my sister. You always have been.”

Each syllable pressed against my chest, each breath she released tightening something raw inside me.

I could feel the sting in my eyes, the burn of unshed tears gathering at the edges. And when hers met mine—dark blue, glistening with pain—I saw it.

Regret.

A sorrow that ran deeper than words, deeper than the wounds we had inflicted upon each other by words and actions.

“Will you ever forgive me?”

My sister. My friend.

I wanted to answer her—needed to—but the question tangled in my mind.

Forgive her?

Was it really she who needed forgiveness? Or was it me? I couldn’t tell.

“There’s nothing to forgive.” I murmured, my voice thick with emotion.

My fingers tightened around hers— as much as my feeble strength allowed —holding onto her, onto this moment, as if the weight of everything we had been through could be lessened by a single touch.

Her eyes softened then, as if a fleeting moment of happiness had surfaced beneath the sorrow. She wiped away the tears threatening to spill, quick and almost embarrassed, before straightening her posture with a deep breath.

“Nazir will be visiting soon.” A small, weary smile touched her lips. “He was worried sick about you—like the rest of us.”

My fingers twitched against the sheets.

“Nazir is here?” My voice came out quieter than I intended, rasped and disbelieving.

Fen nodded. “For the council… and for you.”

The warmth in her tone settled something inside me, but it did little to ease the heaviness in my chest.

I gave a slow nod, uncertain whether to feel relief or unease.

Fen stood then, her fingers lingering against mine for just a moment longer, a final caress before she pulled away.

“Rest now.” she murmured, a gentle command, but I could hear the exhaustion in her own voice.

The moment Fen stepped toward the door, a heavy weight pressed down on me, as if the room itself was closing in. I knew I needed to rest to heal, but the sleep I desperately craved seemed so far out of reach. My body, exhausted yet restless, begged for her to stay, to linger just a little longer. But she didn’t.

With a flicker of something—perhaps pity or resignation—her gaze briefly met mine, then she stepped out. The door clicked shut softly behind her, leaving me alone, trapped in the stillness that felt suffocating.

I can’t stand it.

The desperation. The helplessness. The feeling of being pinned to this bed, this prison of my own frailty. I was never meant to be like this. No matter the severity of the wounds I’d endured in the past, I had always recovered quickly, always forced myself to rise again, never allowing weakness to claim me for long. But now… now I was paralyzed. The silence of my body, the motionlessness of it, was maddening.

How could I let myself be reduced to this? To this pathetic state? I, who had once prided myself on strength and resilience, now lay here, unable to move, the weight of my own muscles like stone.

But I knew it was inevitable. My luck had always run foul, a dark shadow trailing me wherever I went. The gods must have been laughing, for I had never imagined I would end up here.

My eyes drifted toward the window, catching the faintest sliver of sunlight struggling against the encroaching night. The world outside seemed to fade as the last of the day’s light drained into the horizon, leaving nothing but darkness behind.

And in that darkness, I could feel the heaviness of my eyelids, the exhaustion in my bones. I knew resisting it was futile, that if I didn’t succumb to the pull of sleep, I would only worsen this pitiful state. The desperation, the neediness—I hated it, yet I couldn’t escape it.

They said I needed to rest, that I needed to heal, but in my mind, I was fighting something more than just physical wounds. I was fighting the realization that I had trusted him, and now here I was, this broken, helpless thing, all because of a choice I had made.

The memories of that moment—of my decision, of the vulnerability I allowed myself to feel—flashed in my mind.

I raised my arm, the bandaged flesh of my hand catching my attention. I traced the edge of the cloth with my fingers, a quiet breath escaping my lips.

I’m still alive.

Alive. Despite everything. Despite the blood he had taken, the pieces of me he had stolen, I was still here.

I had trusted him when he had every reason to betray me, yet here I was, lying in my bed, wondering if the trust had been misplaced. Was I really alive, or merely a shadow of myself, clinging to life because he had left me enough to do so?

In the end, I knew I had made a choice—a choice that had led me here, to this point of despair.

But I also knew he hadn’t betrayed my trust. Not yet. And that, perhaps, was the one thing I could still hold on to.

 

To be continued…

Chapter 34: Chapter 34

4E, 196, Morning of The Final Trial

The knock at my door sent a shiver down my spine. Morning had arrived, its relentless light spilling through the window, indifferent to the weight of the day ahead.

The final day.

An unknown future stretched before me, vast and uncertain. Would we make it through? Would any of us? The dangers lurking within the forest had kept me awake through the night, my mind restless, my body trembling beneath the thin veil of sleep I managed to steal.

I rose silently, each step toward the door measured, hesitant. As I pulled it open, the hallway greeted me with an eerie stillness. No one stood there—no one except Phyfina, lingering at her own doorway across from mine. In her arms, she cradled an armor of the deepest blue, the color almost swallowing the dim morning light.

My gaze shifted upward, and I found the same armor hanging over my door.

Our final gift from the Thalmor. A cruel reward for our years of servitude.

I reached for it, surprised by its weight—or rather, its lack thereof. Stepping back into my room, I ran my fingers over the smooth fabric, inspecting each piece. Trousers, a fitted leather jack, gloves of the same midnight hue. A cape, folded neatly beside them, its edges barely shifting with the breeze from my open window. With a slow inhale, I began to undress, peeling away my tunic as if shedding the remnants of a past self.

The armor fit like a second skin, molding to my frame with unnerving precision. It moved with me, stretching with each subtle shift of my muscles, lighter than anything we had ever been given before. I flexed my fingers, rolled my shoulders. It felt almost… natural. And yet, I knew it wasn’t mine.

Nothing ever was.

I secured the cape around my neck, letting my hair fall loosely over it. But battle favored neither beauty nor mess, so I quickly braided it back, tucking away each stray strand with methodical precision.

Only then did I allow myself to look at the mirror.

The reflection staring back at me was both familiar and foreign. The same high cheekbones, the same sharp eyes. But something deeper had changed—something time had stolen. Nine long years had passed since I first set foot in this room. And for a fleeting second, I swore I could see her—the girl I had been on that first day. Small. Fragile. Trembling.

I blinked, and she was gone.

In her place stood a woman with squared shoulders, her spine straight, her face unreadable.

Final fight.

Was this truly the last day? The last battle? No. I knew better. The struggle would never end—not unless I broke free from their grasp. And that, I knew, was impossible.

Even if I survived today, something in me would not. It would remain behind, trapped within these walls. The last remnants of my childhood, my youth—before they finished carving me into what they wanted me to be. Before they took the final pieces of those who remained.

What would become of us? Of me? I didn’t know. But I had learned to live with the uncertainty. The endless duties, the never-ending orders—I had grown used to the strings they pulled.

“Breakfast in five!”

The call jolted me from my thoughts, my breath catching in my throat. Five minutes. That was all I had before I had to step out, fall in line, merge with the others in the corridor. Just like every morning. And yet, my body still recoiled at the command, a shudder running through me.

I pulled on my knee-high boots, the ones I had worn for years, the ones that had molded to the shape of my feet like a second home. A final glance around the room—my gilded cage. The neatly made bed, the books lining the shelves. What would happen to them? If I didn’t return, they would likely be discarded, treated as meaningless clutter. Just as my body would be.

A cold chill wrapped around my spine. The thought of falling today—of never walking back through this door again—settled like a stone in my chest.

I stepped out into the hallway, where the air was thick with unspoken fears. Faces lined the corridor, eyes wide, hands clenched, teeth gnawing against trembling lips. We all bore the same weight, though each carried it differently.

That was when I noticed the colors. Not everyone wore the same dark blue as Phyfina and me. Some had been given different shades—paler blues, even white.

The meaning behind it was a mystery, one I had never been able to unravel. But it hardly mattered. There was no room for questions, no time to dwell on anything except the slow march toward the dining hall.

It was crowded, yet eerily silent. No usual chatter. No whispers. Just the sound of footsteps, heavy and measured, beneath the crushing weight of what was to come.

My eyes instinctively searched for Elamoril, scanning the crowded hall with growing impatience. But he was nowhere in sight.

“Good morning!”

Brellin’s unnerving cheerfulness snapped my attention back. He stood beside Meldor and Tadriel, their bright eyes betraying none of the tension weighing down my chest.

Sensing my frustration, Meldor cleared his throat. “Let’s eat. We’ll need it.”

I gave a small nod, my gaze flickering away from them, drawn once again toward the entrance. Still, I found no sign of him. Resigned, I followed their steps toward the long dining table, only then realizing that each of them wore different shades of blue—none as dark as mine.

The feast before us was almost absurd in its richness. Platters overflowed with fresh fruits, warm bread, roasted meats, and delicacies that had never graced this hall before. A breakfast fit for kings—though we were anything but. The Thalmor had laid it all out for us, our final meal.

“They even have fish sticks!” Tadriel’s voice broke through the silence, his enthusiasm unshaken as he eagerly filled his plate.

I could barely swallow the thought of eating. No matter how indulgent the spread, my appetite had abandoned me. It sat somewhere in the pit of my stomach, curled tight like a dying ember.

Instead, my gaze drifted back to the entrance. Still waiting. Still hoping.

And that was when I saw them.

The children.

They walked in a single file behind an instructor, their small faces drawn tight with fear. It clung to them like a stench, unmistakable, inescapable. But beneath it, deep within their wide, watchful eyes, there was something else. A fire. The same fire that had burned in us nine years ago.
I swallowed hard, my throat suddenly tight.

One girl caught my eye—just for a moment, a heartbeat too long. She stared at me as if searching for something, for an answer neither of us could give.

And so, I did the only thing I could. I smiled.

A small thing, barely there, yet it was all I could offer.

I remembered this day. I remembered what it was like to be in their place, to stare across the hall at those who came before us, wondering how many had survived. How many had made it through the trial.

The girl smiled back. A quiet, fragile thing.

And then, just as quickly, she was forced back into line, disappearing into the ranks of the newly stolen. Another wave of children, another generation molded into soldiers before they even knew what they had lost.

The burn at the back of my eyes threatened to spill over, but before the thought could settle, a sharp voice shattered the moment.

“Oh, here you are, losers!”

I barely had time to react before Fara slid into the seat beside me, her smirk as sharp as the bite she took from the apple in her hand. Her armor matched mine—dark, nearly black, marking her as one of the few.

Tadriel shot Brellin a glare, his expression twisting in disbelief. “You let her in our team?”

Fara scoffed, stretching her legs beneath the table. “Don’t flatter yourself. I’d rather die than be desperate for your spells.”

Tadriel bristled, his frustration barely contained. It wasn’t just her words—it was everything about her. The way she carried herself, her relentless confidence, the way she always seemed to get under the skin of those who couldn’t stand her.

“I had to,” Brellin exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. “We needed a sixth.”

“Still, you—”

“Enough, Tadriel.” Meldor, who had been quietly chewing, finally cut in. His tone was firm, decisive. “She’s in our team. And in truth, that just guarantees our victory.”

He wasn’t wrong.

From a pragmatic standpoint, Fara was invaluable. She was sharp, ruthless, and an exceptional archer. If survival was the goal, having her on our side could mean the difference between life and death.

“That’s what I’m saying.” Fara grinned, taking another bite of her apple. “You won’t even need to get your hands dirty.”

“Attention!”

The sharp clang of metal against glass silenced the hall, forcing every head to turn. The instructor’s voice cut through the hushed murmurs, demanding obedience.

We sat frozen, uncertain of what to expect, our fear carefully masked beneath quiet conversation and forced indifference.

“Stand close to your teams. We will take you upstairs for the portals. In line!”

Chairs scraped against the floor as everyone rose to their feet. Brellin grabbed Tadriel by the sleeve, dragging him away from the table while he still stuffed the last bites of his breakfast into his mouth.

Across the hall, the teams assembled, whispering among themselves, a nervous energy pulsing between them.

I should have been focusing on my own group, but my eyes searched the crowd instead—searching for him.

And then, I felt it.

A brief touch, the faintest brush against my shoulder.

I turned sharply, and there he was.
Familiar green eyes met mine, but before I could speak, Fara beat me to it.

“My, my, look who overslept.”

Elamoril shot her a glare, fleeting but sharp, before his gaze snapped back to the instructors. He said nothing, but I saw it—his clenched fists, the rigid set of his jaw.

Something is wrong.

He wore the same dark shade as Fana and me, but it was more than that. His whole posture was tense, like a coiled spring ready to snap.

I leaned in, lowering my voice. “What’s wrong?”

No response. He didn’t even look at me.

Why?

Maybe because everything was wrong.

My breath caught as my gaze dropped to his lips—those same lips that had been on mine just last night. The memory burned through me, a ghost of warmth still lingering on my skin. The way he had held me, kissed me, as if nothing else existed.

And yet, now he stood beside me like a stranger.

Cold. Indifferent.

As if nothing had happened.

A slow shiver traced my spine, but I forced myself to straighten, to school my expression into something unreadable. If he could pretend, then so could I.

The instructors moved into place at the front of each line. One by one, the teams ahead of us were led out of the hall, vanishing through the doors.

As our turn came, we followed Raenal, our leading instructor, up the spiral staircase. It wound high into one of the towers—one we had never been allowed into before.

The air grew colder as we ascended, the torches along the walls flickering weakly against the dimness. When we passed through the doors at the top, the corridor narrowed with each step. Dark walls stretched beside us, adorned with no banners, no sigils—none of the gold and silver embellishments that marked the rest of the building. This place was different.

As if it didn’t belong to the Thalmor at all.

At the corridor’s end, a pair of double doors swung open, revealing the circle.

A shimmer of blue pulsed at its center, barely noticeable against the gloom. A portal.

I barely had time to take it in before I felt it—the weight of a stare.

Elamoril’s eyes burned into Raenal with something beyond rage, beyond anything I could name. He looked as if he might be sick from it.

“No weapons?” Fara’s voice broke the tension. Her arms were crossed tightly over her chest.

“Finding weapons is part of the trial.” Raenal’s answer was calm, almost indifferent. He stepped aside, standing at the portal’s edge.

A cold shiver trailed down my spine. I knew, without needing to look, that the others felt it too.

Even Fara, ever confident, stiffened. Her lips parted slightly, her composure faltering just enough to reveal the crack beneath. She was one of the best among us, but without her bow in hand, I knew what she was thinking—what we were all thinking.

What were we, without our weapons?

“In you go.” Raenal tilted his head, his voice light but firm. “Quickly.”

“How are we supposed to—”

“With your bare hands, for all I care!” His sharp interruption made Fana flinch.

A beat of silence passed before Brellin gave her a reassuring pat on the shoulder.

“Come on, Fara. You got me.”

She exhaled sharply. The reassurance did nothing but frustrate her further.

“Let’s get this over with.”

Elamoril spoke for the first time. His voice was cold, detached. Before anyone could stop him, he pushed past us, stepping into the portal without a second thought.

No hesitation, I followed.

As my feet met the grass, the shift was instant. The stone beneath us was gone, replaced by soft earth, and the air felt heavier—richer with the scent of damp moss and untouched wilderness. The forest stretched ahead in all its vastness, endless in every direction. Thick clouds smothered the sky, shrouding the land in muted gray. The sun, hidden behind them, offered no guidance.

I turned my head, scanning the unfamiliar landscape.

There were no landmarks. No towers, no ruins.

I couldn’t tell if we were still in Skyrim.

“What is this place?” Tadriel was the first to speak, voicing what we all wondered.

No answer came. Only silence.

Elamoril exhaled sharply, his gaze flickering between us before he spoke, his voice flat. “Let’s split up and search for weapons.”

“Good idea.” Meldor nodded before glancing at Fara. “Come on.”

“With you?” She let out a small, ironic chuckle. “I prefer going alone, thank you.”

“Please, Fara,” Brellin pushed as he stepped forward. “We don’t know what’s out there, and I am the only mage here.”

“Thanks.” Tadriel scoffed, crossing his arms.

“You know what I meant, Tadriel.”

He was right. Tadriel was useless in a fight, and we all knew it. Brellin was the only elemental mage we had—aside from me.

That thought sparked an idea. Lifting my gaze to the horizon, I tested the air. No rain. No moisture to draw from. But still, it was worth a try.

I exhaled slowly, reaching deep within myself, grasping at the threads of magic I could pull. Cold surged through my veins as I extended my hand, willing the frost to take shape.

A blade of ice formed in my palm, solid and sharp.

“Well, well,” Fara clapped mockingly. “You got a bow in there somewhere? ”

“I don’t.” I shot her a glare before flipping the hilt in my grip and offering it to her.
She hesitated for only a second before taking it.

Elamoril watched the exchange in silence before speaking again, his tone leaving no room for argument.

“Fara, go with Brellin and Tadriel.” Then, his eyes flickered to Meldor. “You’re with us.”

Fara pouted before stepping closer, leaning into Elamoril with a smirk. “Shame,” she murmured, her voice dipping into something almost playful. “I’d rather die with you around.”

He met her gaze, but his eyes held none of the fire hers did. “You never know,” he said, his voice cold—too cold. There was something sinister in the way the words left him, something that made Fara’s smirk falter, the spark in her eyes flickering out.

“Let’s go,” Tadriel called, his impatience cutting through the moment. “Brellin will send up a flame sign if we find anything.”

“Take care out there,” Brellin added, his usual confidence tempered by the unknown.

Without another word, Fara turned toward her group, and Meldor stepped closer to us. With that, we split—our group heading north, theirs south.

Beneath the thick canopy of the forest, silence settled over us, heavy and unyielding. The air was damp, carrying the scent of moss and earth, and with each step, I could feel my magicka slowly trickling back.

“Wait!” Meldor suddenly broke the silence, dropping to his knees and sifting through the soil.

Elamoril didn’t even glance back. “We don’t have time for herbs and spices,” he snapped, frustration bleeding into his voice as he strode ahead. He was different—distant, colder than usual. His clipped words and the way he moved, rigid and relentless, set my nerves on edge.

I turned to Meldor instead. “What is it?”

“Juniper berries,” he said, his voice laced with relief. “I can make a potion for regeneration.”

Hope glimmered in his eyes, and I knew he was right. We didn’t know what lay ahead, and we’d need every advantage we could get.

“Good thinking.” I knelt beside him, plucking a few berries from the bush, but as I lifted my gaze toward the path—
Elamoril was gone.

I rose to my feet, my pulse thundering in my ears as I shoved the berries into Meldor’s hands. He tucked them into his pockets without question, but I barely noticed. My thoughts had already slipped away, spiraling toward one singular question.

Where is he?

The path ahead gaped with eerie stillness, the trees stretching tall and unmoving, their dense canopy swallowing the little light that fought to seep through. A chill coiled around my ribs as I stepped forward, scanning the undergrowth, the spaces between trunks, the shadows that flickered at the edges of my sight.

Then, out of nowhere, a weight dropped into my chest.

Dread.

It gnawed at me, whispering the worst possibilities. What if something had taken him? What if he had fallen prey to whatever lay in wait for us? No—no, Elamoril wouldn’t go down without a fight. Even with his bare hands, he would fight until his last breath.

A sharp crack split the silence behind me.

I turned just in time to see him.

No.

Elamoril came down like a phantom from the treetops, his body a streak of motion. The axe in his hands swung with terrifying precision—Meldor didn’t even have time to react.

A sickening crunch echoed through the forest as steel met bone.
I gasped, the sound lost beneath the wet, splitting noise of his skull cleaving in two.

Blood. It sprayed in an arc, catching the light for only a second before it splattered against the earth.

Meldor dropped.

His body crumpled lifelessly to the ground, like a puppet with its strings cut. The berries tumbled from his pockets, scattering across the dirt, mixing with the dark red pooling beneath him.

My breath hitched. My limbs locked in place.

Elamoril straightened, his chest rising and falling with deep, uneven breaths. His green eyes, once familiar, now burned with something I couldn’t name. The blood on his face stood stark against his pale skin, streaking down like war paint. It dripped from his hands, from his clothes, from the axe that had buried itself in someone who, moments ago, had been alive.

I could feel my heartbeat, a frantic, unrelenting drumbeat against my ribs, too loud, too fast.

He killed him.

He killed Meldor.

I blinked, once, twice, but the scene didn’t change. It was real.

How?

Why?

My mind reeled, shattering beneath the weight of the moment. Images flashed before me—the day of our capture, Elamoril leaping from tree to tree, his hands throwing rocks at the soldiers who had tried to take me.

The same hands that now dripped with fresh blood.

The same feet that had just landed with a killer’s grace.

 

To be continued…

Chapter 35: Chapter 35

I opened my eyes to nothing but darkness.

It pressed in from all sides, thick and consuming, as though it had swallowed me whole. I had lived in it, served it, let it shape me into what I had become—yet sometimes, it was still too heavy, too suffocating. Even now, it weighed on my chest, making it difficult to breathe.

With a flick of my hand, candlelight flickered to life, casting warm, wavering glows across the room. The dim illumination anchored me, grounding me in the familiar space. My gaze drifted over the wooden surfaces, the worn edges of the desk, the slight crack in the wall near the door—details that tethered me back to reality.

Then, I saw him.

Amon.

He was slouched in a chair pulled close to my bedside, his head tilted back in an exhausted repose. The candlelight danced along the sharp lines of his face, tracing his high cheekbones and the soft curve of his parted lips. He looked untouched by injury, his body seemingly restored to its former strength. But I wondered—beneath the porcelain perfection of his skin, had the scars remained?

His silver hair fell in loose strands over his forehead, glinting in the low light. The metal rings adorning his pointed ears shimmered faintly, catching the fire’s glow. He was still. Serene.

For a moment, I let myself look at him.

Then, I cleared my throat.

The sound shattered the silence like a dagger against glass. Amon stirred, eyes snapping open, his body shifting upright in an instant. His mismatched gaze locked onto me—vivid, piercing, yet burdened by something unreadable, something heavy that lingered in the depths of his irises.

“You’re awake.” he murmured, his voice smooth as silk, edged with quiet relief. He dragged the chair closer, the legs scraping softly against the floor.

I swallowed, my throat dry. “Looks like we swapped places.” I tried for mockery, but my voice wavered, betraying the tremor beneath my words.

Amon smirked, sharp and knowing. The candlelight caught on his fangs for just a flicker of a second, and a shiver traced down my spine.

“We did,” he mused, tilting his head slightly. “Though I much prefer your place to mine right now. That chair ruined my back.”

A chuckle slipped from my lips, weak but genuine. “Better than the dungeons, though. Isn’t it?”

His laughter followed mine, soft and unguarded, a sound I hadn’t realized I had missed until now. But the moment shattered just as quickly as it had formed. His gaze flickered downward—toward my neck.

The joy in his eyes dimmed.

His mismatched hues darkened, conflicted, haunted.

“I went too far.” he whispered, voice barely more than a breath.

I knew what he had seen. Instinctively, I pulled my hair over my shoulder, hiding the bandages from view. As though that would erase what had already been done. As though it would soothe whatever war was raging inside him.

His eyes lifted to meet mine once more, and now, I recognized what had been lurking in them from the start.

Guilt.

Not only had we swapped positions—we had traded emotions as well.

“I’m fine,” I said quickly, forcing a smile. “It takes more than one vampire to kill me.”

Even as I spoke, I wasn’t sure which of us I was trying to convince.

“It was hard to stop,” he murmured, his voice void of emotion as if it were nothing more than a simple statement. But then, his eyes fell, and his expression softened. “Harder to resist.”

I was left speechless, unsure of what to say. How could I respond? All I could do was stare at him, my own shame, my own guilt from days past, now reflected in the weariness etched on his face. The weight of it all seemed to rest on his shoulders, though we were both bound by different burdens.

“Amon,” I whispered his name, and it drew his eyes to mine—almost reflexively, as though he couldn’t help it.

“Believe me, I am fine, alright?” I said, the words tumbling out of me, desperate for him to see beyond the surface.

But I saw it then. A flicker in his eyes, something raw, something vulnerable that hadn’t been there before. It was brief, but it shattered me. His eyes—they weren’t just filled with the usual fire or the usual coldness. They seemed to shimmer, like a layer of something unshed—was it tears?

Was he that worried about me? Did he care for me, after all I had done to him? After the pain I had inflicted? After nearly killing him?

“I owe you an apology,” I said before I could stop myself, the words barely audible, as if speaking them aloud made them real. The notion seemed so foreign, so strange coming from me, from someone who had lived a life of silence and bloodshed. I hadn’t meant to say it, but I knew it had to be spoken. Not from my lips, perhaps, but from the lips of someone who owed him more than I could ever repay, from a sister of the Brotherhood, his family. “I thought you would recover—”

He interrupted me, his voice gentle but firm, “You owe me nothing.” His hand, warm and steady, reached out and clasped mine, intertwining our fingers with a tenderness that contrasted everything I knew about him. “And I,” he continued, his voice a soft tremble, “owe you everything.”

The words hung in the air, weighted with sincerity, as he lifted my hand gently. Without warning, he turned it in his grasp, bringing my palm to his lips. His kiss was soft, a brush of warmth against the place where I had cut myself in my desperate attempt to save him. A place where he had drawn from me, taken the life that had once flowed so freely, the same life that now seemed so fragile between us.

“Everything.” he whispered into my palm, the words more intimate than any touch or kiss could ever be. It was a confession, a vow. Something deeper than mere gratitude. And in that moment, I felt the full weight of it—the depth of his feelings, raw and unspoken, like an open wound.

His lips lingered for a second longer than necessary, and I could feel the heat of his breath, the unspoken bond that now tethered us in ways I couldn’t comprehend. It was a promise—a promise I didn’t know how to accept or how to return.

I could feel the blood rush to my cheeks, as if the very warmth of it was betraying me. My breath—shallow and ragged—felt caught in my chest, as if it too had been swept away in the weight of the moment.

And yet, my heart, which had been cold, distant, stone-like for as long as I could remember, pulsed softly. Each beat echoed louder than the last, a quiet thrum of life I couldn’t quite control. I didn’t know how to handle it, this shift within me, this flood of emotion I couldn’t bury or silence.

Crimson and blue, would they ever capture me the way the green had?

I shivered, the sudden realization sinking in, and yanked my hand from his grasp. His fingers loosened in surprise, and the brief moment of tension between us hung in the air. His look, soft and unreadable, caught me off guard, and I quickly sought to escape the intimacy of the moment.

“Does Astrid know you’re here?” The question spilled from my lips before I could stop it, a way to change the subject, to push away the weight that had settled on my chest and soul.

He shook his head, the corner of his lips lifting in a wry smile. “What do you think? She’s furious.”

I raised an eyebrow, my gaze fixed on him, waiting for him to continue. His words lingered in the air before he spoke again, his tone deepening with a shadow. “If you hadn’t gone this far to save me, I think her dog would end me right there. But for the sake of your sacrifice—”

The bitter chuckle slipped from my lips before I could stop it, the sound heavy with unease, not humor. I rolled my eyes, trying to mask the discomfort, but it was no use. There was no escaping the tension building between us.

“No, really. Your heroic act shouldn’t go to waste!” His voice softened, but there was something almost tender about his words. Still, I could hear the hesitation beneath the sarcasm, the hidden sincerity. “But she can’t stand the sight of me.”

“My heroic act. Stop it.” My words were a half-hearted attempt at dismissal, but they were weak, insincere.

“Why?” His smirk grew, predatory and confident, as if he could sense the cracks in my façade. He leaned in just a little, his presence pushing against the carefully built walls I’d constructed around myself. “You can’t stand that you saved me, can you?”

I turned away, instinctively shielding what little remained of my fragile armor. But before I could retreat too far, his cold finger slipped beneath my chin, tilting my face back toward him. The touch was light, almost careful—yet it felt like a violation, like he had trespassed somewhere sacred, somewhere I wasn’t ready to let him go.

I wanted to pull away. To flee. My mind screamed at me to look anywhere but at him. But my gaze, defying reason, fell into his—deep, unwavering, inescapable. There was something magnetic in the way he held me there, something impossible to fight. And then, without meaning to, my eyes dropped to his lips. Soft. Tempting. As if they existed for nothing else but to crash against mine.

“If so,” he murmured, his voice a breath against my skin, dark and intimate, “you should have let me die in peace, darling.”

The words, though wrapped in mockery, carried a weight that settled deep in my chest. I could have laughed, deflected, slipped back into the safety of distance. But he was too close, his breath mingling with mine, the heat of him seeping into my skin. Walking away suddenly felt impossible.

My pulse thundered as he leaned in, and then—unexpected, barely there—the press of his lips against my temple. Warm. Lingering. A touch so uncharacteristically tender that it stole the breath from my lungs.

“Sleep,” he whispered, his voice softer now, almost soothing. “I’m right here.”

I barely registered him sinking into the chair beside me, his fingers threading gently through my hair. The slow, rhythmic motion was careful, reverent, as though he were memorizing the texture of each strand.

The tension inside me loosened, unraveling thread by thread. I didn’t resist as sleep pulled me under, carrying me into darkness.

For the first time in longer than I could remember, I felt safe.

 

---

 

 

“Hi fen voth daar vahlok do daar tiid.”

The voice rang out, clear and insistent. I couldn’t grasp the meaning behind the words, yet the urgency in their tone sent a shiver down my spine. Then came the command—sharp, unyielding.

“Krii voth fahdon.”

I strained to understand, to make sense of the words that haunted me night after night, spoken in a language I couldn’t comprehend. Why did they call to me? What did they demand? Were they orders, warnings, or something else entirely?

“Fus kos hi.”

The final utterance struck like a hammer. My eyes flew open as I bolted upright, breath ragged, chest heaving. The echoes of the voices still lingered in my ears, taunting, relentless.

It was maddening—to hear them yet never answer, to be pursued by whispers I could not decipher.

“You are finally awake.”

The familiar voice pulled me from my thoughts. My head snapped up, locking onto the source—Nazir, seated in the chair where Amon had been. His posture was unreadable, but concern flickered in his gaze.

The sight of him warmed something deep inside me, and before I could stop myself, a soft smile found its way to my lips.

My savior. My hero.

“Bad dream?” Nazir leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. His gaze held mine, steady and searching, though it lacked the warmth I felt.

“It’s nothing,” I replied quickly, pushing the weight of my thoughts aside. “It’s good to see you.”

His expression didn’t change, but he rose to his feet, making his way toward my bed with deliberate ease. “How do you feel?”

“Better each day.”

He gave a small nod, his fingers brushing a stray strand of hair from my face. The back of his hand lingered against my cheek, his touch light, thoughtful.

“I heard what you did.”

My breath caught, and instinctively, I lowered my gaze to the floor. But Nazir continued, his voice softer now.

“You risked yourself to save a brother.” His hand trailed gently down my back, a silent reassurance. “That is the girl I know.”

I lifted my eyes to his, searching for the meaning in his words.

“No title can change that.” he murmured, nodding as if affirming something to himself.

He knew. He knew I had accepted Astrid’s offer, bound myself to her for eternity. Yet, despite that, despite what I had become, my defiance—my refusal to let her control my every choice—seemed to soothe him. As if, in some small way, my rebellion still gave him hope.

“The Black Hand?” The question left my lips unsteady, a whisper of dread creeping into my voice.

Nazir’s expression darkened, and he withdrew his hand.

“They arrived last night.”

My breath hitched.

“The Council will be held tomorrow.”

“Astrid—”

“Astrid can wait until you’re better,” Nazir interrupted, his tone firm yet measured. He clasped his hands behind his back, his gaze shifting toward the small window, where weak light filtered into the room.

“But the Council can’t.” I countered, already moving to stretch my limbs, feeling the stiffness in my muscles as I let my feet dangle over the edge of the bed.

I knew what the Council meant. It was not just any gathering—it was the meeting of the Brotherhood’s highest ranks. The Listener, the Speakers, the Keeper, and their Silencers. A place where every word carried weight, where fates were decided. I had to be there. Astrid needed me there.

“Nio—”

“Thank you, Nazir.” My voice was steady as I gripped the edges of the bed, staring down at my feet, willing the trembling to subside before I forced myself to stand. “For coming to see me.”

He sighed, moving toward the door, already aware that there was no convincing me otherwise. My stubbornness had always outweighed his reasoning. He knew it. I knew it.

His fingers curled around the doorknob, but before he left, he hesitated. Casting a glance over his shoulder, his voice softened.

“Be true to yourself. That’s all I ask of you.”

The request lingered in the air, its meaning uncertain. Why now? Why this? But before I could ask, he turned and disappeared into the hallway.

I would be. I was.

I wasn’t always capable of making the right choices, but I knew how to hold to what mattered—to what was best for me, for those around me, for the family.

 

To be continued…

 

Chapter 36: Chapter 36

The bathhouse guard jolted upright at the sight of me, his posture stiffening as he rushed forward, stepping ahead to pull the door open.

Such a pointless gesture. I despised the notion of being catered to, of appearing needy .

“Ashenblade.” He gave a respectful nod before motioning me inside. “If there’s anything you need—”

“Thank you.” I cut him off, pulling the door shut before he could finish.

Without hesitation, I shed my clothes, letting them fall to the floor in a careless heap. The water beckoned, its promise of relief the only comfort I craved. Slipping in, I exhaled slowly, hoping the warmth would ease the lingering tension in my muscles.

Yet, my stomach churned with the weight of the potions Gabriel had forced down my throat. A vile concoction of herbs and spices still burned on my tongue, leaving me nauseous despite their undeniable effect. They were working—I could feel that much—but it didn’t make them any easier to stomach.

I let myself sink into the water, hoping it would soothe the storm raging within me—the tempest of my thoughts, the ache buried deep in my muscles.

As I slipped beneath the dark surface, I closed my eyes, as if that alone could shield me from the world outside. From the Black Hand. From my family. From Amon.

The weight of my choices pressed against me, heavier now than ever before. There was no outrunning them, no undoing them. And yet, for the first time, I allowed myself to ask the questions I had long feared answering.

Had I ever truly had a choice?

Could I have said no to Astrid? No to Amon? No to the simple gesture of coffee in Ondolemar’s hands?

No.

The scars they left on my skin had faded, perhaps, but the ones they carved into my soul lingered—an ache that would not be so easily erased.

I had been fine once.

Before the voices.

Before the titles.

When I was just a girl alone in a world too crowded, shedding blood and, sometimes, tears.

But now… now I was in pieces. Scattered across the memories I could not release, trapped in the past I could never outrun.

As the last breath in my lungs burned for release, a shiver coursed through me—not from the storm in my mind or the weight of my thoughts, but from the water itself, growing colder with every passing second.

Because of me.

I broke the surface slowly, drawing in a deep breath as my head emerged.

“Pah! This water is like the breath of a frost troll! This one will not step in.”

“Then sit there and watch, like some sad little housecat. Zirashi will enjoy the bath without you.”

The voices cut through the stillness, startling me more than I cared to admit. My eyes flicked toward the source—two Khajiit, locked in a playful argument, oblivious to my presence.

“Hmph! You mock, but this one is wise. Cold water clings to fur, and it will take all night to dry!”

“Then shave yourself, yes? No fur, no problem.”

“You wish for Jarrogo to walk bare as a pink-skinned Imperial? Such cruelty! This one is wounded—his pride may never recover!”

“Pride will not clean that filthy fur, Jarrogo. Either heat the water or stop whining like a kitten lost in the snow.”

I remained still, half-submerged, unable to rise.

They shouldn’t have been here. Should have known better than to enter while I was present. And yet… who were they?

I cleared my throat, my voice steady despite the unease curling in my chest.

“Who are you?”

Both Khajiit froze. Their ears flicked, their bodies tense. For a moment, fear flashed in their wide, feline eyes—then something else, something unreadable, as their gazes lingered on me.

“Look, Jarrogo! One of our sisters.”

The male Khajiit—Jarrogo—didn’t share her enthusiasm. His expression remained unreadable, cautious even, while the female’s whiskers twitched with amusement. A slow, playful smirk curled across her face as she stepped closer.

“Aren’t you cold in there, sister? Or is it that all our family here prefers to bathe in such freezing water?”

I remained still, my body locked in place beneath the water, barely breathing under the weight of their lingering stares.

The stream fed warmth back into the pool, chasing away the unnatural chill, but I stayed submerged, unwilling—perhaps unable—to move.

The female tilted her head, her ears twitching as she studied me. Then, with an arched brow, she spoke again.

“What, cat got your tongue?”

Jarrogo crossed his arms, his claws tapping idly against his elbows, his patience thinning with each passing second. But I had no answer to give—only an empty stare, my mind still sluggish from the cold and the weight of their unexpected presence.

The female finally broke the silence. “This one is called Zirashi,” she announced, her tail flicking lazily behind her before gesturing toward her companion. “And that is Jarrogo.”

I swallowed, my voice quieter than I intended. “Why are you here?”

The question hung between us for a moment before the two exchanged a glance, something unreadable passing between them before they looked back at me.

“This is the bathhouse, yes?” Jarrogo said, his tone edged with frustration as he took a step closer to the pool.

“Zirashi and Jarrogo wished to see the healing spring said to be so… fascinating.” Zirashi’s voice held an airy amusement, but her keen eyes studied me, noting the tension in my shoulders, the way I made no move to rise from the water.

Perhaps she realized then—realized I did not share her enthusiasm for being seen naked by strangers.

They weren’t from the Sanctuary. That much was clear. Most likely, they had arrived alongside the Speaker of the Tenmar Forest Sanctuary—an unwelcome extension of his presence.

Khajiit were tricky by nature, their ways steeped in mischief and cunning. Boundaries were a necessity when dealing with them, and if I did not set them now, they would push and prod until they found a weakness to exploit.

With great effort, I straightened my shoulders, though I remained submerged, unwilling to grant them the satisfaction of seeing even an inch more of me than necessary. My voice, though measured, held the weight of command.

“Falkreath Sanctuary has its rules.” I swallowed, steadying myself before continuing, “I don’t know who let you in here, but no one enters when I am inside.”

Their ears flicked, their eyes widening as if I had just uttered something absurd. A glance passed between them, quick and knowing, before Jarrogo let out a scoff.

“Hah.” He shrugged, his tail swishing behind him. “And who do you think you are, hmm?”

Outside the borders of Skyrim, I knew my name meant nothing. It was unheard of in the sun-drenched sands of Elsweyr, far from where I now stood. My fame, such as it was, hadn’t traveled that far—nor had my manners. To them, I was no one, just another stranger lost in a world of faces they’d never seen, never known.

And I found little pleasure in the thought of making my name known, especially through the deeds I had committed.

But here, now, in this moment, I was done with the pretenses of civility. And, I was the host whereas they were temporary guests.

This was my home.

Drawing from the very core of my magic, I called on the icy breath of the storm within me. The water around the rim where they stood began to freeze, a thin layer of ice spreading outward like a creeping tide, slow but unrelenting.

The reaction was immediate. I could see their fur bristle, the flicker of fear in their eyes—not from the power itself, but from the simple realization that I would go this far for the sake of my solitude. For the sake of my peace.

They didn’t know me. They couldn’t. But this… this was a message.

“Well, you are welcome to enjoy the bath if that’s what you like. I always thought cats despised it.”

I leaned my head back, the cold water turning to ice beneath me with each passing second, the silence thickening under their gaze.

“Let’s go, Jarrogo,” Zirashi murmured, her voice low but sharp, a silent retreat from my icy presence.

Finally.

“Are all of them here so far from hospitality? If they came to visit our Sanctuary—“

“Enough. I said, let’s go.” Her tone was firm, cutting off any further words.

“Fine, Zirashi.” Jarrogo muttered, his frustration simmering beneath the surface as he turned to follow her.

Their footsteps faded, the tension lifting from the air, leaving only the cold silence of the bathhouse behind.

I could feel my teeth grinding together as I slowly pulled myself from the pool, the cold air biting at my skin, a stark contrast to the warmth that began to fill the water again. As I stepped away, the ice that had clung to the surface cracked, the sound soft but sharp—like the last lingering vestige of a threat, now broken.

Damn cats.

I couldn’t shake the thought of them. How many more of them were here?

The idea of sharing our Sanctuary with strangers gnawed at me. Even if they were family by blood, they were still visitors, and that fact unsettled me. We had enough chaos to deal with, enough threats on our doorstep. Now, more than ever, I hated the thought of having our space encroached upon. But that was the reality.

We had to cling to each other, even when it felt like we were suffocating in the process. If we didn’t, we’d fall apart. For all my frustration, I knew it was a necessary. Survival came first.

Elsweyr might not have felt the weight of the Dragons in the sky, nor the strain of a civil war tearing its heart, but they came for the Black Hand. They had a duty to fulfill, a cause to uphold. Their presence here should have been a comfort—relief. Yet, somehow, it only felt like another weight pressing down on me.

 

 

---

“Finally.”

Astrid’s voice rang out like a blade drawn in anticipation—sharp, eager, unforgiving. She looked up from the clutter of parchments littering her desk, her smile too wide, too polished. It wasn’t joy. It was ownership.

She stood slowly, deliberately, her eyes locking onto mine with that familiar glint—the one that had haunted me since childhood. The one that said I was hers. That I had always been hers.

“My Silencer. How do you feel?”

The title slammed into me with the force of a memory—chains, blood, vows I never meant to make. My Silencer. As if the name belonged to her more than it ever belonged to me.

My chest tightened, an invisible weight anchoring me to the floor. I hated that word. I hated that she still used it like it meant something tender.

I dropped my gaze, just long enough to brace myself.

“Never been better.” The words came out dry, bitter, soaked in sarcasm. I stepped closer to her desk, every movement a defiance, a reminder that I wasn’t a child anymore—even if I still felt like one in her presence.

“Seems we have company.”

She didn’t flinch.

“The Khajiit and the Dunmer arrived, if that’s what you’re referring to.” Her tone was breezy, dismissive, like she was naming pests she hadn’t asked for. Then she tilted her head and added, almost with distaste “They are—”

“Family,” I cut in, my voice flat, the word sour on my tongue. I dropped into the worn chair beside her desk, letting out a sigh that seemed to carry years of resignation. “Yes, I know.”

For just a heartbeat, her face softened. Something passed through her eyes—something close to regret, or maybe just nostalgia. But it faded quickly. The façade slipped back into place as she sat, her fingers dancing across the papers on her desk like she was composing a symphony only she could hear.

“The council is tomorrow.” Her voice dropped into something quieter—more serious, more dangerous. “Colymna and her little swarm will arrive before dawn. I expect the usual games. And we…” She trailed off, eyes flicking toward a parchment she traced with idle fingers, as if it carried secrets only she could read. “…have much to prepare.”

“We?” The question escaped before I could think better of it.

Her gaze snapped up—sharp, cutting, dark brown and storming with offense. Her head tilted slowly to one side, as if regarding something pitiful. Me.

“Yes. We.” Her voice was softer now, laced with that venomous sweetness that always meant danger. She lifted a hand and jabbed a single finger toward me—then toward herself.

“You. And me.”

The weight of those words hung between us like smoke in a locked room.

It was only then that I noticed it—her hand, wrapped in white linen, the bandage stark and almost jarring against the gold of her skin. A crude thing, for Astrid. She always kept herself pristine, composed. But the sight of it unsettled me.

“What happened to your hand?”

Her eyes flinched—just slightly—but it was enough. That flicker of awareness, of calculation. She moved too fast to seem casual, tugging her sleeve down to hide the injury from view. Her fingers returned to the parchment before her, as if it suddenly held more importance than me.

“I wondered if you’d tell me,” she murmured, and her voice was different now—distant, soft, like a shadow at twilight. “But then… I saw for myself.”

A chill slithered down my spine.

“What does that even mean?”

I asked, but I already knew. Somewhere inside, I knew. I just wanted her to say it out loud. To confirm the horror or, gods, to deny it and call me paranoid. But Astrid wasn’t looking at my face.

Her gaze had fallen—down my throat, to the collar that sat just high enough to hide the twin wounds beneath it. Her eyes lingered there, quiet and piercing.

“Tell me.”

It came out sharper than I meant, almost pleading. I needed her to stop staring at my throat like she could read my blood. I needed her to meet my eyes. To see me.

At last, she leaned back in her chair with a sigh, slow and heavy, dragging her eyes upward to meet mine. There was something like pity in her gaze… and something colder, deeper.

“We are bound by more than our duties now,” she said. “More than the names we carry.”

Her hand rose, almost lazily, and she pulled her sleeve back again, exposing the bandage beneath.

“Not just soul to soul, Silencer.” She gave a quiet laugh, bitter at the edges. “We are one. Flesh, too. Wound to wound.”

One.

The word rang in my mind like a bell tolling for something lost. What had I done? What had I let happen?

I felt the color drain from my face. My heart slammed once, twice, and then seemed to pause altogether. I hadn’t agreed to this. I hadn’t understood what I was being bound to.

Astrid’s legs crossed with a casual grace, the heel of her boot resting now atop her desk as if we were talking about the weather. She studied me, amused.

“You were always so careful,” she said “That’s what I admired about you. Measured. Controlled. You never let your guard down.”

She tilted her head slightly, the smile thinning.

“And you never ate anything… strange.”

My breath caught.

The coffee.

That damn coffee. The bitter taste, the warmth that turned to nausea, the dizziness that followed. The slow poison that I thought had only curled inside me.

Had she felt it, too?

I stared at her bandaged hand, then down at my own. The threads of the wound beneath the skin. Connected. Reflecting.

How deep does it go?

What had she done to me? And how much of her now lived in me?

“Anyway,” Astrid said briskly, clearing her throat. The sound cut through the silence like a blade, shattering my thoughts into fragments. But one shard lingered.

Sharing everything.

Not just my blood. My wound. My silence. But all of me.

I blinked. Tried to push the thought away.

“The council demands the Silencer’s presence,” she continued, rising suddenly from her chair. The movement was sharp and deliberate—too swift to be casual, too smooth to be accidental. She made her way across the room, stopping at the tall dresser that loomed in the corner like a silent sentry.

I followed her with my eyes, though my thoughts still floated behind her words.

Silencer.

They demand the Silencer. Not Niolenyl. Not the girl I was. Only the weapon they shaped.

Astrid turned, and in her hands was a folded bundle of black cloth. Atop it rested a mask—pitch-dark, the shape of it blank and inhuman, save for a single crimson hand painted across its center, its fingers stretched as if to smother.

I didn’t move.

The sight of it held me in place—chilled me.

Astrid must have noticed the way I stared. She cleared her throat again, softer this time.

Deliberate. Measured. Like she was reeling me back from the edge.

It wasn’t anything like what I kept in my wardrobe. There was no elegance, no subtle grace. It looked like it had been born from shadows—stitched together by something that didn’t believe in mercy. And the mask… that crimson hand felt like it was reaching toward me. Like it wanted to press against my mouth. To silence me fully. Forever.

But I remembered her words, from what felt like a lifetime ago.

No one knows who the Silencers are.

Not even the Black Hand.

Not even family.

Anonymity wasn’t just a tool. It was a law. A void I had to step into, wear like a second skin. The mask wasn’t for protection. It was for erasure.

“I suppose you like it.”

Her voice brushed against me like velvet dipped in frost. I looked up sharply. She was watching me—intently, knowingly.

“You’d have said something by now if you despised it,” she said, a smile playing faintly at the corner of her mouth. “So there’s hope after all.

“Is this what I’ll—”

“You. And every other Silencer.”

She stepped forward and dropped the bundle into my arms.

The fabric was heavier than I expected. Cold, even through the cloth of my sleeves. The mask sat atop it like a crown.

Or a coffin lid.

The fabric felt soft between my fingers—too soft for something meant to conceal such darkness. Light as silk, yet it weighed down my arms like armor. I could feel its purpose in the very threads, woven not just to hide but to erase. To strip away identity until only the title remained.

And then—

Her fingers. Ice-cold and unyielding.

They clasped my chin with practiced precision, lifting my face until my gaze locked with hers. Astrid’s eyes were sharp, fathomless—an abyss that pulled and held. There was no warmth in them, only a cruel familiarity.

“Remember,” she said, her voice so low it barely carried, yet each word struck like a command. “Whatever happens in there, the council demands respect. And silence.”

My throat tightened. I couldn’t move. Couldn’t look away. I wasn’t sure if she was casting a spell, or if I’d simply forgotten how to resist.

Her fingers didn’t loosen. Her eyes didn’t blink.

“And your fate,” she whispered, “is bound to mine. Until the day Father takes one of us into his embrace.”

Forever.

A shiver ran down my spine, not from fear—but from the echo of a voice long buried.

Nazir’s warning clawed its way back up, wrapping around my ribs like a second heartbeat.

But it was too late. I had stepped into the trap willingly.

And now here I stood, caught in it, the symbol of my servitude resting in my hands. Black as the Void. Heavy as truth.

I am hers.

“Rest now,” Astrid said, releasing me with a final, lingering touch. Her hand slipped away from my skin like the closing of a door I hadn’t realized was open.

She turned her back to me, placing both hands firmly on the desk as if bracing herself—or bracing me .

“Mingle. See them. Speak with your family while you can. You may not get the chance later. This war…” Her voice dropped into a hollow whisper. “…will tear through us. And not all will remain standing.”

The silence that followed was thicker than any cloth she had placed in my arms.

I turned to leave, my steps quiet, but not steady.

Curiosity anchored me mid-step. My hand hovered near the door, but I couldn’t bring myself to open it—not yet.

“Astrid?”

The name slipped from my lips like a secret I hadn’t meant to say aloud.

Behind me, the rustle of parchment stilled. “Yes?”

I swallowed, the breath I drew barely steady enough to carry the question that had sat on the edge of my mind for too long.

“Did you hear them too?”

The air in the room seemed to change, growing still and thick like the moments before a storm. My heartbeat pounded against my ribs, wild and frantic. This was it. Maybe I wasn’t alone. Maybe I wasn’t mad .

A pause.

“Who?”

Her voice was light, almost careless—but that single word landed like a blow.

The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It rang in my ears, louder than any scream. The voices—the ones that whispered in languages no tongue should speak, that clawed through my dreams, that hollowed out the night—had never reached her.

They belonged to me. Only me.

The hope inside me cracked, delicate and fragile. And yet, in the midst of that disappointment, there was something else—

A fragile, bitter relief .

This madness was mine alone. The bond between us hadn’t twisted into this particular horror. She hadn’t heard them.

Maybe that meant I still had something untouched. Something still mine.

I turned my face slightly toward the door, just enough that she wouldn’t see the tremble in my lips.

“Nothing.”

The word was a whisper, a retreat. I didn’t wait for her to reply.

My feet moved before my mind did, carrying me swiftly out of her chambers. The hallway outside was dim, the air colder—but real.

I didn’t look back.

Some truths were better left buried in silence.

 

To be continued…

Chapter 37: Chapter 37

The voices rang in the back of my mind.

Not the ones from my dreams—those spoke in tongues twisted by something far older than time. No, these were voices of the living. Laughter. Whispers. Clinking goblets and hushed greetings passed beneath arched stone and worn wood. It was a sound I hadn’t heard in years—perhaps ever. Not like this.

I walked slowly through the sanctuary’s halls, letting the warmth of the noise pull me forward. My footsteps, light against the ancient floor, felt too loud in my ears. Too real. Like I didn’t belong here, among this gathering of strangers wearing the same blood-stained cloak.

The corridor opened into the long hall, and the sight stopped me.

It was full.

Khajiit in dusky silks with their golden eyes darting toward me, whispering among themselves in fluid Elsweyr dialects. I recognized their look: Tenmar. Jungle-born. Assassins trained not just in silence but in shadow itself. One wore a bone dagger at his hip that looked older than Skyrim.

And across the room, I caught the still, elegant poise of Dunmer cloaked in deeper reds than I remembered ever seeing. Those from Blacklight. Their movements were precise, their smiles rare. Their eyes—sharp as blades—landed on me with cool interest but no warmth. They didn’t need it. Their presence alone was loud enough.

This wasn’t the sanctuary I knew.

Tables were pulled together, messily perhaps, but lovingly, as if years of isolation had finally caved under the weight of shared purpose. Some drank. Others simply spoke in low tones, heads tilted close, trading stories or memories I had no part in. And for the first time, I realized how small my world had been. The emptiness Astrid and I clung to… it was not the norm. We had kept the void alive.

Now, it was brimming.

A laugh rang out from somewhere near the far hearth—a genuine, belly-deep laugh from a Khajiit with silver rings in his ears. Someone slapped his shoulder, murmuring something in return. There was something haunting about it. Joy in a place I only ever knew as a grave dressed in crimson.

I stood at the edge of it all, a silent statue in the chaos. Unnoticed at first, and then slowly, they turned. Not all. But a few. Eyes drifting toward me, like shadows watching from corners. Not unkind, but uncertain. Reverent, perhaps. Curious.

They didn’t know who I was—not really. The anonymity of the Silencers was sacred. Even here, even among family. But I could feel the weight of eyes trailing after me as I passed through. Not in fear. Not in recognition. Just…curiosity.

A flicker of movement caught my eye.

“Oi!” a voice called, rising just above the hum of conversation. Familiar. Warm. “Nio!”

I turned just in time to see Fen rising halfway from a long table tucked beside the hearth, her face splitting into a grin. Around her sat a loose mix of Falkreath assassins and new arrivals—Dunmer with red eyes like cooling coals, and Khajiit whose tails flicked in idle rhythm.

“It’s so good to see you have finally got better!”

Fen’s arms wrapped around me before I could even speak, the embrace soft, warm—unquestioning. When she pulled back, her grin didn’t falter as she turned to face the others at the table, who now stared in measured silence.

“Let me introduce you to the arrivals from other Sanctuaries,” she said, voice still cheerful but touched with something more formal. A hint of pride, maybe. Or protection.

“The cold sister.”

It was Jarrogo who spoke, lounging with feline ease across from us, the same Khajiit I had seen in the bathhouse. His golden eyes narrowed just enough to suggest amusement—or judgment. Maybe both.

“Well,” Fen said, glancing between him and me, her grin widening, “you may call her that.”

“Niolenyl.” I cleared my throat, my voice firm and steady as I corrected him. “My name is Niolenyl.”

Jarrogo took a long sip from his cup, the corners of his whiskered mouth twitching slightly, but he said nothing more.

With that, I sat beside Fen, the weight of eyes slowly retreating now that I’d taken my place. I reached for one of the goblets, lifted it to my nose. Red wine. Strong. A touch of spice in the scent—cinnamon, maybe. I set it down gently without tasting it.

The others continued their meal in low voices, and I watched them. Watched how they leaned in toward one another, their language a blend of hisses and lilting syllables I barely followed. Dunmeri, in sharp, clipped tones. Ta’agra, soft like silk dragged over steel. And amidst it all, the Falkreath assassins murmured in Skyrim’s guttural Common, familiar and jarring all at once.

No one asked me anything else. Not yet. But I could feel it—the weight of their curiosity pressing in like cold air through the cracks in the stone.

And still, Fen leaned into me, shoulder brushing mine, trying to make it all feel easy. Light.

“You should have seen it earlier,” she whispered near my ear. “A Dunmer from Blacklight beat Grodyl at knife-tossing. He’s been sulking for hours.”

“I was simply… preserving energy.” Grodyl sitting next to her drawled without looking up.

Fen giggled. “He missed the target completely.”

And just like that, the table warmed again.

I reached for a slice of cheese, letting the texture crumble between my fingers before placing it on my tongue. Anything—anything—to silence the grumble in my stomach that had been fed more by potions than food these past few days. It felt strange to chew again. Comforting, almost. A quiet return to something human.

“They say the council is tomorrow, but Colymna hasn’t shown up yet.” Fen remarked lightly, leaning back in her seat, her cup spinning slowly between her fingers.

“I don’t even expect her to,” Grodyl muttered with a scoff, nose wrinkling as he took another swig of wine. “She’s probably sulking that the council’s being held here instead of in their slimy little cave.”

“They say Dawnstar smells like horse piss and troll fat.”

It was the Dunmer woman across from me who spoke, her tone dry as flint, but her eyes sparkled with amusement. She shrugged one shoulder, unconcerned. “I rather like your interior.”

“Not only it, but everyone in it.” Grodyl said, smirking as the table erupted into easy laughter. Even Jarrogo’s whiskers twitched in what might have been a chuckle.

I didn’t laugh. Not really.

Instead, my gaze drifted.

It started slow—just a glance over the rim of my goblet—but it turned into something else. A subtle search. The kind where your chest tightens before your mind understands why. I scanned the hall, table by table, face by unfamiliar face. So many strangers, and yet it felt like everyone here belonged more than I did.

And still… I looked for him.

Mismatched eyes. Pale skin in shadow. A flicker of fangs behind a smirk. But he wasn’t there.

Not even a trace of him.

Would he still be locked away in the dungeons? Tucked beneath stone and silence where the chaos of celebration could not reach? Amon never cared for company—and now, more than ever, I envied him for it. For the stillness. For the absence of watching eyes and forced laughter and the way this crowd pressed in, even without touching me.

For a moment, I imagined what it might feel like to vanish into the dark beside him. Just for a while.

Just to breathe.

But I stayed seated. I swallowed the last of the cheese, and the laughter at the table carried on, a song I could no longer hum along with.

“Still, this is the Black Hand calling,” murmured another Dunmer seated a few places down from me, his voice like a shadow barely above the table’s chatter. “She doesn’t get to say no. Not when we came all the way from Morrowind.”

“She will come,” the Khajiit beside him added with a quiet certainty, his whiskers twitching with the words. “Or she will face the wrath of Father—with all her minions.”

The wrath of Father.

It was said to be the most sacred curse, the truest horror. No blood, no fire, no scream echoed louder than that judgment. One didn’t need to know the tenets to fear their breaking—only to exist within this Brotherhood was enough.

I felt it then—tightening.

A chill slipped beneath my skin like ice in my veins, coiling along my spine and locking my lungs. I hadn’t broken any tenet. Not exactly. Not truly. And yet the weight of that name pressed against my ribs like a hand, like a warning.

The cheese in my mouth had gone dry. I couldn’t swallow it, couldn’t reach for my cup.

Suddenly the noise around me became too loud. Too warm. Too alive.

I pushed back my chair, standing before I realized I had moved.

“Nio?” Fen’s voice reached me, low with concern, and her eyes followed mine down to my untouched goblet. Her lips tugged into a frown. “Someone, get us some water!”

“No need,” I said softly, forcing the calm into my voice as I nodded. “I’ll join you for the dinner. It was nice to meet you.”

I offered a faint nod toward the table, even as their eyes trailed me, and turned—moving past the warm circle of laughter and shared blood, toward the cold quiet halls that waited to swallow me whole.

As my steps carried me into my room, I found it dark and empty—as it always would be.

Leaning back against the door, I let it close behind me with a dull thud. My head tipped back against the wood as I exhaled through my nose, trying to push the noise out of my mind. I wanted silence. Not the kind that echoed in the halls or haunted my steps—but the kind that stripped thoughts bare and left nothing behind. A spell, perhaps. Something that could burn the weight out of my chest and leave me clean.

My gaze shifted to the desk. There, resting like a misplaced jewel amid scattered parchment, lay the hilt of the dagger.

Its shimmer was unmistakable—black and red gems set into a metal that didn’t belong here, not among these walls or my old belongings. It was too fine, too deliberate.

And yet I remembered the hands that tied it to my thigh. The way the silence between us had pressed in tighter than ever. The way golden eyes didn’t dare ask for forgiveness, only gave something in return.

I swallowed, lifting it from its resting place. The silver blade slipped free with a sound like drawn breath, gleaming in the light that filtered through the tiny window above my bed. Flawless. Delicate. But no less dangerous.

Maybe it was his apology. Maybe not.

But he had taste.

As I pushed the blade back into its sheath and set it down on the desk once more, the thought returned, unwelcome and heavy—the plan. The mission.

To assassinate the Thalmor Ambassador in the middle of her own celebration. Surrounded by courtiers, guards, whispers, and gold.

There could be no mistake.

No slip.

No mercy.

And still, all I could think about was the scent of those halls. The glint of polished marble. The soft rustle of silk robes sweeping over crimson carpets. The soft sound of string quartets humming beneath crystal chandeliers. How easily they cloaked their cruelty in elegance.

It had been years. But nothing about them truly faded.

The Thalmor were like mold—silent, spreading, clinging to the corners of your mind no matter how far you’d run. The way they smiled as they lied. The way they praised as they poisoned. The way they looked down on you, even when you were kneeling in service.

My fingers curled into a fist before I realized it.

Ondolemar’s voice stirred again in my head, as clear as if he stood beside me.

They own you for life.

He wasn’t wrong.

The Thalmor didn’t just ruin lives. They rewrote them. They reached inside, tore out your name, your will, your self—and gave you back something that served them better. Something quieter. Angrier.

Something they could use.

They did it to him.

They did it to me. Turned my silence into obedience, my rage into usefulness.

And what did that leave me with?

My feet carried me to the dresser before my thoughts did. I opened the drawer, letting it slide with a reluctant groan. The council attire lay folded inside—neatly, coldly. A dark, silent uniform that fit me too well. The mask rested on top, its surface catching the light just enough to gleam like a knowing eye.

Another version of me. Another costume.

Another scar waiting to happen.

My breath caught. I didn’t reach for it.

Was this what I had become? A blade to pass from hand to hand? A shape molded by whoever needed me next?

All this time, I told myself the Brotherhood was different. That they saved me. That they gave me purpose when I had none. Family when I had no one.

But did they?

Or had they simply offered a different kind of chain—painted it red and called it love?

They told me I had a place. But only when I was killing for them. Only when I was useful.

Like the Thalmor.

Maybe worse.

Maybe I was the one who couldn’t tell the difference anymore.

Was that it?

Had I grown so used to being used that I mistook it for being wanted?

I stood there for a long while, staring down at the mask—at myself, carved into something that could be worn and discarded. A shadow of a shadow.

Was this my fate?

Or was this just the only thing I knew how to be?

I knew it would never end.

This endless cycle—of obedience, of blood, of pretending I still belonged to something, or someone.

Like a leaf caught in the wind, I drifted. As long as I lived, I had to survive. That was the rule. The one truth that never changed, no matter whose banner flew above my head.

But for what?

To obey?

To kneel to one master just to be handed to another?

I had told myself there was purpose. That there was something more at the end of this long road paved with silent kills and swallowed grief. But in the quiet of my chambers, with no orders to follow and no blood on my hands—just the echo of what was and what might be—I felt the truth settle in like dust.

It all came down to survival.

In this world, torn and trembling, with empires crumbling and dragons darkening the skies, what else could matter?

Even the weight of my past paled beside the shadow of what was coming.

The war. The dragons. The unraveling.

For the first time, the future felt heavier than the past.

And in that weight, a thought stirred—a treacherous one.

Would it be easier to vanish?

To fall in battle, nameless, faceless? To be scorched to ash by a dragon’s breath and spared the torment of a thousand more days like this?

To leave behind the mask, the pain, the constant ache of a life lived in borrowed names?

Would that be cowardice? Or mercy?

I didn’t know.

All I knew was that I was tired. And tired people often dreamed of endings.

But I would go on.

Because I always did.

Because something inside me still refused to die quietly, even when part of me wished it would.

 

To be continued…

Chapter 38: Chapter 38

The room swallowed sound.

It was the kind of silence that felt thick in the throat — suffocating, ancient, heavy with the weight of unspoken names and undone oaths. The air didn’t move, and neither did the people. No one shifted in their seat. No one coughed. No one dared.

At the center of the chamber, the round table glinted faintly under low candlelight — stone polished so smooth it mirrored the flame like water. Four figures sat around it: the Speakers. Draped in layers of deep black and faded crimson, each one sat stiff, straight-backed, cloaked in the authority of years — or decades — of death. Their faces were half-buried in shadow, but their eyes gleamed.

Watching. Measuring.

In the very center of the ring, a single figure sat stiller than death.

Nazir, The Listener.

He said nothing, moved nothing, but every breath in the room orbited his presence. He was the axis.

And behind him — behind all of us — stood the grave.

The Night Mother’s coffin loomed taller than I remembered. Smooth, sealed, untouched. But I could feel her. The air thickened with every beat of her silence. I didn’t believe in ghosts. But the Mother didn’t need belief to haunt you.

I stood behind Astrid. My mask on, breath shallow beneath its weight, fingers laced behind my back like the others.

There were four of us — Silencers — stationed behind our Speakers, unmoving, unbreathing, unalike and yet indistinguishable. Same attire. Same dark mask. Same silence.

The council hadn’t begun, not yet. The Listener hadn’t raised his hand. No one dared speak without his signal. But the air was already stretched thin, ready to snap.

I let my gaze drift over the others — the Speakers with their slow, patient menace, and the Silencers behind them with their hollow eyes.

Were they like me?

Were they hiding things behind those masks?

Or was I the only ghost pretending to be a blade?

Next to Astrid sat the Speaker of the Tenmar Sanctuary — a Khajiit cloaked in silence, with fur darker than the void between stars. His claws rested before him on the table, long and polished like daggers, and his golden eyes tracked Nazir with a stillness that felt far too sharp to be passive. There was a knowing in that gaze. A warning, perhaps.

Across the stone ring, Colymna sat upright, poised like a blade half-drawn from its sheath. Beside her lounged the Dunmer Speaker of Blacklight, his palm propping his cheek, his expression screaming of boredom. If his red eyes had rolled any harder, he might’ve lost them in his skull. He didn’t want to be here — and he wasn’t hiding it.

But Colymna’s attention was far from him.

Her gaze was locked with Astrid’s, a war waging in silence across the table. No words were needed. The tension was older than any of us. Deeper than the grave we served. Two Sanctuaries. One province. No clear rule.

This wasn’t a council. It was a battlefield dressed in whispers and ritual.

Then Nazir spoke, and like a string had been pulled through all of us, the room shifted.

“Let the council begin with the words of Mother.”

His voice was deep, steady, carrying the calm of a man who had seen too much to ever fear the present.

All eyes turned to the Listener. Not a breath dared rise until her voice fell like a veil over us.

“For the night is where all my children come together,” he said, voice smooth and hollow, “as a family. How fortunate of me, to have seen you in such unity.”

I didn’t move, but something beneath my ribs flinched.

Unity?

I had seen more tension in a room full of corpses.

My gaze lingered just a moment too long on Astrid’s shoulder. The way her jaw clenched. The curve of her knuckles, pale beneath leather. She was always the loudest in silence.

And I knew the storm was coming.

As Nazir lifted his hand, he cleared his throat and spoke again — this time, not for the Mother, but in his own voice.

“As Mother stated, we are strong in unity. When the dark swallows the land, we, as shadows, must know where to find one another. Where to seek aid.”

He turned toward Astrid with a small tilt of his neck. “Astrid. You may begin.”

I caught the way Astrid stiffened in her chair, her spine rigid, her elbows planting onto the table with intent. Across from her, Colymna’s face darkened — not with shock, but the slow, simmering kind of fury. Being passed over like that, despite leading one of the sanctuaries under discussion… it was deliberate. And Astrid knew it.

“Dear Brothers,” Astrid began, voice cool but trying to play polite, aimed only at the Khajiit Speaker beside her and the Dunmer across the table. “I would like to thank you for honoring us with your presence today, and for coming to our humble sanctuary. We all are—”

“Pfft.”

The Dunmer — Virel, if I remembered correctly — rolled his crimson eyes and leaned back with a scoff, cutting her off mid-sentence.

“Spare us the pleasantries, Astrid. We don’t have the whole day. Some of us still have actual work to do.”

His voice was laced with disdain, and I flinched — not just from the words, but the way he spat them. Astrid’s jaw tightened. The silence stretched taut, a drawn bowstring ready to snap. I could feel the other Silencers watching from behind their masks, just as motionless — just as deadly.

“Easy, Virel,” Colymna said, turning in her chair to face him with narrowed eyes. “It’s barely been a minute. Don’t start whining now.”

“Whining?” Virel’s voice turned sharp, mockery curling around each word. “I don’t recall the Black Hand sparing even two seconds when Sadrith Mora called for aid.”

At that name — the fallen sanctuary — the weight in the room shifted. Like a breath being held.

The Khajiit, sitting beside Astrid, finally spoke. His voice was quiet, but heavy with something deeper.

“Sadrith Mora was a tragedy we all mourn.”

He lowered his eyes to his claws, sorrow darkening his expression like a storm brewing behind still water.

But Virel only laughed, the sound light, bitter, and hollow.

“A tragedy?” he echoed, lips curled in something between a smile and a sneer.

“Call it what it was — a massacre.”

The Khajiit didn’t respond.

But his eyes lifted — sharp, golden slits locking onto Virel in a silence so deep, so deliberate, it could have torn the Dunmer in two.

“We’ve all tasted the Morag Tong’s claws,” Astrid said, her tone flat and cold, not even looking Virel’s way.

“But this… this is about more than some savages with poisoned blades. We’re talking about beasts that eat worlds. Things that leave nothing behind.”

Silence fell.

Even Virel, arrogant as ever, seemed to feel the chill crawling in. He sank back into his chair, the words melting off his lips as he realized — this wasn’t a war he could outmaneuver.

This was the end of everything, and he knew it.

“It pains me to agree,” Colymna said at last, her voice softer than usual — though her eyes didn’t even flicker toward Astrid.

“We encountered one of those beasts. On our way here.”

The Khajiit’s ears twitched, his head tilting slightly as if her words had shifted something in his bones.

Not fear. Not quite.

Fascination perhaps. A quiet, simmering interest that lit his gaze like candlelight over oil.

“And?” he asked, his voice smooth.

“Horrifying would be an understatement,” Colymna murmured, shaking her head. “It leaves me wondering how we’ll survive… let alone defeat them.”

“We won’t.”

Astrid’s answer came sharp, no hesitation.

“Our only chance is defense. Not assault. We dig in. We hold.”

Colymna’s gaze finally met hers, narrowing like a blade.

“Right, sister,” she said lowly. “You would know all about hiding in cowardice when the family needs strength.”

“And you,” Astrid snapped, “would know exactly how to hand over the fate of our Brotherhood to fools who can’t even hold their own soil.”

“Sisters, please-” the Khajiit murmured, voice level. But neither of them heard him.

“At least those fools have the heart to fight!” Colymna flared.

“For what?” Astrid leaned back, laughing under her breath. “More mead?”

The table shook with the sound of Nazir’s fist slamming down — sharp, final.

“Enough!”

I fliched at the voice of Nazir, colder than I had ever heard of it. Each passing second it the council was filled with more tense than the former. Each passing second more divided.

“We are here to find a solution. A course of action. Not to argue.”

Nazir’s voice cut through the room like a blade. Cold, exact. The kind of tone that didn’t welcome disobedience—only silence.

“The Listener speaks true.”

Khajiit’s voice followed, calm and unwavering. “Tenmar will do all it can to protect the family under this threat. We offer refuge where we can—but refuge is fleeting. These beasts do not feed and sleep. They devour, and then they spread. Once Skyrim falls, the borders will mean nothing. Nor will the names of our provinces.”

His words were met with silence—until Virel laughed, sharp and bitter.

“You can still sleep easy under the wings of your precious Dominion, Dorashi. Stop playing naïve.”

The shift in the room was instant. Even Nazir flinched, his posture tightening with the effort of restraint. The air changed—like a drawn bow waiting to snap.

Dorashi’s ears barely flicked. He didn’t rise to the bait.

“Politics matter little here, Virel.”

His tone was patient, but something old stirred beneath it—like a storm held behind silk. “Just as Blacklight expects no aid from the Great Houses, Tenmar expects nothing from the Dominion. We are neutral. As we all should be.”

“Agreed.” Astrid said quietly, her voice cold as winter stone—but her gaze didn’t leave Colymna.

Colymna scoffed and crossed her arms, an answer in itself.

Virel shrugged, ever the opportunist.

“Still, we can’t afford pride. If a hand is extended, we shouldn’t be fools and turn it away. I may agree with Colymna’s choice—alliances, however fragile, still serve a purpose.”

A pause followed. Uncomfortable. Calculating.

Virel had no love for anyone at this table, but he knew how to read a battlefield—even one made of words.

“The Empire,” Astrid began, her voice clipped, “as we know it now, has no plan. Our contacts in Castle Dour confirm nothing but chaos since the assassination of Torygg.”

“So much tragedy, in such narrow borders,” Virel muttered, just loud enough for the table to hear.

Astrid’s gaze turned to ice, but she held her tongue.

Colymna leaned back, her smirk barely hidden. “As expected. They’ll sit in their grand halls and debate over wine, just like they did when their boy-king was slaughtered.”

I watched Astrid’s hand curl into a fist on the stone table. The strain in her fingers, the way her knuckles paled—it was only a matter of time before she snapped.

“The Empire barely has enough strength to keep the rebellion at bay,” Dorashi said, his tone grave. “They’re in no condition to face a threat like this. Not an ally worth chasing.”

Colymna nodded, pleased to finally agree with someone other than herself.

Dorashi’s voice dropped as he added, “The Thalmor, however… They may possess knowledge worth investigating.”

The room chilled.

“The damn elves,” Colymna hissed through clenched teeth, “No offense, Virel.”

“None taken.” he replied with a bored shrug, as if the insult were too old to sting.

The mention of the Thalmor sent a low pulse through me. It wasn’t fear. Not yet. But something colder. Older. Something that coiled in the pit of my stomach and tightened every muscle in my body.

“We will,” Astrid interjected before my thoughts could drag me beneath the surface again, “In fact, we’re already working on it.”

Dorashi’s ears flicked as his head tilted toward her. “Meaning?”

“We’ve received a contract. From one of them.” Astrid’s words were measured, deliberate. “It will lead us to the information we need.”

The room cracked with tension.

“You filthy—” Colymna’s voice rose in fury, only to be drowned out by the thunder of Nazir’s fist slamming down on the table.

Colymna flinched and swallowed her fury, straightening in her seat. “Speaking of alliances, at least I chose men with honor. You would put your faith in a Thalmor?”

“Honor gets you killed, Colymna,” Astrid replied coolly, not even sparing her a glance. Her eyes were locked on Dorashi. “The Thalmor hold knowledge on matters none of us fully grasp. Their motives are not ours—but that does not mean they are blind to the threat. They may even be part of it.”

Each word was a spark in a room soaked in oil.

Dorashi blinked slowly, his brows furrowing in cautious calculation. Virel’s lips parted slightly as if to speak, but he said nothing. Their faces bore the same expression: that terrifying cross between disbelief and desperate agreement. Not because they trusted Astrid—but because they had nothing better to offer.

Meanwhile, the blood in my veins turned to ice.

Sweat beaded at the nape of my neck, tracing cold lines down my spine. My limbs were too still, my breath too shallow.

I knew what she was talking about.

The plan. His plan.

Ondolemar’s voice echoed in my memory like a cruel reminder. His promises, his conditions. His threats. The infiltration of Elenwen’s embassy. The night that could burn everything.

This wasn’t just a political gamble.

This was my task. My burden. And there was no room to fail.

Colymna’s laughter tore through the chamber—loud, cruel, and breathless. It echoed off the stone walls like a scream, too hysterical to ignore. Her shoulders shook as she doubled over, wiping at eyes glistening from the sheer force of her mirth.

The other Speakers turned toward her, silent, watching. Waiting.

“When they told me you were forming alliances with thieves and cast-out mages, Astrid,” she gasped between laughs, “I wasn’t even surprised. A low dog knows where the dirt lies. It was expected.”

Astrid’s fists clenched against the table, her nails pressing into her palms so deeply I wondered if she meant to draw blood. Still, she said nothing. Not yet.

Colymna leaned back, savoring every word. “But a Thalmor?” Another fit of laughter burst from her. “In front of Mother?” Her voice cracked, a mix of mockery and disbelief. “Even I didn’t think you could crawl so low.”

The tension was a living thing now, thick as smoke.

Dorashi let out a slow breath, shaking his head with visible restraint. “Enough, Colymna. We all know the Thalmor are vipers—but I’d still rather deal with them than with men who piss in their own boots.”

“I can lend you Furoir, Astrid,” Virel said coolly. “He would be the most accurate asset for such a contract, considering his… deeds for our organization.”

Furoir.

The shadow himself.

Even among the whispers of the Blacklight Sanctuary, his name was sacred—spoken only in passing and usually in fear. Nazir had once taught us techniques supposedly inspired by Furoir’s methods—silent kills, impossible escapes, untraceable poisons. But the man himself? I had never seen him. Few had.

Furoir was a ghost. A myth cloaked in flesh, whose existence served more to frighten than to inspire. In Morrowind, his name was a horror tale—parents threatened their children with it. A killer whose blood ran so cold it could freeze the whole of Nirn.

No lines, no mercy. He killed all the same—child, priest, innocent, target. To him, a beating heart was just that: a beat to be stopped.

The perfect assassin.

The one we were all measured against.

“Thoughtful of you, Virel,” Astrid replied with a calm smile—but her voice lacked warmth, hollow beneath the civility. “But we already have the perfect asset for this mission.”

Every hair on my body stood. Sweat broke across my spine like frost splitting stone.

Nazir didn’t look at me directly, not quite. But I saw it—the flicker in his eyes, the pause in his breath. A subtle shift of gaze that landed briefly on me… then just as quickly returned to the table.

He knew.

The asset Astrid spoke of… was me.

“The snake, was it?” Colymna  leaned forward, one elbow resting lazily on the cold stone. Her smirk was venomous. “Is it true she’s offered Father a thousand souls?”

Astrid nodded, slow and deliberate.

Virel’s brow lifted, intrigued.

“And what if this plan crumbles?”

Dorashi’s voice cut through the tension like a blade through silk, his claw idly tracing the carved lines in the stone

“Then we lose an asset,” Astrid replied flatly, without so much as a pause. “Nothing we haven’t endured before.”

Her words hit like ice water down my spine.

Cold.

Detached.

She hadn’t even looked at me, I knew she couldn’t. She could only speak the truth aloud for all to hear. I was only a tool. A piece to be used—on petty contracts or missions as dire as this. It didn’t matter. The result was the same.

Use.

And discard.

Virel nodded without expression. Colymna merely shrugged.

Was this how they all saw us?

Just assets—measured only by the missions we survived, replaced the moment we failed?

“But,” Astrid added, her tone lifting, “she won’t fail. For Mother is my witness—I know she’ll see it through.”

My heart plummeted to my stomach, crashing against the stone of my ribs. It beat too fast, too loud. I could barely stand beneath its weight. The thread holding me upright was thinning with every second.

“Let us hope .” Dorashi murmured, nodding quietly.

Hope.

That’s all I was.

Not trust. Not belief. Not love.

Just hope, curled around their desperation like a noose around my throat.

To be continued…

Chapter 39: Chapter 39

“Wake up, sleepyhead!”

Fen’s overly excited voice and the crash of my door hitting the wall jolted me from sleep. I didn’t so much as lift my head from the pillows—my body felt like it was filled with sand, heavy and slow, every limb protesting the return to waking.

“It’s nearly noon! You’re missing all the fun!” she sang, far too loudly for the hour or my mood.

I groaned and buried my face deeper into the pillows, dragging the blanket up over my head like a second skin. The world could wait. Fen, apparently, could not.

Sleep had only found me a few hours earlier—fragile, fleeting sleep after the long, brutal night of the Council. Their words still echoed in my skull, tangled with doubts, with fury, with truths I wished I could unhear. I’d spent half the night staring into the ceiling, the other half trying not to.

And now she wanted to talk about fun?

“Come on, Nio!”

The blanket ripped away from my head with a sharp yank. I flinched, blinking against the sudden light. Fen was leaning over me, face far too close, her deep blue eyes wide and gleaming with excitement—alive in a way that felt foreign in the Sanctuary.

“Please,” I groaned, “not now, Fen.”

“There’s a feast happening,” she said breathlessly, like she was announcing a siege.

I blinked at her. “What?”

“A feast,” she repeated, this time gentler, lowering herself to sit on the edge of my mattress. “A real one. With banners and torches and probably more wine than sense. Astrid’s organizing it. I don’t know what’s gotten into her, but it’s big. Everyone’s going to be there.”

I stared at her, trying to decide if this was a hallucination from sleep deprivation or if she had truly gone mad. “What do you mean ‘everyone’?”

“I mean everyone,” she said, eyes sparkling. “People from other Sanctuaries. Astrid wants us all together before the departures begin. There’ll be mages. Some of those weird old alchemists. Even Delvin from the Thieves Guild.” She laughed, bouncing slightly where she sat. “Can you believe it? Delvin. It’s not one of those grim Night Mother name days with skulls on skewers and poisoned bread. This is… different.”

A feast.

Astrid, who had spent the entire night steeped in secrets and silence, was now throwing a party?

She had truly lost her mind.

I sat up slowly, propping myself on one elbow. My voice was dry. “We do feasts.”

Fen waved a dismissive hand. “Not like this. This isn’t about tradition or rituals. This is something else. Something before-the-end kind of different. A last moment of color before everything burns. The war. The dragons. The decay of all of it. Don’t you want to be part of something that’s not just shadows and blood?”

I tilted my head, studying her. “You’re speaking like you’re not one of us.”

She hesitated, the smallest pause—but I saw it. Then she shrugged with a brittle smile. “Maybe I want to pretend I’m something else. Just for a night.”

I narrowed my eyes. “And what? You expect me to go prance around with assassins and necromancers and petty thieves in some grand hall while we pretend we’re a happy little family?”

She looked at me, her voice soft now. “I expect you to be my sister. And come with me. Just once. Before it all turns to ash.”

Silence stretched between us. Her words hung in the air like smoke—tangible, curling, impossible to ignore. And deep down, they struck a chord I didn’t want to admit was there.

I wanted to say no. No to the madness of it all—to the idea of throwing myself into some gaudy spectacle in front of a crowd that had no place in the Brotherhood. It felt wrong. Fake. We were shadows, not guests at a banquet. Besides, I loathed crowds. The thought of being seen—truly seen—turned my stomach.

“I’ll pass.” I muttered, turning away as I sank back into the warmth of my bed, hoping it would swallow me whole. But then came Fen’s sigh—light, but weighted—and I knew sleep had slipped through my fingers again.

“Please,” she said, leaning in, her voice softer now, her lashes brushing as she blinked, as if that might somehow charm me into compliance.

She could be rather convincing when she wanted something. If I were a man, maybe I’d fall for it.

Instead, I just stared at her. “Is that really what you want?” I asked, voice low and flat. “To dress up like a clown and prance around with people who slit throats for coin?”

Her brow lifted, trying to shield the sting behind indifference, but I saw it—just a flicker in her eyes before she raised her chin.

“Maybe I want to wear something that doesn’t reek of dried blood for once,” she said. “Maybe I want to feel like someone… before I die.”

There was no bite in her voice. No sharp retort. Just a quiet ache that slipped beneath my skin. I saw it then—the truth she couldn’t quite name. This wasn’t about silks or torches or stolen wine. This wasn’t even about the feast.

It was about grasping at something beautiful before it was gone.

Fen wasn’t clinging to festivities—she was holding on to life. To a moment of light before the darkness swallowed us whole. And for a heartbeat, I hated how much I understood her.

Maybe it wasn’t madness after all.

Maybe it was grief—disguised as hope.

With a deep, reluctant sigh, I pushed myself upright in bed, rubbing my temples as if I could massage away the last threads of sleep — or the weight pressing down on my skull. There was no going back now. That much was painfully clear.

“Fine.” I muttered.

The mattress bounced slightly as Fen shifted beside me, her breath catching with anticipation.

“Really? You’ll come?”

“Yes, but I won’t be—”

“That’s splendid!” she chirped, already springing off the bed before I could finish. She began pacing back and forth in the cramped room, her excitement spilling over in every step. “We’ll have to head to Helgen for shopping.”

“Wait—”

Shopping?

Father, help me.

“I’ll find Gabriella and we’ll be on our way. Come on, get dressed—we’re leaving soon!”

She was relentless. Unstoppable. And somehow, impossibly radiant in her joy.

Seeing her like this should have unsettled me. I wanted it to. But instead, there was a warmth blooming in my chest, slow and soft and stubborn. After everything we’d been through, after all the blood and silence, it felt strange—and beautiful—to see her excited over something so ordinary.

So human. So alive.

With haste, she vanished from the room, the door slamming shut behind her in a gust of excitement and urgency.

A celebration. Of all things, it felt absurd—unsettling, even. With everything hanging over us like a stormcloud—dragons, war, blood-soaked orders—it seemed meaningless. But perhaps that was the point. Perhaps it only became meaningful if I allowed myself to care.

I rose from the bed, limbs heavy, and moved toward the dresser. My fingers brushed across the familiar textures of my robes, sorting through them with little enthusiasm. I wasn’t even sure what I was looking for—comfort, maybe. Or armor for whatever this day would turn out to be.

A sudden knock at the door made my hand freeze.

“Fen, I told you—”

I opened the door with a scowl tugging at my face, already expecting her grin and another push to hurry.

But it wasn’t Fen.

The frown dissolved the moment I saw him.

Amon stood there—his shirt half-unbuttoned, silver hair tousled and falling over his forehead like he’d run his hands through it a dozen times. His presence was not the surprise.

The knock was.

He never knocked.

His gaze hovered just above mine, steady and unreadable, like he was searching for something—permission, perhaps. Understanding. Approval. I didn’t know.

Only that I had kept him waiting in the silence far too long.

“Amon.” I breathed, almost too quietly. The name felt heavier than it should have, tangled in the quiet ache of mornings like this.

He said nothing at first. His eyes flicked briefly past me into the room, then returned to mine, steady and unreadable.

“I thought you might be up,” he finally murmured, voice low and quiet in the dim corridor. “Fen passed me on the stairs. She was… glowing.”

“She’s preparing for the end of the world like it’s a ball,” I replied, folding my arms over my chest. “Apparently we need silk for that.”

The corner of his mouth twitched. Not quite a smile, but close enough to catch my breath off guard.

“She’s right, you know,” he said after a pause. “Not about the silk, maybe. But… about doing something before it all falls apart.”

I looked at him—really looked at him then. The faint shadows beneath his eyes. The slight hollow in his cheeks. He looked like he hadn’t slept either. Not well, at least.

I leaned against the doorframe, feeling strangely bare in my thin shift, my hair undone and wild. “Is that what you came to tell me?”

He hesitated, then shook his head slightly. “No.”

His eyes lingered on mine, quiet and searching. His voice dropped even lower, something intimate folding between his words.

“I came because I didn’t want to start this day without seeing you.”

His words didn’t strike like a lightning bolt—they sank. Slow, steady, dangerous. Like the way water fills your lungs when you stop swimming.

I didn’t know what to say. My breath caught halfway up my throat, held there by the look in his eyes—dark and unreadable, but not cold. Never cold. Amon had many faces. I had seen most of them. The killer. The prey. The shadow in the corner of a room. But this—this quiet, vulnerable, almost gentle version of him was one I wasn’t used to.

And yet, I knew it was real.

Still, I didn’t let myself speak. Words would only betray the strange war inside me—between instinct and longing, between suspicion and something warmer, more dangerous.

So instead, I stepped aside.

“Come in.” I said, my voice barely a whisper.

He didn’t hesitate.

The door closed softly behind him, not like Fen’s loud departure earlier. Amon moved with quiet purpose, like he was stepping into something sacred, something breakable. I stayed by the dresser, arms still crossed over my chest, suddenly aware of how thin the fabric of my shift felt. My skin prickled beneath it. The air between us was too still. Too heavy.

He didn’t sit. Didn’t speak right away. Just stood there, watching me in that way he had—that unnerving stillness, like he was made of shadows and coiled heat, and the moment he moved, everything would change.

“Did you sleep at all?” I asked, more to fill the silence than out of true curiosity.

His mouth curved slightly, that slow, knowing half-smile that made it difficult to breathe.

“Not well,” he said. “Too many voices in my head.”

“Mine included?” I meant it as sarcasm, maybe even a joke. But my voice was softer than I intended.

His eyes didn’t leave mine. “Always.”

The room suddenly felt too warm.

I lowered my eyes back to the drawer, fingers brushing over the fabric as if I were actually looking for something—anything—to distract me. “Will you be there for the feast?”

The question came quieter than I intended, weighted with something I didn’t want to name. I couldn’t bring myself to look at him, not yet. I already knew what I’d see in his gaze—that impossible blend of cold blue and faint red, soft with a calm I’d never seen in him. Not even when he was dying.

“I have to,” he said, exhaling the words like they cost him something.

Then—his breath. Warm against my cheek.

I flinched, but only inside. He’d moved with that inhuman speed of his, the one that usually set my nerves on edge. But now… it didn’t feel like an intrusion. It felt deliberate. Gentle, even.

“Astrid let me out of the cage for this.” His voice was near, too near. I could feel it in my spine. “She wants me helping with the preparations. Torches to light. Banners to hang. You know how she is—if it doesn’t burn or bleed, it needs to look perfect.”

His words carried the faintest bite of irony, but his nearness dulled it. There was no space left between us, and every second he lingered, the air seemed to tighten around my ribs.

“You seem to have taken the time to get to know her.” I said, the words bubbling up before I could stop them. They came out sharper than I intended, revealing far more than I liked.

To cover the slip, I quickly pulled a robe from the drawer, pretending to inspect it—though I barely registered the fabric in my hands. Anything to avoid turning and facing him.

But I could feel it. The shift in the air. The silent curl of his smirk.

“Is that jealousy I’m sensing?” he murmured, low and velvet-soft, his voice threading through the space between us like smoke.

I didn’t answer. Wouldn’t.

Instead, I forced my legs to move, walking the robe over to the bed and laying it across the blankets with careful precision. My back to him. My breath just a little too shallow.

I wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction. Not yet. Not when the heat crawling under my skin had nothing to do with the robe or the feast—or Astrid.

“I have to get dressed.” I said, breaking the silence that had stretched between us like a taut string. It felt like an eternity.

A silent wind, and he stood close—too close—between my bed and the desk, yet he hadn’t moved toward me. His gaze wandered instead, lingering over the scattered papers before slowly turning back to me. There was something different in his eyes. A quiet warmth, a softness that unsettled me more than any of his usual smirks or sharp retorts ever had.

“I’m glad to see you back on your feet.” he said gently.

His words reached me just as his gaze dipped to my neck. To the healing marks. A phantom pain stirred where his teeth had broken skin. And with it, the memory.

The feel of him—his breath, his hunger, the cold flood of power that surged into my veins as he drank. I stiffened as the echo of that night ran down my spine in a silent, cold shiver.

“You too.” I managed, barely louder than a whisper.

He didn’t step forward. Didn’t touch me. Not like he usually would—bold, borderless, never asking.

And still, I felt like I was being unraveled just standing there beneath the weight of his gaze. No fangs. No hands. Just those eyes.

“I’ll see you tonight.” he said, voice smooth, unhurried.

I nodded, blinking—and then he was gone.

That, at least, hadn’t changed.

---

 

“This is definitely your color!” Gabriella said, lifting a sheet of soft silk and gently tucking it beneath Fen’s chin. The fabric shimmered faintly in the afternoon light as we stood at the modest counter in the heart of Helgen’s marketplace.

The town itself was quiet, unassuming. Not too crowded, yet busy enough that the market thrived with purpose—vendors calling out prices, the clatter of hooves against stone, children weaving between stalls. A place untouched, it seemed, by the rot we carried.

To the outside world, we were nothing more than three women shopping for gowns. Laughing, bickering over shades of thread and silk. Our hoods were drawn low, of course—not for modesty, but to hide the old blood crusted beneath our collars, the scent of death that clung too tightly to our skin no matter how we scrubbed.

Invisible, but always there.

There was something almost laughable in it. Something bitter and absurd. It made me ache—not from amusement, but from envy. Just once, I wished to be what we pretended to be. A normal woman in a normal place, choosing fabric for a normal night.

“Are you sure?” Fen asked, holding the silk delicately between her fingers.

“It brings out your eyes. It’s perfect.” Gabriella insisted, leaning in with a conspiratorial grin.

As they continued to fuss, my gaze wandered—until it caught on something hidden beneath a cluttered pile of lesser cloth. A dark, rich blue. Midnight silk, so deep it swallowed the light. It reminded me of the shadowed halls of Clamcora, of quiet reverence and the secrets carved into its stone.

I reached out to touch it, drawn as if by memory—

Smack.

Gabriella slapped my gloved hand without even looking. “Please,” she huffed. “With your complexion? No, darling. That shade will eat you alive.”

I blinked at her. Then at the silk. Then, faintly, smiled.

Of course. Even here, even in this moment suspended between who we were and who we pretended to be—I was still too much shadow for the light.

 

To be continued…

Chapter 40: Chapter 40

Notes:

The following chapter unfolds to the haunting melody of “Sultan-ı Yegâh” by Nur Yoldas. I highly recommend listening to it during the dance sequence—it’s more than background music; it’s part of the storytelling. The rhythm, the surreal elegance, and the aching melancholy in her voice weave through every step, every glance. Let the music carry you where words alone cannot.

The sanctuary has never shone like this before.

I don’t think I breathed for the first few moments. I just stood there, half in shadow, half in candlelight, watching the place I’d bled in, killed in, wept in—watching it become something else entirely. It felt like stepping into a memory that didn’t belong to me. Or maybe a dream that should’ve turned to ash the moment I opened my eyes.

This hall was never meant for light. And yet, it glowed.

Gold danced along the stone walls, warm and flickering, poured from tall candelabras twisted with ivy and white wisteria. The vines draped from the ceiling beams like they had always been there, like the sanctuary hadn’t once stunk of old blood and oil and rot. Even the cracks in the stone were softened by shadow and silks—real silks, dyed in crimson and sable and stitched with runes I couldn’t read but somehow knew were old, older than the Brotherhood itself.

And the people…

There were so many of them. Moving. Talking. Laughing. I could feel their presence before I truly saw them—heat and perfume and rustling silk, overlapping voices that bent the air like music. I hated it. Gods, I hated the crush of it, the way it made my skin prickle and my ribs tighten like something had its hands around my lungs. But still… I couldn’t look away.

Because the sanctuary was alive.

The tables were piled high with dishes I didn’t recognize. Roasted game hens glazed in snowberry syrup. Pomegranates split open like wounds. Wheels of soft cheese wrapped in birch bark. It smelled like Solstheim spice markets and old Breton hearths. Like wealth. Like danger dressed in lace.

On the small stage near the hearth, the bards had already begun their song. I didn’t know the name, not yet, but the sound of it clung to the candlelight—strange and solemn, with a rhythm like a slow heartbeat. Haunting. The kind of music you’d dance to at the end of the world.

And Y’ffre help me… it was beautiful.

I didn’t belong here. Not in this version of the sanctuary. Not in this skin. But for a heartbeat—a single one—I let myself believe I did.

“Wine?”

Grodyl’s voice jolted me upright.

He was leaning casually against the stone arch beside the door—away from the crowd, the light, and everything that shimmered too loudly tonight. In one hand, he held a silver chalice, which he offered in my direction with a tilt of his head.

It was Grodyl, alright—but like me, he looked like he’d been trampled by Fen’s enthusiasm for tonight’s attire. His usual leathers were replaced by a dark robe, sleek and somber, though crimson laces wound around the collar and shoulders, giving it an almost regal flair. It suited him, in a way. Like a blade polished for ceremony.

“You look like you need it.” he said, voice low and wry.

I glanced toward the sea of people I’d have to walk through, then at the chalice. He wasn’t wrong. I needed a drink.

Taking the cup, I allowed myself a smirk. “And you look like Fen dressed you up.”

His frown was instant. He straightened his back, crossed his arms in mock offense.

“Nonsense,” he huffed. “We’re the hosts. We must look the part.”

I chuckled, the sound slipping out easier than expected, and took a sip. The wine was sweet, laced with something like honey and spice—too smooth for Brotherhood stock. I should have poured it all down my throat. Maybe more than one.

Maybe many.

“Nio?”

Fen’s voice cut through the air like a blade wrapped in silk—impossible to ignore, impossible not to turn toward. She appeared with all the grace of a storm at sea, dressed in a deep blue gown that hugged her torso like a second skin. The long skirt swept behind her, laced with intricate black patterns that shimmered like spiderwebs catching starlight. She looked… breathtaking.

Her frown found Grodyl immediately, lips forming a dramatic pout. “What are you doing, hiding in the shadows?”

“Said no assassin ever.” Grodyl shot back, deadpan.

I chuckled again, warmth blooming in my chest as I took another sip from the chalice. The wine settled against my ribs like liquid courage. I needed more.

Fen didn’t let him off that easily. She sighed—long-suffering and theatrical—then reached for me, her fingers curling just above my elbow as she pulled me closer into her orbit.

“You look way too good to be tucked away, sister.”

Heat crawled up my neck. I could feel it pooling in my cheeks, even if I didn’t quite believe the words. I didn’t feel beautiful. I felt… exposed. My hair had been pulled tightly back, braided in a hundred intricate knots that ached slightly with each turn of my head. The dress—crafted by Gabriella’s clever hands—was not ugly. But it was still a dress.

The neckline dipped just below my collarbones, baring more skin than I was comfortable with. The fabric hugged me too well in places I preferred to keep hidden, and yet… it was comfortable. Soft. Magical, even. Gabriella had outdone herself, conjuring not just one gown but enough for the women who had wanted to wear something other than shadows and leather for once.

Still, I shifted my weight, uneasy. “Stop it.” I murmured, shaking my head.

Fen ignored me entirely.

She took my hand in hers, deftly tucking it beneath her arm with the ease of someone used to leading. “You can stand and rot in this little corner, Grodyl,” she called over her shoulder, “but we’re going to make the most of this night.”

I shot Grodyl a look—one that begged for rescue, for mercy, for anything —but all he did was raise the chalice he’d retrieved from a nearby table, smirking over the rim as if to say, You’re on your own.

Traitor.

As Fen pulled me into the crowd, my heartbeat slammed against my ribs, faster than I could steady it. It pounded louder than the drums echoing from the far end of the room, where the bards kept rhythm beneath low candlelight. Every step felt like I was walking toward a cliff’s edge—my breath shallow, my skin too tight.

“My, you look—” Festus began as we passed his table, voice hoarse and eyes wide with mischief.

Fen didn’t even slow. She turned on her heel, staring him down with a raised brow.

“Sorry to say this,” she said flatly, “but you’re too old for me.”

The words landed like a slap wrapped in velvet. Festus opened his mouth, then wisely closed it again. Fen offered no further comment, just looped her arm through mine once more and kept moving.

We made our way toward a table near the center—one of the few with open seats, though the air around it was thick with laughter and the scent of too much mead. A few people were already dancing nearby, moving in slow, spinning circles to the hypnotic rhythm of the song. They looked like they were floating, lost to the music, to each other, to the wine.

“Come, fair sisters, please, sit with us.”

A Dunmer man scooted over, patting the bench beside him with a charming sort of confidence. His tone was friendly, slurred only slightly by wine, and the table he offered held others in similar states—cheeks flushed, voices low and warm with drink.

I glanced over them. They looked like people of Blacklight: cloaked in fine robes dyed the deep hues of night, threaded with delicate silver lacing. Everything about them was polished and proper, a quiet elegance that had nothing to do with blades or blood.

I turned to Fen, silently pleading with my eyes. Let’s go. Let’s just sit with Gabriella and the others. But Fen, as always, had other plans.

She gave me a look that said play along and pulled me down beside her onto the bench. Thankfully, I landed at the edge—no one pressed into my side except Fen.

“The name’s Tervon,” the Dunmer said proudly, gesturing grandly to each person as if they were part of a royal court. “And these are Velasi, Deran, and Rurik.”

From the way he said it, you’d think we were supposed to have heard of them—whispers of renown traveling all the way from Morrowind.

Nobodies. 

“Fen,” my sister offered, extending a hand toward me, “and my friend here is Nio.”

Velasi—the one across the table—leaned in slowly as her name was spoken, her gaze dragging across my face with too much interest. Crimson eyes, glassy with wine, but still sharp. Appraising.

I turned my gaze elsewhere, but I could feel her eyes tracing the lines of my features, like fingers on skin.

“Such an honor,” she finally said, voice a purr of reverence, “to be in the presence of the Ashenblade.”

The name sent a shiver down my spine.

My gaze snapped back to Velasi’s.

Ashenblade. The very name I had almost tied to my door before leaving for the feast—before I told myself I could be something softer, even for a night.

A sudden, tense silence wrapped itself around the table. Heavy. Suffocating. Every glowing pair of eyes turned toward me, curiosity sharpening into something colder. Hungrier.

Ashenblade was me.

And I was it.

No matter how far I tried to run, how many layers of silk or lace I wrapped around myself, the name clung to me like dried blood. I had earned it—through screams and shadows, through death dealt without hesitation. I couldn’t shed it. Not truly.

“Ashenblade?” Rurik, the Nord, echoed with a squint and a slurred grin. He reeked of mead. “Expected you to be taller.”

“Or to have claws.” Tervon added, raising his goblet with a smirk curling at the corners of his lips.

And here I was—bound in a tightly fitted dress, my braids pinned so carefully, as if the entire evening had been designed just to mock the legend they expected.

“Isn’t she adorable ?” Fen’s voice rang out in that infuriatingly cheerful tone, slicing through the tension with ease.

My eyes widened as I snapped my head toward her, a lump catching in my throat. Adorable. As if I were a little sister she dressed up in stolen silk instead of the woman who once left a trail of corpses from Cheydinhal to Whiterun.

“She certainly is.”

I had never been so relieved to hear a voice that unnerved me to my core.

A cold hand brushed against my bare shoulder, cooling the heat that had crept beneath my skin. Amon stood behind me—his presence sliding between Fen and me like a shadow slipping into a crack in stone. The others at the table lifted their gazes, but I already knew. I felt him before I saw him.

My heart dropped into my chest like a stone.

He was there. Real. Solid. Unavoidable. His silver hair was slicked neatly to the side, catching the lantern light in muted glints, and his robe was black as the void—lined with the same blood-red lace as mine, as if matching me had been no accident at all.

“A vampire .” Tervon muttered, barely above a breath. His hand tightened into a subtle fist on the table.

“Among us?” Velasi’s voice pitched higher, incredulous, scanning the table for some protest that might rise.

“Don’t worry, little mortals,” Amon purred, voice velvet-soft and venom-sweet as his gaze trailed from one face to the next. “My dinner for tonight has already been served.”

I wanted to vanish.

To collapse into mist, to bleed through the cracks of stone and shadow, to flee far from the weight of those gazes—those gleaming, pitiless eyes that stripped me down to nothing but rumor and shame.

My blood thundered in my ears, hot with humiliation. I wasn’t the Ashenblade in that moment—I was just a girl in a dress, caught between wine-soaked laughter and the cruel hunger of curiosity.

“Let’s go.”

His voice came like a thread of moonlight through a storm. Soft. Unshakable. And his touch—a glacial line from my shoulder to my fingers—left a trail of something colder than frost, something that burned beneath the skin.

But I couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. Could only listen to the tide of whispers as they rippled like poison around the table:

The Ashenblade.

A vampire’s dinner.

The weight of it pressed down until I couldn’t tell if it was my name or a noose.

Then I felt it—Fen’s quiet nudge against my shoulder. A signal. A small kindness wrapped in urgency. Her eyes met mine, not pleading, not pushing… allowing.

And gods, I didn’t want to stay.

So I reached for Amon’s hand.

Not reluctantly. Not with dread. But with something that felt like defiance. Like a claim.

For the first time, I took his hand because I wanted to.

The crowd swallowed us as we left, their stares clinging like thorns to my skin. I held my head high, but the heat still crawled up my throat and settled behind my eyes.

We stopped near the edge of the hall, where shadows pooled thicker and the noise softened into murmurs. I turned to him, yanking my hand off of his.

I stared into that familiar face—that maddening calm, that night-deep gaze that never betrayed what it held—and I couldn’t hold it in anymore.

“What in Oblivion,” I whispered, my voice barely steady, “was that?”

He raised an eyebrow, his expression maddeningly unaffected. His shoulders gave the slightest shrug—careless, casual—as if he hadn’t just shattered the fragile silence I’d been trying to hold together, as if he hadn’t dragged my name across the coals with a dozen eyes watching, judging.

“What?” he asked, voice silk-smooth, like he truly didn’t understand what he had done.

I folded my arms across my chest, a deep frown furrowing between my brows.

“Humiliating me in front of those—”

“Who?” he cut in, voice like silk over steel. “Some self-important relics from a dead corner of Morrowind?”

He stepped closer, and I felt it in my breath, my skin—everything tightening. The warmth of the room vanished beneath the cold of his nearness, but it wasn’t unpleasant. It was sharp. Clarifying.

His tone dripped with mockery, but not toward me. Toward them.

“They were nothing, Nio,” he continued, quieter now, voice curling low around the space between us. “Drunk tongues in fine robes, hoping proximity might make them memorable.”

I wanted to stay angry. I deserved to be angry. But the way he said my name—it wasn’t cold. It wasn’t cruel.

It was like a tether. A pull.

Still, my voice cut sharp, low. “You turned me into a joke.”

“No.” He leaned in, and the air between us grew colder. Sharper. “I reminded them you’re untouchable.”

My breath caught.

Untouchable.

The word hadn’t come from him like a taunt, or a boast. It came like a truth carved in stone—unchanging, irrefutable. He had said it as if it should be obvious, as if the table of Dunmer nobles and drunken Nord warriors were dust beneath my feet, and he was only reminding me not to kneel among them.

I should’ve pushed him away. I should’ve turned and vanished into the crowd, tucked myself into the comfort of Fen’s smile or the corner where the bards played music I could pretend to lose myself in. But I didn’t. I couldn’t.

I was too aware—of the feel of his touch still lingering like frost on my shoulder, of the rhythm of my pulse like a war drum beneath my skin, of how his eyes softened ever so slightly when they landed on my face.

“You didn’t need to do that,” I muttered, but my voice was already softening. “Not when they were watching.”

“They were judging,” he corrected. “Measuring. Looking for the weakness behind the legend.”

My mouth opened to argue but no words came. Because deep down, I knew what he meant. I’d seen it. I’d been it. The line between admiration and challenge was paper-thin, and some people only needed a sip of wine and a whiff of legend to think they could get away with touching fire.

But I wasn’t fire. I was the blade.

Still, I clenched my jaw. “You could’ve said anything else.”

“I did,” he said simply. “I said you were adorable.”

I faltered.

The silence that followed wasn’t like the one at the table. This one was thick in a different way—wrapped in breath, in warmth that didn’t come from flame. My heart betrayed me first, thudding up again in my chest, loud enough to hear in my ears.

“I didn’t mean to embarrass you,” Amon said, softer now, his eyes catching mine like the night catching stars. “But I won’t apologize for claiming what I want.”

His hand reached for mine again—not cold this time, but steady. His fingers curled around mine with a careful slowness, as if memorizing the feel of me, as if he’d held thousands of hands in his long life and yet still found something unfamiliar in mine. His thumb brushed the inside of my wrist and the skin there lit up like a flare.

My heart betrayed me again—hammering louder, faster, defiant.

“And what is it,” I whispered, more breath than voice, “that you want?”

His eyes didn’t waver.

The smile that curved his lips wasn’t a smirk this time. It was older than that. Deeper. A glimmer of something ancient, something powerful—and yet it softened the edges of his face in a way I hadn’t seen before.

He didn’t answer with words.

Instead, he leaned in just enough for the world to disappear—just enough for me to see my own breath tremble in the hollow of his throat—and said,

“A dance.”

Then, without waiting for me to agree, he pulled me gently but firmly toward the center of the room—toward the music, toward the flickering candles and open eyes. My feet followed before my mind could catch up.

The music was swelling—not fast, not loud, but rich with a pulse that stirred something deep beneath the skin. The strings hummed with sorrow, the drums breathed with heat, and flutes twisted between the notes like whispers in the dark.

And in the center of it all, they were already dancing.

Astrid spun, her laughter sharp as broken glass and just as beautiful. Her hair was braided back with red ribbons, and even in her drunken sway, she moved like a queen unbothered by thrones. Arnbjorn held her close with that broad, unshaven grin of his, half-naked in his deep green tunic, swaying with the weight of his ale and adoration. They looked ridiculous. And yet… happy.

Colymna, with her hair like dark silk and her expression unreadable even as Nazir twirled her in a practiced motion, his hand firm around her waist. The two of them were quiet in comparison—refined. They didn’t laugh, didn’t shout. But the way Nazir looked at her was enough to carve silence into reverence.

They belonged there.

All of them.

I… didn’t.

And yet, I was being led straight into the same flame, pulled forward by a hand that gripped me as if I wouldn’t burn.

Amon slowed as we reached the edge of the dancers. He turned to face me fully now, his expression unreadable in the dim golden light, but his posture was impossibly elegant, the perfect predator in silken robes. There was a stillness in him, the kind that made you forget to breathe until it was too late. A silence that roared.

He extended his hand again. This time, offering—not pulling. Waiting.

Behind him, people had started to notice. I saw Astrid’s laugh pause mid-note, her eyes flicker past Arnbjorn’s shoulder to see us. I saw Colymna’s head tilt ever so slightly toward Nazir, her brows narrowing.

I could feel their stares like blades pricking at my spine.

But then I looked at Amon again.

Not at his sharpness, nor the danger written into every line of his being. I saw the way he looked at me like I was the one thing not devoured by time, the one relic not dulled by centuries. Like I mattered—not just as Ashenblade. Not as a weapon.

As Niolenyl.

I placed my hand in his.

The first note swept through the hall like smoke—velvet and slow, drawn from a string instrument I couldn’t name, yet it curled around the spine as if it knew every wound I carried. It wasn’t Skyrim’s music. This was older. Richer. It tasted of forgotten lands and heavy incense, of moons rising over marble cities far from snow and stone.

A plucked oud began the rhythm, deep and resonant, followed by a ney flute’s mournful whisper that carried across the room like wind slipping through a tomb. Then—drums. Low, deliberate, like the echo of footsteps down a silent corridor. The melody moved in waves, seductive and strange, a rhythm you didn’t just hear—you felt it. In your ribs. In your blood.

And then she sang.

I didn’t know the language. It wasn’t Tamrielic. It was ancient, laced in vowels that bled into each other like silk unraveling under moonlight. Her voice didn’t rise—it floated. As if it mourned and desired in the same breath. Clear, crystalline, and tragic in a way that made my throat tighten.

Everything else blurred.

The tables. The stares. The past. The weight of names and stories clinging to me like chains. All of it faded.

Because in that moment, I was only a girl in a dark hall, standing before a vampire who hadn’t once looked away from me.

The corner of Amon’s mouth curved faintly, as if the music pleased him. And then, with no words spoken, he drew me into the center with a whisper on his lips.

“Just a dance.”

His hand found my waist, the other holding my fingers with care that didn’t suit a creature like him. Our bodies moved—not perfectly, not practiced—but like we belonged to the same song. His steps guided me through the rhythm, slow, elegant, and yet full of a tension that sang between us like the very strings above.

His touch was cold, but not unkind. A contradiction—just like him.

His hand rested just above the curve of my hip, fingers splayed with a reverence that didn’t match the hunger behind his eyes. My own hand trembled in his, laced with callouses that didn’t belong to a girl in a silk dress. But he didn’t flinch from them. He held me like I wasn’t a weapon.

Slowly, deliberately, we moved through the open floor where others had begun to make room. The bard’s voice soared higher now, the longing in her voice wrapped in lace and longing. The plucked strings followed us, soft and sorrowful, while the drums held us to a rhythm that wasn’t ours—but felt like it had been waiting.

Around us, others danced.

Even Grodyl—stiff, sour-faced Grodyl—was in motion, dancing awkwardly but genuinely with a tall Khajiit whose gold bangles clinked with every sway of her hips. Her brother danced nearby, twisting his body with feline grace, tail flicking with the beat.

Fen was no longer watching me. Her hands were now laced with Rurik’s and he was beaming like a fool, his cheeks flushed with wine and wonder, completely enamored by my sister’s light.

And then there was us.

A vampire and a killer dressed in red. A contradiction of warmth and ice, death and breath. My body moved as if remembering something I had never learned—swaying, turning under his lead. The brush of fabric against fabric, the briefest friction of skin. His silver hair, falling loose from its tie, glinted under the chandeliers.

I dared to look up.

Amon’s gaze locked onto mine—unyielding, singular. As if the rest of the world had gone quiet, dimming beneath the weight of his attention.

“You look like a sin carved for me alone.” he murmured, voice silk over steel, cold and warm at once—like dusk wind crossing over fire.

A breath caught in my throat, the words cutting too close to something unspoken. “That’s not exactly a compliment.”

His mouth curled into a slow, dangerous smile—barely a shift, but enough to bare the ghost of a fang. “I didn’t say it to flatter you. I said it because it’s true.”

His eyes flicked downward—once, briefly. A single, deliberate pass before rising back to mine.

“I see Fen had her way.” he added, a faint note of amusement curling in his tone.

“Unfortunately,” I muttered, my fingers tense against his shoulder. “Still none of your business.”

His hand at my waist pressed in, subtly—no demand, just a reminder. You’re here. With me.

“Oh, but it is,” he said lowly, as we moved through the rhythm. “You’re not just a name whispered in fear tonight. They see you now. All of you. And I find I have no taste for being overlooked.”

He turned us with precision, and I stumbled—not in step, but from the quiet heat beneath his voice. My hand brushed against the line of his collarbone beneath the black silk of his robe, and I felt the tension coiled beneath his stillness. Like a storm waiting for permission.

I refused to look away.

“Is that jealousy I’m sensing?” I whispered, aiming for mockery, but the edge in my voice came out softer—like a blade dulled by hesitation.

Amon’s lips curved—not into a smile, but into something far more dangerous. No teeth. No charm. Just that sharp, knowing tilt that always made it feel like he already knew how I’d bleed before I even moved.

“Jealousy?” he echoed, voice low and smooth, the sound of crushed velvet dragged across bare skin. “That implies I think they ever had a chance.”

The words slid between my ribs like smoke turned to glass. Not loud. Not cruel. Just certain— Amon -certain. My hand tensed where it rested on his shoulder, fingers curling slightly, instinctively.

He turned us then—effortless, commanding—as if the floor moved because he willed it to. The crowd around us blurred to irrelevance. His hand at my waist held its course with a restraint that made it more dangerous than any grip.

“Then why are you watching them like you want to bleed the room dry?” I asked, my voice quieter than I meant. Not accusing. Not really. Just aching with something I didn’t want to name. And beneath it, a spark of challenge—foolish, maybe, but mine all the same.

Amon didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink.

“I watch,” he murmured, lips grazing the shell of my ear, “because every man who looked at you tonight made a choice they won’t survive twice.”

The words were quiet. Intimate. And yet they hit like thunder in the space between us.

“A bit dramatic, don’t you think?” I muttered, tilting my chin just enough to glance up at him from beneath my lashes, trying to steady my breath—trying not to show how it faltered.

He didn’t laugh. Didn’t ease.

“I don’t do drama, Niolenyl,” he said, voice dark, velvet-smooth, and cold in the way flame is just before it burns. “I do consequences.”

My breath caught—right there in the hollow of my throat—trapped between defiance and the slow unraveling he always seemed to cause without effort. It was as if the warmth in the room no longer reached me, drawn instead into the gravity of him. His presence pulled the heat from my skin, the air from my lungs. Like static. Like ice. Like something I’d never learned how to defend against.

“You have no right—”

He turned us again, slower now, closer. The music deepened into something aching and ancient. The space between us thinned until his temple brushed mine, until I could feel his words more than hear them.

“I don’t ask for permission to want you,” he whispered. “I never have.”

I closed my eyes for just a breath—just long enough to feel the way his voice lingered, like incense and sin and something I’d never quite learned how to walk away from. He said want like it was sacred. Like it was dangerous. Like it meant ruin, and he welcomed it.

“I thought what you wanted was only a dance.” I muttered, aiming for indifference—but the words trembled, too aware of the way his hand held mine like he meant it.

Amon’s gaze didn’t soften. It sharpened.

“I never wanted only anything when it comes to you,” he said quietly, like the truth had teeth. “But a dance was the one thing you’d let me have.”

The words landed between us, stark and unadorned. And still, his touch never wavered.

My breath caught, heat rising in my throat. “That sounds like regret.”

His voice dropped, rough with restraint. “No. Just patience wearing thin.”

My breath caught. My fingers, still at his shoulder, curled as if bracing against something I couldn’t name.

“You’re still insufferable.” I said, because the truth was worse. The truth was—I was listening.

“And yet,” he murmured, thumb trailing over mine like a seal, “you still haven’t let go.”

The bard’s voice rose, not words but something older. Grief, maybe. Or fate. It wrapped around us like smoke, like spellwork, until there was nothing left of the hall but her voice and the ache she left in it.

“You’re doing it again,” I said quietly. “Looking at me like I already belong to you.”

He drew back just enough to meet my eyes, and this time there was no threat in him. No heat.

Just something terrifyingly patient.

“I don’t look,” he said softly. “I know.”

It wasn’t his usual arrogance. It was belief.

I tried to step away, but he steadied me—without force, without pride. Just presence.

“You don’t get to decide that,” I said, barely above a whisper. “You don’t get to claim me.”

Amon tilted his head, something colder in his gaze now. Sharper.

“I don’t care about claims,” he said. “I care about what I’d bleed for.”

His breath brushed my cheek—cool, steady, too calm.

“And you,” he said, voice low, reverent, dangerous, “I would burn for.”

In the space between one heartbeat and the next, I knew, he meant it. Not like a vow. Not like a curse. Like a truth he’d already lived.

And part of me, the part I kept buried beneath blades and silence, burned a little too.

 

To be continued…

Chapter 41: Chapter 41

The lights were fewer now than they had been at the start of the night.

Fewer—and dimmer. The grand hall had thinned out with the hours, its edges softened by fatigue and quiet retreat. Most had drifted to their corners: some surrendered to slumber, curled in cloaks and corners, waiting for the first light of morning to call them home. Others sank into the bottoms of their wine goblets—or into whatever strange, sharp-scented mead had made its rounds.

Me?

I belonged to the latter group, seated at Astrid’s table with Gabriel and Arnbjorn, while Colymna lounged across from her, shoulders slack and smile loose.

Wine. That was all it had taken—enough of it to drown grudges and stitch silences into something that resembled peace.

My body was there with them. My mind, not quite. It drifted between their words, their laughter, unable to anchor itself to the present. I couldn’t tell if it was the wine or the lingering ghost of Amon’s hands around my waist… his voice, still whispering in my ear, like a song no one else could hear.

I stared into my goblet, watching the way the wine caught what little light remained, rippling with every movement like it, too, was unsure of its place. The voices around me blurred—Arnbjorn’s rough laughter, Gabriel’s sharper retorts, Astrid’s knowing hums. I heard them all, and yet I didn’t. Not really.

Amon’s presence still clung to me like smoke. I could feel the press of his hand even now, low on my back. The echo of his breath on my skin. His words hadn’t faded—they haunted. Wrapped themselves around my ribs like silk and chains all at once.

I tilted the goblet, drank, welcomed the burn. It was sharper than it should’ve been. Or maybe that was just me—my skin too thin, my heart too loud.

It hadn’t been long since Astrid dismissed him—sent him down to the lower levels of the Sanctuary, to the dungeons where he always ended up. As always, he obeyed without a word. No protest. No glance back. Just the quiet sound of his steps fading into the dark.

I took another slow sip from my cup, savoring the bitter warmth, when a hand closed around it.

“That’s enough for tonight, sister,” Gabriel said beside me. His voice was calm, but the look in his eyes was sharp—unyielding.

I tried to tug the goblet back, stubborn, desperate to lose myself in its haze again. But he didn’t let go.

“You’re still healing.” he added, gently prying it from my fingers before setting it down on the table, just out of reach.

I stared at the cup—just stared, like it might return to my hand if I wished hard enough. But it didn’t. Gabriel’s hand stayed on my wrist for a heartbeat longer, firm and steady, before he finally let go.

“I’m not made of glass,” I said quietly, though even I could hear the cracks in my voice.

“No,” he said, settling back with a sigh. “You’re made of iron. But even iron rusts if you drown it long enough.”

That drew a low chuckle from Arnbjorn, who hadn’t bothered to speak all evening. “She doesn’t rust. She snaps—and takes half the damn room with her.”

Astrid gave a soft laugh, the kind that curled at the edge of mischief. “As she should. Let her have her drink, Gabriel. One more won’t shatter her.”

“Speaker—” he started, but his argument died in a tired sigh. With a reluctant nudge, he slid the goblet back toward me.

I didn’t wait. I picked it up, nodded once in Astrid’s direction—a silent thank you—and took another sip. Warm. Bitter. Familiar.

“Really, Astrid, where the hell is Delvin?”

Colymna’s eyes swept the room, searching—maybe hoping—to catch a glimpse of the ever-elusive Delvin Mallory, whose arrival had been promised for the feast but remained conspicuously delayed.

“On his way,” Astrid replied casually, sipping from her chalice of wine. “He’ll be here tomorrow.”

“And the mages?” Colymna asked, tone sweet but laced with thorns.

Astrid’s brow lifted, sharp and deliberate. Colymna added softly, “Afraid I’ll steal your allies now?”

Arnbjorn gave a loud snort, nearly choking on his mead as it splashed dangerously close to his nose. “Like Astrid stole your initiate?”

He didn’t even notice the sideways death-glare Astrid shot him, but I caught it—along with the sudden stillness on Colymna’s face.

“Initiate?” she echoed, voice flat but clearly intrigued.

“The forsaken vampire, of course,” Arnbjorn carried on, still oblivious, until Astrid nudged him hard in the ribs.

Colymna paused just long enough for the implication to settle in. Then she burst into laughter—high, hysterical, melodic, the kind that made you wonder if she’d find it just as funny to slit someone’s throat.

“Ah, you’re so sweet, Arnbjorn.” Colymna let out a breathless laugh, pausing just long enough to sip her wine before continuing. “I don’t know if that was an insult or just the mead talking—but either way, you must be confusing me with your wife. I don’t deal with the undead.”

Her words hit like a cold slap. My heart stuttered, skipped entirely, and for a moment, it felt like the entire hall went still. The laughter, the music, even the low hum of drunken chatter—all of it dulled beneath the weight of what she’d just said.

I wasn’t the only one caught in the silence. Astrid, too, had stilled beside me, her expression unreadable, though the slight clench of her jaw betrayed her tension.

But Colymna didn’t stop.

“If I ever saw him near my Black Door,” she went on, her voice light and pleasant like she was discussing the weather, “I’d pull his heart out myself—before someone even thought to drive a stake through it.”

“Well said.” Grodyl murmured from across the table, his voice low—but in the heavy silence, it might as well have been a shout.

I felt Astrid’s eyes on me before I saw her. A stare that dragged itself over my skin like burning iron, scorching, branding. When I met her gaze, it was like standing at the edge of a blade.

You lied to me.

The words weren’t spoken, but they echoed between us louder than the music that no longer played. It was an accusation carved into silence.

But I hadn’t. I hadn’t lied. Not to her.

If anything—I had been lied to, too.

That’s what he’d said, hadn’t he? That he knew the passphrase to the Dawnstar Sanctuary. Said it like it was nothing, like it was truth, like it was his . But was that proof? Real proof?

No. He could have tortured someone for it. Dragged it out of a dying Brother. Stolen it from a letter. There were other ways. There were always other ways.

But then…

Why?

To get into Falkreath wouldn’t have taken much—not for someone like him. He didn’t need a lie. He could’ve fought his way in, charmed his way in, vanished and reappeared past the gates like a ghost. No, that wasn’t it. He could have walked in through the front door with his hands up and still made it out alive.

And Astrid might’ve tolerated it. Might’ve even seen the use in him, like she always did with things others would throw away. She wasn’t like Colymna in that way. She was practical. Always seeing potential, weighing risk against reward. She’d use a sword even if it was rusted, as long as it still cut. And Amon’s skills weren’t something she could ignore. Not so easily. And I gave her reason not to.

My fault.

I finally tore my gaze from Astrid’s, but the only place left to look was my cup. The wine barely rippled, yet I stared like it held some secret, some answer. I wished, just for a moment, that I could fall into it. Hide inside the glass. Drown before the storm she and I both knew was coming.

Speaker Dorashi was passing by, his golden robes catching the dim light like the last flicker of a candle. He paused, just for a moment, before stepping closer to the table.

“Such silence,” he said, his voice carrying with ease over the lull, “Is the party already over?”

I looked up at him, but I knew Astrid didn’t. Her gaze was still burning into my skin, and my mind. From the corner of my eye, I could see her—rigid, unblinking, her rage not loud, but naked. Unmistakable.

Though I didn’t know if it was fear or anger that gripped my heart.

We had a vampire in the sanctuary—and none of us knew why. My mind was spinning, collapsing in on itself as pieces of him—the him I thought I knew—began to fall apart.

All of it. His story about being an initiate of Dawnstar. The words he whispered to me in the dark. Everything he told me, everything I repeated to Astrid and the others.

Lies.

My stomach twisted violently, a churn of sickness and shame. I had risked everything for a man whose truth slipped between my fingers like blood. Who did I save? Who had I let into our walls?

Who did I let into me ?

I could barely breathe.

My thoughts were spiraling now — grasping at every word he’d ever said, every look, every touch. What else had been a lie?

Was his name really Amon?

Did he really kill those men in the Pale? Did Nazir really send him to Markarth? Was it really me he wanted instead of Fen?

Did he really always trust me?

The air around me felt too thick. My skin too tight. My pulse a wild, pounding thing in my ears. I couldn’t stay here. Not with these questions screaming in my chest. Not with Astrid’s stare still searing into my spine. Not with the weight of my mistake pressing down on me like a mountain.

The chair scraped hard against the stone as I stood, the sound sharp and ragged, cutting through the hum of conversation like a blade.

I needed to find him.

I needed to know.

Because if everything else was a lie — if he’d built himself out of smoke and shadows — then the truth was the only thing left that could save me from collapsing entirely.

Who was he?

Who was he, really?

Because the version of him I believed in was already slipping away and I didn’t know if I wanted to catch him, or watch him burn.

 

To be continued…

 

Chapter 42: Chapter 42

4 E, 187

Time moved strangely on Solstheim.

It didn’t march or flow — it seeped. Like sap down the trunk of some ancient, rotting tree: slow, stubborn, and clinging to everything it touched. Days bled into one another until the seasons no longer announced themselves. Spring was cold. Summer was wet. Autumn came without color. And winter… winter never really left.

And through it all, the child remained.

Small. Pale. Quiet.

He had watched her since the moment her lungs drew breath, his presence hidden just beyond the line of trees — a shadow watching shadows. The first time he saw her, she hadn’t even opened her eyes. Yet even then, something stirred beneath her skin. Something old. Something his father had not explained, but insisted must be guarded.

“Until you get her safely to Tsun, until your task is complete—” his father had said. “You are not my son.”

And so, he watched. Not out of love. Not even out of fear. But because defiance had its cost. Because the old blood still tethered him to duty. Even one as lowly, as insulting, as this.

At first, he came every day. Perched in high branches veiled in moss. Beneath reeds and root clusters. Always near enough to see her. Never near enough to be seen.

The village was a smear of life carved carefully into forest — not built, but grown. Wooden walkways coiled like vines through trees shaped by old songs and silent prayer. No stone. No iron. Only wood and bone and living leaf.

Four children ran barefoot through mud and snow. But only one bore hair like snowfall, and eyes like river-stone.

She laughed too often. Talked to birds. Fell into puddles. Sang nonsense to insects. She was small and careless — and so terribly alive.

He began to hate her for it.

Years passed, or what mortals called years. She grew taller, steadier on her feet. But unchanged. As if time dared not touch her. As if she belonged to something older than even this island. And yet, her life remained untouched by purpose.

Unlike his.

He began to tell himself she was safe. That whatever danger his father foresaw had faded. That this mission was some cosmic riddle — or worse, a punishment. An insult to his talents. A chain disguised as obligation.

So, he began to drift.

He left for days. Then weeks.

He slipped into the world of men and fed. Watched empires claw for meaning. Listened to kings whisper their secrets to women who would outlive none of them. He danced in palaces. Killed in alleys. Fed from mouths that spoke worship before death. He wrapped himself in velvet and spilled wine on war maps. He forgot, for a while, the girl with snow-white hair.

But he always returned.

Out of guilt. Or shame. Or something stranger.

And so, on a night thick with northern wind and the salt of distant oceans, he stepped again through the veils of realm and forest — wine still warm on his breath, the echo of a mortal song still ringing behind his eyes.

He expected the same hush. The same flickers of firelight behind woven windows. The creak of a hanging bridge. A dog’s bark. A child’s giggle.

Instead — silence.

And the smoke.

He froze, then moved. Quick as wind between branches. Swift as thought.

The trees remembered him. Their limbs did not bend, nor leaves rustle at his passage. But the air did — it clung with the taste of ash. Something had burned. And not long ago.

The fire was gone now, drowned by the moisture that clung always to Solstheim’s bones. But its scent still curled beneath the canopy like a ghost unwilling to leave. Bitter. Black. Wrong.

Great oaks, shaped over generations to house the village, now bore black wounds along their flanks. Burned. Bark split like skin. Branch-bridges collapsed. Hollow doorways scorched to ruin. These were not wildfires. No—this had been deliberate. Precise. A message, not a massacre.

And yet—someone had screamed.

He followed the sound. Or the echo of it. Down root-carved paths to the village heart. There, a woman knelt in the mud, her body wracked with grief. Hands tangled in her hair. Her cries raw as blood. Around her, others stood, their silence worse than sobbing — villagers locked in stillness, their eyes not meeting, their lips whispering fragments of Y’ffre’s name.

But there was no white-haired child among them.

His pulse—if it could be called that—shuddered.

He climbed without thinking, up the winding limbs to the cluster of homes nestled in the upper canopy. Her family’s dwelling was still there, mostly intact. Ivy curled along the outer wall. Bone charms still hung from the eaves, clicking gently in the breeze. A single moonmoth wing fluttered at the threshold, broken at the edge.

He crouched at the window, listening.

Inside, the breath of sleeping children — three.

Her brothers.

But not her.

She was gone. Not outside with the others. Not curled beneath hides. Not watching birds in the trees.

Gone.

And something cold, something ancient and wordless, coiled in his gut. A knowing. A wrongness.

She was too small to vanish. Too clumsy to escape unseen. Too curious to stay away.

He gripped the wooden ledge, fingers digging into the softened bark, breath tight in his throat.

He had watched this place for years. Seen every step she took in the dirt, every tumble in the snow, every whisper to a beetle or bat.

But now — her scent had vanished. Her presence had been erased. Not buried.

Stolen.

And he didn’t know where to look.

Which terrified him more than anything ever had.

 

To be continued…

Chapter 43: Chapter 43

 

I wasn’t sure if it was rage or heartbreak that carried me down the stairs.

Or maybe it was just my legs—moving before I could give them a command, before my thoughts could catch up. Each step sounded louder than the last, echoing down the stone corridor like a war drum, though I wasn’t marching into battle.

I was marching into clarity.

The dress clung too tightly now, like it too had turned against me. I hadn’t changed. I hadn’t breathed. I hadn’t even blinked. The long tail of the skirt dragged behind me like a shroud, trailing the memory of what I thought I knew. What I thought he was.

At my desk, my hand reached for the silver dagger before the thought had even formed. Familiar weight. Cold hilt. A comfort I shouldn’t have needed—but did.

That was the truth of me. The real me.

The one who solved her problems in silence and blood.

And maybe—just maybe—that was who I needed to be again.

A dim voice called after me. “S-sister—?”

“Unlock the door.”

It came out low. Steady. A command without heat—because the fire was buried, coiled beneath skin and bone. That made it worse. That made it dangerous.

The guard—broad-shouldered, red-faced, and smelling faintly of mead and sweat—blinked in confusion. He had clearly spent the last hour drinking, not watching. His hand hovered near the ring of keys at his belt, uncertain.

Behind him, I saw movement. A shadow through iron bars. Then a figure.

Amon.

He was already watching. Of course he was. One hand loosely held a book, forgotten, pages shifting slightly in the stale air. He stood as if he’d been expecting me. Dressed down again—his white shirt unbuttoned at the collar, sleeves rolled, the usual slickness of his hair gone. Soft curls framed his face now. His eyes caught the light. He looked—

Not smug. Not guilty.

Pleased.

And that’s what almost shattered me. Because I wanted it to be a lie. I wanted to believe the look on his face was part of a performance. But it wasn’t. It was real.

Amon seemed happy to see me.

The guard stammered, trying to form words, but they came out in pieces. “But—he’s not—Sister, I don’t think—”

My patience cracked.

I stepped forward, grabbed his half-open collar, and yanked him down to my level. His breath caught, eyes going wide as I leaned in, my face close enough that he could feel the ice behind my voice.

“The keys,” I whispered. “Now.”

He moved. Instinct overrode whatever idiotic loyalty had tethered him to protocol. His hands fumbled with the ring, and the keys jingled with a trembling urgency.

Behind him, I didn’t need to look to know Amon was still watching.

I yanked the keys from the guard’s trembling hand, the metal biting into my palm, and let him go. He stumbled backward with no grace at all, crashing onto a nearby stool that groaned under his weight. I didn’t look back. He wasn’t my concern.

The keys clicked in my grip, cold and unfamiliar—there were too many, and my hands weren’t steady.

One. Wrong. Two. Still locked.

On the third, the cage door creaked open with a reluctant groan, like even the iron knew this wasn’t the time.

Behind the bars, Amon didn’t flinch. His eyes met mine with an unbearable softness, his voice a low, velvet curl.

“To what do I owe the honor?”

I didn’t answer.

I hadn’t come for words. I hadn’t come to listen to lies spilling from those lips. That voice had once slipped under my skin like silk—and now it crawled like a parasite.

My hand pressed firmly against his chest—then shoved. Not hard enough to hurt, but enough to make him stagger a step back, enough to see his expression shift. The chains binding him to the wall scraped as he leaned forward, and I reached around him, working the lock at his back. The metal cuff released with a click, but I didn’t free his wrists. Not yet.

He was no longer bound to the bars—but he was still mine to move.

“Ouch,” Amon muttered, frowning faintly as I tugged him upright by the back of his collar. His hair brushed against my wrist, damp with sweat or perhaps humidity from the stone cell. He didn’t resist. Not a step. Not a breath of resistance.

And I hated him more for it.

I didn’t look at him. Didn’t give him the satisfaction of seeing my face.

“Move.”

My voice came out as ice, thin and brittle. And he moved—out through the open cage door, barefoot steps quiet on the stone floor. The guard watched from the corner, his horror unspoken, but thick enough to taste in the air.

Amon stepped slowly out of the cage, his movements measured, deliberate—as if he were walking through a dream, or a memory. I didn’t spare him a glance.

Instead, I flung the keys toward the guard. He caught them at the last possible second, hands still trembling, the metal jingling violently as it hit his palm. The sound echoed far louder than it should have in the tense silence.

I gripped the chain connecting Amon’s manacles and gave it a sharp tug, forcing him to follow. He obeyed without resistance, moving where I directed—up the stone stairs and toward the courtyard. I prayed it would be empty. It had to be. I couldn’t risk witnesses. Not for this.

The cuffs bit into his wrists as I dragged him along, the chain straining with each step. I could feel the way the metal dug into his skin, the raw friction searing his pale flesh. It was only the beginning of what he owed me.

Good. Let it hurt.

“Nio, what—”

“Silence.”

The word cracked like a whip, sharper than the blade I hadn’t yet drawn.

“Keep walking.”

This time, I shoved him harder, enough to make him stumble. He turned, glancing over his shoulder, and for a fleeting second, our eyes met.

His mismatched gaze—fire and ice—searched mine, trying to find something. Remorse. Fear. Hope. Anything.

But I made sure he found nothing. Only the void. And still, he obeyed.

No defiance. No resistance. Just quiet compliance as he walked the corridor ahead of me. I yanked his collar sharply at the turn, steering him right—toward the heavy wooden door that led into the courtyard. The hinges groaned as I pushed it open.

The air hit us like a wave—sharp and clean, the chill of a night nearing its end. It should’ve cooled me. Instead, it made the heat in my chest more unbearable, like fire pressed beneath frost.

I stopped. So did he.

The chain slipped from my hand with a faint clatter, but he didn’t move. I stepped around him slowly, each stride deliberate. When I finally stood in front of him, the moonlight carved soft shadows across his face.

He looked at me—openly, unguarded. There was no mask this time, no performance. Only quiet worry in his expression, and eyes that kept searching mine.

But I gave him nothing. No flicker of recognition. No hint of hurt. I sealed it all behind the stillness I’d learned too well.

Detachment wasn’t armor. It was survival.

And I was about to need it.

His voice broke the silence, gentle as falling ash.

“Would you please tell me what this is all about?”

I stared at him, the weight of everything I hadn’t said pulsing behind my teeth.

“Truths,” I said quietly.

The corner of his mouth twitched—not in cruelty, not quite in amusement. Something softer. Like he already knew where this was going.

And I hated that.

“I know it was all lies,” I continued, sharper now. “Everything you fed me. Every word.”

There was no accusation in my tone, not yet. Just fact. A fragile truth laid bare. But beneath my skin, I could feel something was beginning to crack.

“So you dragged me out here,” he said, tilting his head gently to the side. A loose strand of hair slipped down across his cheek. “To interrogate me?”

“Yes.”

The answer escaped too quickly—sharp and unfiltered.

“To execute, if necessary.”

He chuckled. Not mockingly— softly , like something about this amused him more than it should have. His head tipped back as he breathed out a sigh between the fading notes of laughter.

“Me?” he repeated, stepping forward as if this were nothing more than a conversation. “But you can’t. See…” His voice dipped into something falsely warm. “I’m not a bad guy.”

A muscle twitched in my upper lip. A warning.

My fingers trembled—briefly—before going still. That kind of stillness that only ever came before blood.

I reached for the dagger. The motion was smooth, practiced. The jeweled hilt caught the moonlight as I drew it, and his eyes widened just slightly. Not in fear— not quite —but in recognition.

He knew what silver meant.

“You lie,” I said, the words almost gentle. Almost.

I raised the blade and placed its tip beneath his chin.

He lifted his head quickly at the sting, that telltale silver burn blooming against his skin like an old memory.

“That’s reason enough.”

Amon’s lips parted, but no sound came out. Not right away. For a moment, we just stood there—still as stone—my blade pressing into the fragile space beneath his jaw, and his breath held like he thought it might shift the balance.

His eyes flickered—between my own, down to the dagger, back up again. A glimmer of something passed through them. Pain, maybe. Not from the silver.

From me. 

“Who—” I narrowed my eyes. “What are you, really?”

He didn’t answer.

No quip. No clever deflection. Just silence.

His lips—those same lips that had once smirked through every conversation—were motionless now. The stillness around him was almost sacred, like even the night held its breath.

Then, finally, he spoke.

“Nice blade.”

I blinked.

What?

My grip didn’t falter, but the question knocked me off-balance for a breath. He was staring at the dagger. The silver. The jewel-encrusted hilt now glinting with moonlight and threat.

“A gift?” he asked.

How could he ask that now? At the edge of death? While I was the one holding him there?

“Answer the question,” I snapped. “I ask. You answer. That’s how this works.”

But his eyes had changed. The pain I’d seen before was still there—but something else was rising beneath it. Heat. Anger. A slow-burning fury that shimmered behind his stare like coals in the dark.

I moved the blade—not the point this time, but the side—pressing it against the column of his neck. Right along the place where he had once done the same to me . The memory struck hard. Personal. Intimate. Violent.

But he didn’t flinch. Not this time.

He met my eyes, gaze unwavering, as if he were trying to read the answer inside me—one I didn’t even have.

Then, softly—deliberately:

“Did he give you that?” Amon asked. His voice was strained now, rough at the edges. “That Thalmor dog?”

I knew what he meant.

Ondolemar.

He was asking if the weapon now pressed to his throat was a gift from another man—a rival, a handler, a threat. And in a way, it was.

Ondolemar had reworked the hilt, reforged the balance—but the silver edge, the part that hurt him, that had been mine.

But, he didn’t need to know that.

“Yes,” I said.

His reaction was immediate—pain flashing sharp and quick across his face. It wasn’t the dagger that hurt him. It was the implication.

I didn’t stop.

“Right after we had dinner.”

Another wound. I watched it land. His throat worked, swallowing whatever words he nearly said.

“Delicious,” I murmured, lowering the dagger slowly—not in surrender, but to look at him, to savor it. “Sweet. Almost…”

My smile was cold. Measured.

“…perfect.”

I didn’t know if it was cruelty or survival that made me say it. But I knew it worked.

He looked like I’d carved something vital out of him with that word alone.

And yet… he still didn’t look away.

I heard it.

A sharp, clean snap—so quiet, it might’ve been missed beneath the wind if I hadn’t been waiting for something to go wrong.

The chain binding his cuffs had broken.

He didn’t pull away. He didn’t lunge. He simply lifted his arms—slowly, calmly—like the weight had never been there to begin with. Like he had let me believe he was bound all along.

And for a moment, I forgot how to breathe.

How?

That single word echoed through me, useless and unanswered, as he stepped forward. And then—

He was behind me.

Not a sound. Not a warning. Just his presence, curling around me like a shadow—familiar, suffocating.

Then came the touch.

His hand slid up the side of my neck with unbearable slowness. Not gripping. Not cruel. Just… resting. Light enough to feel every beat of my pulse hammering beneath the skin. The same spot where he had once buried his fangs.

I froze.

It felt like fire and ice together—heat blooming under skin that had gone cold. His palm pressed gently over the old wound as if he could feel the memory there, like it still lived under the surface.

My breath faltered. I could feel my heart pounding in my throat, my chest, my ears.

And he felt it too. I knew he did. His voice came next—low, intimate, and deadly.

“What a shame,” he whispered, right against my ear. His breath was warm. Too warm. “He’ll never know what it’s like.”

I went still as stone.

His words sank into me like needles, slipping beneath skin that was already thin with grief and rage. My knees buckled slightly, the ground feeling farther away than it had a moment ago. I gripped the dagger tighter, trying to remind myself that I was armed. That I was not helpless. Not his.

But the tremble in my legs betrayed me.

He leaned in closer.

“To have you,” he said slowly, his voice silk-smooth but cutting deep, “running in his veins. Your blood, pulsing through his heart.”

Every word was deliberate. Every breath, every pause, a quiet assault.

I hated how my body remembered him. Hated how my mind replayed the softness in his voice, the way he used to speak to me when there was no lie between us—before I knew the weight of his silence.

Before I knew what he really was.

My voice came out in a whisper, but it didn’t waver.

“You have no heart.” I whispered.

The words didn’t shake—but everything else in me did.

“I do.”

He was in front of me now—close. So close it made the air vanish between us.

He had moved in the span of a heartbeat, with that unnatural grace only a vampire could possess. His voice followed, smooth and low.

“It just wasn’t beating.”

I didn’t mean to flinch. I hated that I did. But the words sank into my spine like a needle dipped in ice, and the way he looked at me—eyes locked to mine, no longer filled with possession or hunger, but something softer, quieter… almost tender —unsettled me more than any lie he’d told before.

A confession.

Or maybe just a prettier kind of manipulation.

Another lie. It has to be.

I swallowed hard, trying to calm the drumbeat in my chest, trying to quiet the storm in my head. I couldn’t let him in—not through memory, not through mercy.

The night air around us shifted, cooler one moment, then warming—the kind of warmth that meant dawn was coming. The sun’s first breath crept along the stone walls of the courtyard, brushing shadows into gold.

And just like that, the dagger in my hand felt… unnecessary.

But I knew what would hurt him more.

I tapped my foot against the cold stone—just once.

From the ground beneath him, thin crystalline spikes of ice burst upward like a cage of glass and winter. The courtyard trembled as dozens of spears surged around him, forming a wall of pale blue light and deadly sharpness. They didn’t pierce him. Not yet. But they left no room to move.

He flinched. Not visibly, not for long—but enough. Enough that I saw it.

A thin line of dark blood trailed slowly down his cheek, stark against his pale skin. One of the ice spears had caught him—just barely—a warning laid against his face like a whisper.

Stay still.

I held the dagger still at my side and watched him breathe inside his frozen prison. Not impaled. Not bleeding out.

But contained.

I took a slow step back, letting the cold slip between us like a breath. My gaze drifted to the horizon, where the first light of dawn spilled across the sky like a wound being stitched closed. When I looked back, I saw it—how the sunlight had reached him too, inching closer with every heartbeat.

He felt it.

He feared it.

“Tell me,” I said, my voice steady as I began to circle him, slowly. “Why did you lie about being a member of the Brotherhood, when you were clearly not?”

I hated this part. The waiting. The hollow quiet before a truth cracked open.

He didn’t flinch. His eyes followed me.

“For you.”

I sighed. Not softly— tiredly. My eyes rolled skyward as if asking the Divines to spare me from his nonsense.

“Why did you really come to Markarth?”

“For you.”

My step faltered—just for a moment—but I kept moving.

“And at the crossroads? Why were you really there?”

“For you.”

I stopped in front of him. The light behind me had grown stronger, gilding the edges of the courtyard in soft gold. It touched my back, warmed my shoulders—but his skin remained pale and tense in its glow, like he was preparing for it to burn.

I crossed my arms.

With a flick of thought, one of the ice spears around him rose higher. The tip inched toward his throat, the air around it humming with magic. Amon tilted his head back to avoid the point, but he didn’t look away.

“Why?” I snapped. My voice finally cracked with something real— something human .

“What do you want from me?”

He didn’t answer.

Not right away.

He only lifted his head further, slowly, careful not to let the spear kiss his skin again. The silence that followed was heavier than before, thick with the things he hadn’t said— refused to say.

But the ice was rising.

And so was the sun.

The ice hummed louder. The point grazed his skin again—just enough to draw another thread of blood.

Still, he said nothing.

“Amon.” My voice was low now, quieter than before, but no less dangerous. “I’m not asking again.”

His eyes flicked up to mine, and for the first time since this began, I saw it—not defiance, not mockery.

Conflict.

Real, raw, human hesitation.

Something warred inside him. It pulled at the corners of his expression, tightened his jaw, furrowed his brow. And it wasn’t fear of the ice. It wasn’t even fear of the sun creeping closer.

It was fear of what he couldn’t say.

“Isn’t it cruel?” he murmured. “You bring me back, only to kill me again.”

His voice broke the silence, soft and dry—like ash carried on the wind.

My chest pulled tight. The ache came sharp, sudden—deep enough that I almost staggered from it. I kept my face still, but I knew. He felt it.

He breathed out, soft and certain, like he had already made peace with what came next.

“It’s all right.”

The words wrapped around me like fog. I hated how calm he sounded.

“As long as it’s you.”

Three forgiving words. Not a plea. Not manipulation.

A choice.

The sun edged higher. The spears around him trembled with light.

And all I could do was stand there , holding a blade I no longer knew how to use.

“Let him go.”

The voice cracked through the courtyard like thunder in still air—too familiar, too final to be mistaken for anyone else.

It was a voice that had commanded me since I was old enough to be broken. A voice that shaped the assassin from the ashes of a child. A voice that had whispered both comfort and cruelty through the darkest nights of my life.

And still, it terrified me.

Astrid stepped forward, her approach slow but heavy with the kind of authority that didn’t need to be shouted. Every step was intentional, echoing with the weight of purpose. There was no rush to her movement—only judgment, only quiet fury worn like armor.

She stopped beside me, not facing me, not facing him. Just present —as if her sheer presence alone could control the outcome.

I didn’t look at her right away. I couldn’t.

All I could do was stare at Amon, still caged in ice and caught between shadows and sunlight, while my thoughts spun like a blade just shy of my throat.

Let him go?

I blinked, trying to process the command. Trying to make sense of it. Of her. Of the way my mentor—my executioner, my maker—stood beside me now as if it were me who needed restraining.

She should have been the one to give the order. She should have demanded his death. She should have taken the blade from my hand and ended it herself.

But she didn’t.

And in the center of my fury, somewhere buried deep where I couldn’t reach it in time, I felt something else. Something quiet. Something shameful.

Relief?

My heart gave a soft, traitorous beat in my chest. The kind that made it hard to breathe—not from fear, but from something like grief. As if part of me had been hoping for someone to stop me. As if I hadn’t come here just to kill him, but to see if he could be saved.

“What?” Amon spoke before I could find my voice, confusion and disbelief coloring the single word. But Astrid didn’t even glance at him.

Her attention was locked on me, her eyes sharp and cold, not cruel but resolute. She looked at me like she was testing something. Judging whether I would listen—or whether I had finally stepped beyond her control.

“You heard me,” she said, her voice low and flat, but full of steel. “Release him.”

Absolutely. You’re writing a deeply emotional confrontation—a moment where Niolenyl’s agency is crushed under a law she didn’t ask for , where the person she hates is suddenly placed beyond her reach , and where Astrid’s control tightens like a noose , not through violence, but through doctrine and manipulation.

“Why?”

It slipped from my mouth—too raw, too quick, not shaped by strategy or self-preservation, but by the wound tearing open inside me. My voice was no longer just a weapon—it was a plea. And I hated how much I meant it.

Astrid didn’t answer right away. She didn’t need to. Her silence was its own response, heavy and condescending. She turned her head slightly, lifting one perfectly shaped brow—the same way she always had when she wanted me to remember my place. A silent, razor-sharp command: Do not question me.

But I couldn’t stop myself. Not now. Not this time. Not when the ground beneath my feet felt like it was cracking, when the blade in my hand had finally found a target only to be torn away from it by a voice I could never quite disobey.

I needed a reason. A real one. I needed to know why the woman who had raised me to be merciless, to strike first and question never, was suddenly advocating mercy for him.

And then she spoke.

“He’s useful.”

Just that. Cold. Dismissive. A statement, not a justification.

She turned her gaze toward the vampire still caught in my ice, the dawnlight creeping around his feet like a threat. There was a glint in her eyes when she looked at him—not pity, not even interest, but something sharper. Something like recognition.

And then she turned back to me.

“Whether you like it or not,” she said, tilting her head just enough for the sun to catch on her jaw, “he’s a Brother.”

I didn’t understand at first. I refused to.

But my fingers tightened around the hilt of my dagger until my knuckles burned, and my breath locked in my chest like it had been caught on a hook.

He was one of us.

Sanctified. Bound by oath. Pulled beneath the same black hand that had taken me, shaped me, owned me.

My anger surged so fast it left me trembling, not with heat, but with something colder than any ice I had summoned. Astrid watched me with that same cold calculation, and when she spoke again, her voice was softer—almost kind.

“You may torture him for your answers, of course,” she said, her tone lilting like it was an offer, like she hadn’t just cut the floor out from under me.

She paused.

Then, lightly, as if it were nothing at all:

“But you know what happens when you break a Tenet.”

The words hit harder than anything Amon had said. Harder than the sun burning toward him. Harder than any truth I could’ve uncovered.

Never kill a Dark Brother or Dark Sister.

That law had always been absolute. Etched into us like scripture. Violation didn’t just bring punishment—it brought damnation.

I looked at him—trapped, blood at his cheek, sunlight curling close—and yet he stood untouched by me now, held behind a law more binding than chains.

And for the first time since I had lifted the blade, I felt powerless.

Not because I lacked strength.

But because she had taken my choice from me.

Again.

 

 

To be continued…

Chapter 44: Chapter 44

“What in Father’s name was that, Astrid?”

The door slammed behind me with enough force to rattle the iron sconces, the sound cracking through the room like thunder. My voice followed, sharper than steel, and louder than she had ever heard from me.

She stopped—but didn’t flinch. Not Astrid.

She stood half-turned toward the fire, unbothered, as if the fury trailing in my footsteps didn’t warrant her full attention. Calmly, she poured herself a drink, the amber liquid catching firelight as it filled the glass. Her posture was perfect. Unshaken. Spine straight, shoulders high. Composed down to her fingertips.

“You should have let me finish it,” I hissed, striding toward her like the heat in my chest might consume us both. “You should have let me end him.”

Astrid finally turned, the shrug of her shoulders casual enough to be infuriating.

“Waste a perfectly good asset? For what?” she said dryly, lifting the glass. “Your personal grudge?”

My jaw clenched. The anger coiled inside me sharpened into something acidic, something I could feel at the back of my throat.

“He’s a liar!” I snapped, my voice cracking like a whip. “We don’t even know why he’s here, who he really serves. We can’t trust him.”

“You forget yourself,” she said without looking at me, her eyes fixed on the dancing flames. She sipped her wine. “We don’t trust anyone.”

Her indifference was gasoline to my fire.

“So you let him walk free while—”

“I don’t care why he’s here,” she cut in, her voice like stone. She turned to face me fully now, eyes sharp with something unreadable. “I don’t care what you feel about him. Or what he feels about you.”

The words hit like a slap.

I froze, heart clenching beneath my ribs, but she wasn’t finished. She took another sip, then said evenly:

“I don’t care if he’s obsessed with you. Worships you. Bleeds for you. As long as he can be used.”

The sickness in my stomach rose so fast it made me sway. She spoke like it was a game. Like I was just a piece on the board.

“For what ?” I demanded, my voice rising. “What can we possibly gain from a man who has no history, no allegiance, no proof of his worth? Nothing but shadows and questions!”

Her lips curled slightly. Not a smile—more of a memory.

“He reminds me of someone.” she said.

My chest stilled. My heart throbbed once, hard.

No.

He was nothing like me.

I stepped closer—into the firelight, into her space—my voice quieter now, rawer.

“He doesn’t belong here.”

Not in our halls. Not beside her. Not anywhere near me .

But Astrid didn’t see me anymore. Not the way she used to. Not the way she should. Not as her Silencer. Not even as the girl she pulled out of the dark.

Pragmatism had swallowed her whole.

And then—quietly, cruelly—she said it:

“Yet you saved him, didn’t you?”

 

 

---

 

 

The hall was silent—too silent—as I tried, and failed, to make sense of the symbols scrawled across the page. Words wasn’t quite the right word for them. They were carvings, etched into the yellowed parchment like secrets, like warnings.

It was the dictionary I’d found in Ondolemar’s library—a lexicon of something. Not a language, but a code . Words meant for someone else. Purposes not meant to be shared. I had yet to understand a single full passage.

But maybe that was the point.

It had been over a week since the feast.

Since the chains. The dagger. The nearly buried truth.

In the days that followed, I buried myself in contracts—one after the other, never stopping long enough to catch my breath. I avoided the Sanctuary with careful precision, always choosing the long path, the distant mission, the harder road. Anything to keep moving.

Anything to keep from seeing him .

I wasn’t afraid of Amon. That would’ve been easier to admit. No, it was something else. A kind of suffocating frustration that came from the moment his eyes met mine and saw too much. From the way Astrid looked at him—at me —like we were both weapons waiting to be aimed.

If she wanted him here, then here he would stay. Her word was law. And I had stopped looking for reasons.

I told myself I wouldn’t let him unmake me.

I wouldn’t let the presence of a vampire unravel me to the marrow.

I couldn’t.

But the questions kept me awake at night, gnawing at the edges of my thoughts—about who he had been before , about what lies still lived behind his too-soft eyes, about what other truths I hadn’t seen until it was too late.

Maybe it wasn’t fear that drove me away from him.

Maybe it was exhaustion.

Maybe I was just sick of being lied to—sick of giving pieces of myself to people who only ever buried them beneath prettier versions of the truth.

So today, instead of wandering the woods or losing myself in the taste of violence, I came here. To get lost in a book I didn’t understand.

The soft clink of a goblet meeting wood pulled my attention up from the page.

Gabriel stood at the other end of the long table, his eyes already on me—steady, unreadable, like he was weighing something I hadn’t said aloud.

I tilted my head, a silent question in the shape of a breath. What are you looking at?

His lips curved—not into a smile, but into something faintly approving.

“You’re looking less pale,” he said at last. “That’s good.”

I let out a quiet sigh and closed the book, slipping my finger between the pages to hold my place. “I feel better.”

“Better,” he echoed, as if testing the word. “Though I doubt nonstop hunting has done much for your still-fragile body.”

I met Gabriel’s eyes and, as always, saw more in his silence than in his words.

The concern he wouldn’t voice.

The warning tucked neatly behind his calm disapproval.

“I’ve been through worse,” I murmured, voice low but firm. “Believe me.”

A new voice cut in—too soft, too sudden.

“Says the sister with the twisted heart.”

Cicero.

His words slithered into the space between us like a shadow crawling under the door. He drifted across the room and took the seat opposite mine with the eerie grace of someone who had never quite belonged to the moment he was in. I didn’t need to look to know that his grin was stretched too wide, or that his eyes were glinting with a madness that always seemed a hair’s breadth from divine prophecy.

I was already halfway to standing. My instinct said to leave.

But as I reached for the book, his hand darted forward—grasping it, lightly, but with purpose. He didn’t try to stop me, not physically. But his fingers resting on the cover said he’d speak whether I wanted him to or not.

His stare pinned me—glass-bright and unblinking.

“So fragile in the heart,” he whispered, tilting his head. “And not in the body, just as you’ve mended it.”

I clenched my jaw.

The Jester’s riddles had always grated on me—always pressed against the bruises I hadn’t admitted were still tender. And yet… sometimes, he was right. Horribly right.

That last time, when I thought his rambling was nothing but madness—it had turned out to be the answer . A riddle that saved a life.

Possibly the one I shouldn’t have wanted to save.

Just thinking of it made my blood chill.

I yanked the book from his grip. “Good one, Cicero.”

I didn’t wait for him to grin. Didn’t give him another glance. I turned and walked away, my boots heavy on the stone, each step toward my room feeling like retreat.

But behind me, his voice rose again—lighter this time, lilting like a lullaby warped by time.

“Soon, sister!” he called after me, laughter bubbling up like a wound bursting open. “Soon you’ll see… you cannot run from fate’s strange wings! They’ll take you, fill you, feed you !”

 

To be continued…

 

Chapter 45: Chapter 45

 

The road wound east, narrow and half-swallowed by the trees.

Damp pine needles softened the sound of the hooves beneath me, though I could still feel the rhythm in my bones—steady, grounding. The air in the Rift was colder than usual for spring, the kind of cold that clung to your sleeves and crept through your gloves, sharp with the scent of sap and wet bark. Fog hung low between the evergreens, and somewhere in the distance, a wolf howled—far enough not to matter. Close enough to remind me I wasn’t alone out here.

And I didn’t mind that.

I welcomed the solitude like a long-overdue reprieve.

This was the first time in weeks I’d ridden alone, truly alone—no contract handler breathing down my neck, no shadows in the hallways, no eyes burning holes in my back. The Sanctuary had been growing smaller by the day, its silence louder than Cicero’s laugh, heavier than stares, more suffocating than Astrid’s expectations.

And then there was Amon.

I hadn’t seen him in days. I’d kept it that way on purpose.

It wasn’t fear—not quite. It was something sharper. Unresolved . The memory of silver at his throat. The way he didn’t flinch. The way I did.

Astrid had seen that too.

She always saw too much.

And so when she handed me the sealed scroll marked with the Dawnguard sigil, her voice calm and unreadable, I knew exactly what she was doing.

“They requested a single representative. I sent the one least likely to embarrass me.”

She didn’t say why they’d reached out. She didn’t need to.

An alliance— loose, secret, temporary —was being tested. The Dawnguard needed blades that could strike in the dark. The Brotherhood wanted leverage in a world spinning toward war.

And I? I was just the piece she moved across the board.

Astrid, who kept a vampire beneath our roof, now sent me to the hunters who burned their kind to ash. As if the hypocrisy didn’t choke her. As if I wouldn’t see it.

She plays both sides. And I carry her silence on my back like a mark I never asked for.

Still—I said nothing. I took the scroll. I took Shadowmere. And for the first time in weeks, I didn’t feel like I was breathing secondhand air.

The trees grew thicker the farther I rode. The light thinned. Shadows danced on the edges of the road, and the fog curled like fingers against the earth. Somewhere beyond the trees lay Dayspring Canyon, where Fort Dawnguard kept its secrets wrapped in stone and crossbow bolts.

I should have been angry to be sent.

Instead, I was grateful.

Because for a little while longer, I didn’t have to look at him.

The road narrowed into a deer trail the deeper I rode, choked by thick underbrush and the knotted arms of trees too old to remember when the world was quiet. The Rift had always felt a little off —like the trees watched more than they sheltered, like the fog knew your name.

And today, it felt worse.

Shadowmere shifted beneath me, ears twitching at a sound I hadn’t heard—something too light for a branch snapping. Too slow for a bird. I slowed the reins, let her come to a stop, breath misting in the cold air.

Silence.

Less than a mile down the trail, I caught it. The sound—not unnatural, but trained. Purposeful. A boot shifting against moss, weight balanced just right. The kind of movement I’d made a hundred times before. Too careful to be prey. Too late to be a warning.

I didn’t slow my horse. But I let my fingers rest lightly on the hilt beneath my cloak.

And then I saw him.

Just off the trail, half-shadowed by the rise of a ridge, stood a man in Dawnguard armor—thick leathers, a crossbow slung over his back, a glint of dawngold shining from his belt buckle. His hood was down, face exposed, and his gaze locked to mine with cold precision.

He didn’t draw.

Didn’t move.

Just watched.

They knew I was coming. Of course they did. Astrid hadn’t sent word through a courier. She’d sent it through channels . Discreet.

Still, I raised a hand—two fingers extended. The signal. Not hostile. Not asking permission either.

The Dawnguard scout nodded once, slow, unreadable. Then he turned, disappearing back into the tree line without a word.

No welcome. No escort.

Just the silent message:

We see you.

The forest thinned gradually, and the earth sloped downward—steep enough that I had to rein the horse back into a careful descent. The air here was colder. Not biting, but still. Too still. Like something had pressed its hand over the land and asked it to wait.

A clearing opened ahead, guarded by two jagged cliff faces. Beyond them: a narrow gap between stone. A canyon carved by time and forgotten by most maps.

Dayspring.

This was the entrance. No banners. No torches. Just quiet stone and the road narrowing into shadow.

I dismounted slowly, the weight of the ride settling in my legs. My hand lingered on the saddle, not for balance—but for grounding. There was no one here to meet me. No greeting party. Just the sound of wind and the subtle, rising silence that always came before a reckoning.

I should have walked forward.

Instead, I stood there.

And let myself breathe.

In and out. Once. Twice.

I hadn’t expected the quiet to shake me. But it did.

Not because I feared what lay beyond.

But because part of me hoped something there would make sense.

Amon hadn’t. Astrid hadn’t. The Brotherhood no longer did.

But the Dawnguard? They were blunt, brutal, and open in their hatred. There was clarity in that. In war drawn in clean lines.

The wind picked up, tugging my cloak to one side. The canyon waited.

And I moved.

Step by step, I walked into the gorge—stone rising like teeth around me, shadow thickening with every footfall, until the path bent one final time…

…and there it was.

Fort Dawnguard.

Carved into the mountainside, vast and grim. No lights in the upper towers. Just one great door at its base, metal and rune-marked, watched by two armored figures who had clearly seen me long before I saw them.

I stopped a dozen paces from the threshold.

One of them stepped forward. Not drawing a weapon—just watching.

And finally, after all that silence, the first voice met me.

“You’re not what I expected.”

The voice came from the armored figure on the right—solid, firm, and low. A soldier’s voice. Not aggressive, but not welcoming either.

I lifted my head fully now, locking eyes with the man as he stepped closer. He moved like someone who’d been in a hundred battles and expected a hundred more. Broad-shouldered, squared stance, jaw tight behind a trimmed dark beard. His eyes were steel-grey and watchful—not with suspicion, but with the quiet sharpness of a man who knew how many ways a stranger could kill.

His armor gleamed dully in the morning light—Dawnguard-make, reinforced with layered leathers, sunsteel plates, and a crossbow slung across his back that had been cleaned too recently to be ceremonial. A small sigil at his collar marked his rank.

Celann.

Captain. Trusted second to Isran. The man who’d led patrols against vampires before most people knew they were back.

He stopped three paces from me, his gaze still fixed as I raised both hands slowly—not in surrender, but in signal. And then I did what I hadn’t done in weeks.

I lowered my hood.

The wind caught my hair as it fell loose around my shoulders—light strands tangled from the ride, framing a face I hadn’t seen in a mirror since the feast. Pale, drawn tight with sleepless nights and worn with the kind of anger that couldn’t be cried out.

My eyes met his—unblinking.

Whatever he’d expected, it wasn’t this. I wasn’t cloaked in the usual trappings of Brotherhood myth—no skull paint, no poisoned daggers glinting for show. Just a black coat dusted with travel, a set jaw, and a silence sharper than most blades.

His expression didn’t change, but I felt the shift.

Recognition. And maybe… respect.

“I’m the Brotherhood’s help.” I said.

Celann nodded slowly. “Isran’s waiting.”

He stepped aside.

And the gates of Fort Dawnguard opened.

The gates groaned open on old hinges, stone grinding against itself like a beast waking from hibernation. The moment I crossed the threshold, the air changed—colder, heavier. The kind of stillness that didn’t come from peace, but from preparation.

Fort Dawnguard wasn’t a palace.

It was a place built for war.

The stone walls stretched high around me, scarred with age but reinforced with fresh barricades and Dawnguard banners—golden sunbursts against storm-grey cloth. Torches lined the corridor but cast no warmth, only light. Narrow windows slit into the walls let in the pale morning, but no breeze. Everything was closed off. Controlled.

A soldier passed me—helmet under one arm, crossbow strapped to his back. He didn’t stop. Didn’t speak. Just gave me a look that hovered somewhere between caution and contempt.

Inside the main hall, it was worse.

There were weapons everywhere—on tables, in racks, mounted on the walls. Bolts soaked in fire salts. Bottles of cure disease and troll fat. A half-assembled ballista stood against one wall. There were no tapestries. No comfort. No softness.

Only tools.

And men sharpening them.

Two men stood at the central table, its surface cluttered with maps, quills, and crossbow schematics. A fire burned in the stone hearth behind them, throwing their shadows high against the walls. The taller man I recognized instantly— Isran , commander of the Dawnguard, every inch of him carved from duty and steel.

The other was a stranger—robes scorched at the edges, the emblem of Stendarr half-melted on his chest. A Vigilant .

His face was drawn, eyes sunken with exhaustion. Whatever sermon had once lived behind his eyes had been replaced by something harder. He didn’t look like a preacher anymore.

He looked like a man who’d barely survived something unholy.

“They burned everything!” the Vigilant snapped, voice cracking under the weight of memory. “The Hall is ash. They tore the shrine apart— slaughtered my brothers. We weren’t prepared for this kind of attack!”

“You were warned,” Isran growled, unmoved. “You were told . Over and over.”

The Vigilant bristled. “We thought it was isolated. One clan, maybe two.”

“No.” Isran’s voice was like a hammer. “This is a war. Not a blessing gone wrong. And your order’s silence helped it fester.”

They didn’t notice me at first. I let the stone floor take my footsteps, slow and deliberate. The warmth of the hearth did nothing to cut through the tension in the room.

I didn’t need to know the Vigilants name to know what he thought of me. His eyes passed over me like a curse—not with fear, but with disgust. The emblem at his chest was scorched, cracked down the middle, but still gleamed with that stubborn sunburst of righteousness.

“You’re late,” Isran finally spoke, his eyes fixated over me like a bolt from the crossbow. “Blade covered in ash.”

The Vigilant’s jaw clenched. “Ashenblade? We need soldiers. Not… this.” He gestured toward me. “You bring her here? You’d stoop to working with murderers?”

He spat the word like it could burn me.

I didn’t blink.

Isran didn’t flinch.

“I’ll take the hand that’s offered,” he said coldly. “And right now, it’s the only one extended.”

“This is blasphemy,” the Vigilant muttered, turning back toward the table. “You’re aligning with the very kind of darkness we’ve sworn to destroy.”

“No,” Isran said, stepping closer. “I’m fighting a war. You can pray when it’s over Tolan. If you’re still alive.”

The silence that followed was heavy—swollen with everything left unsaid.

Then Isran looked at me.

“Dimhollow Crypt,” he said. “You leave tonight. The vampires are digging for something, and I want to know what. If it’s a relic, a weapon, or worse—I want it buried before they get it.”

My arms crossed slowly, deliberately—armor creaking faintly in the silence that followed. He didn’t just order me. He spoke my orders like he already owned the blade.

And he knew my name.

That sent a quiet shiver down my spine—not fear, but the unnerving kind of weight that comes from being seen too clearly by someone you’d never met.

After a hell of a ride across half the province, through mist and memory and the edge of something I still hadn’t named… I expected—no, deserved —a drink.

But of course, no one here offered anything as civil as comfort.

Just weapons.

Just war.

 

 

---

 

 

We rode beneath a starless sky.

The moon hung low, pale and distant, barely casting enough light to cut the mist curling through the trees. Our horses moved quietly over frost-hardened earth, hooves muffled by brittle needles and half-frozen mud. The silence of night out here wasn’t peaceful—it was listening .

I stayed a length ahead, unwilling to ride beside him.

But he still found ways to reach me.

“You wear no mark,” Tolan said, his voice just loud enough to carry over the steady rhythm of hooves. “No sigil. Not even a charm for the Void. For all your bloodletting, you don’t seem very devoted.”

I didn’t look at him. “I’m not a priest.”

“Could’ve fooled me. You ride like someone who believes the dead watch from behind you.”

I let out a quiet breath through my nose. “They do. But they’ve stopped talking.”

Tolan fell quiet again. But not for long.

“You still serve them. Sithis. The Night Mother. Even if you don’t say their names. That kind of silence is worship, too.”

I adjusted my grip on the reins, eyes forward.

“Do you ever stop preaching?”

“Do you ever stop killing?”

I glanced at him then.

Tolan sat tall in the saddle, even under the weight of exhaustion. His horse was smaller than Shadowmere, grey and battle-scarred, with the Vigilant’s emblem branded faintly into the saddle leather. His robes, layered for travel, were still marked with soot. But beneath the tattered cloth, I could see the disciplined shape of a warrior—not just a scholar of the divine, but someone who had fought for his belief. Someone who had bled .

And lost.

“They took you young, didn’t they?” he asked, more quietly now. “The Brotherhood always does.”

I didn’t answer.

“It’s not your fault,” he added. “But it’s your choice now. You keep riding their road.”

“I ride the one I can survive.” I said.

“That’s what they want you to believe.”

I felt a chill—not from the wind.

“Tell me,” he said. “When you close your eyes, do you see the people you’ve silenced?”

I turned my head slightly, enough that he could see the cold curl of a smile touch my lips.

“No. Just the ones who tried to silence me.”

Tolan said nothing after that.

We dismounted as the trail narrowed, the crypt rising from the earth like a wound beneath the trees. Moss-draped pillars marked the approach, broken and half-swallowed by the ground. A crooked staircase sank downward into the earth, into something older than night.

A bitter wind cut through the trees behind us.

Tolan moved ahead, his sword drawn—not with fear, but reverence.

I stood still for a heartbeat longer, staring at the yawning dark below.

It was too quiet.

No birds. No wind now. Just the hush of something waiting .

“This is it,” Tolan murmured, his voice edged with something I didn’t quite expect—fear, maybe. Or resolve tempered by it.

I drew my sword slowly, the sound of silver sliding free cutting cleaner than the wind.

“Let’s see what your gods think of what’s buried here.”

To be continued…

Chapter 46: Chapter 46

 

The air changed the moment the crypt swallowed us.

It was colder inside than it should have been—thick with the kind of chill that clung to bones, that knew names. Every breath left a ghost behind. Our footsteps made no sound, boots pressing into ancient dust and brittle moss.

Tolan walked behind me, sword drawn but held low, a faint glimmer of enchantment pulsing along the edge. I could hear his breath. Controlled, tight. He was trying. But the weight of the place—it wanted to unmake men like him.

Dimhollow didn’t whisper. It listened.

We moved through a narrow stone throat choked in vines and broken urns, our bodies close to the wall. Flickers of old torchlight lit the path in intervals, barely illuminating the damp carvings along the sides— coiled symbols , ancient runes, and reliefs that looked almost Ayleid, but sharper. Bloodier.

Further in, the ceiling rose—vaulted and hollowed by time. Water dripped from long-stilled stalactites. A broken iron gate stood at the edge of the next chamber, twisted at the hinges, as though something had ripped its way out rather than in.

I signaled a halt.

Tolan came up beside me. We crouched behind a cracked wall of loose stone and skeletal remains.

Ahead, down a sloping corridor, torchlight moved. Not still. Not stationed. Carried.

And voices.

I tilted my head, listening.

“They’re wasting time with rituals. The seal won’t break without old blood.”

“We’ll find the key. That priest nearly opened it.”

“Too slow. The master grows impatient. He wants her awake.”

The footsteps passed just beyond the next archway.

Two of them—no more. Their shadows dragged behind them like smoke. Vampires, definitely. Their speech wasn’t just cruel—it was practiced. They were part of something larger. A plan , not a hunt.

Tolan’s eyes flicked to me, brow furrowed.

I shook my head. Not yet.

We moved again—low, careful, pressing ourselves into the decay. My hands brushed old coffins stacked like bone shelves, the wood softened by rot. Every creak of stone, every brush of cloak felt too loud.

Another turn.

A collapsed pillar. A stairwell spiraling down into the deeper crypts.

We descended, breath held.

And somewhere far below—too far to reach by voice— a woman screamed.

Tolan stopped in place.

I turned my head, slowly. Watching him—not the path.

He was already shifting toward the far tunnel. Toward the source.

His voice was low, strained. “Someone’s alive down here.”

I didn’t move.

Another scream followed—shorter, hoarser. Then a wet sound. Gurgling. Ending.

Tolan turned to me. “We can’t just leave them.”

“We didn’t come here for captives.” I said flatly.

“They’re torturing someone!” His voice cracked. “You heard it.”

“I did.” I looked down the corridor, where flickering shadows danced along the wet floor. “I also heard them talking about a ritual. A seal. Something buried.”

He narrowed his eyes. “So?”

“So if we alert them too early, we lose what we came for. And more die later.”

His fists clenched.

“You’re as bad as them.”

I stepped closer, voice low and quiet like a blade sliding home. “No. I’m worse. Because I know what I’m doing.”

Tolan stared at me, jaw tight.

But he didn’t move.

Not yet.

Then another scream tore through the corridor—closer now. And his resolve broke.

“I’m going.” Tolan said again, voice sharp with conviction.

I didn’t answer.

The silence between us hung just long enough to snap—

“There!”

A hiss from behind the pillar. A flash of eyes in the dark. The sound of armor shifting, fangs clicking.

“Intruders!”

Everything broke.

Two vampires slipped out from the shadows like smoke, fast and pale , their movements sharp and feral. Behind them, thralls—gaunt, blood-drunk, unarmored but fast , surged forward with crude weapons and wild eyes.

I didn’t hesitate.

My dagger left its sheath with a whisper, my sword already in my hand.

I moved.

The first thrall lunged, swinging an axe too wide. I ducked low, spun inward, and let the silver edge of my dagger find the hollow beneath his jaw. One thrust. He fell gargling, bleeding out over his own boots.

Another was on me in a blink—this one faster.

I met him with the flat of my sword, parrying , twisting his strike away, then slamming the pommel of my dagger into his nose. Cartilage cracked. He staggered—just long enough for my sword to slip beneath his ribs.

“Behind you!” Tolan barked.

I turned just in time to see a vampire lunge for me from the left—claws extended, face twisted in hunger. But Tolan was there.

Beside me, his ward a wall of flickering light , shielding us from a burst of vampire flame. He lunged through the heat, his sword cleaving into a thrall’s skull with righteous fury. Bone split. Blood sprayed.

“Light guide you.” he muttered, twisting the sword, then yanking it free.

The vampire shrieked, and turned to ash at his feet.

Another thrall tried to flank us. I pivoted, sweeping low— my blade carving across his knee . He dropped with a scream, and I finished him without mercy.

“You fight like a goddamned Daedra.” he muttered.

“No gods left in me.” I answered.

More footsteps. More shapes in the dark.

They were trying to surround us —push us into the chamber where there’d be no room to move, no shadows to slip through.

Tolan pressed his back to mine.

“How many?” he said through clenched teeth.

I exhaled.

“Enough.”

They surged toward us like a wave breaking through bones.

The first thrall lunged with a jagged sword too heavy for his frame, eyes wide with bloodlust. I sidestepped, let the blade scream past my ribs, and pivoted on my heel. My sword cleaved into his side, slicing through meat and marrow like cloth. His body folded mid-scream, slumping against the stone with a final wet cough.

Two more came from opposite sides. One barehanded, the other with a curved dagger. I dropped low, blade across my back as I spun between them. The dagger nicked my shoulder, but my sword rose under the thrall’s chin and burst out through the crown of his skull. Blood and bone fountained as he dropped. I didn’t stop moving.

The barehanded one grabbed for my throat.

Mistake.

I drove my silver dagger between his ribs and twisted it until he convulsed, spitting black blood down his chest. I pulled the blade free and let him fall in a heap.

Tolan was holding his own—barely. His ward glowed like a dying star, flickering as a vampire’s magic slammed against it. He gritted his teeth and pushed forward, shouldering the caster aside and bringing his sword down in a vertical arc that split robe, spine, and altar alike.

Another came at me—cloaked, quick. Too quick.

I parried high, then ducked and swept his legs. He fell hard. I pinned him with my knee, shoved my sword down through his chest and felt the tip catch the stone beneath.

“No!”

Tolan’s voice.

I turned, but too slow.

A shadow streaked from the side hall—a full-blooded vampire, claws extended, mouth wide with hunger. I raised my blade, but I wouldn’t make it.

Tolan did.

He collided with me, pushing me out of the way just as the vampire’s claws came down.

They sank into his ribs.

Time fractured.

His body arched in the air as the vampire dragged him back, spinning, sinking fangs deep into his throat with a sound like cloth tearing in wet hands.

Tolan gasped. His sword clattered across the stone floor and slid to a stop in the pooling blood. His eyes locked on mine.

The vampire pulled back, lips red, face alight with ecstasy. It hissed, baring its teeth again—

I moved.

No calculation. No thought.

Just wrath.

My sword came down on the vampire’s shoulder and sank to the hilt, severing its arm. It shrieked, turning—my dagger flashed and punctured its eye.

I grabbed the back of its head, forced it down, and drove the dagger again and again into its skull until my hands were slick and it stopped moving.

Silence dropped over the crypt.

Everything was still.

Except him.

He was slumped near the shattered altar, propped against the wall as though resting, though the pool of blood beneath him said otherwise. His breathing was shallow—wet and irregular.

I crossed the chamber slowly, my boots echoing between the corpses.

He looked up at me.

His eyes, usually hard with judgment, were soft now. Unfocused. Human.

“I didn’t think… it would end like this.” he murmured.

I knelt beside him, my voice low. “Don’t move.”

He gave a breath that might’ve been a laugh. “That’s not going to be a problem.”

Blood bubbled at the corner of his mouth. I pressed a hand against the wound at his side—not to save him. Just to let him know he wasn’t alone.

“I always thought… I’d see the light,” he said. His voice was quieter now. “Stendarr. Warmth. Mercy.”

I didn’t speak at first.

I could’ve lied. Told him something kind. But lies are for the living.

“You won’t.” I whispered.

His brow furrowed. But not in fear.

“Then what is there?”

I swallowed hard.

“Only darkness,” I said. “But… you don’t need to be afraid of it.”

He blinked slowly.

I looked him in the eye.

“Death is our friend,” I said, voice barely audible. “And our salvation.”

He stared at me, some emotion flickering behind the pain.

“I never thought… I’d die next to someone like you.”

“Me neither.” I whispered.

A silence stretched between us, heavy and still.

Then, with the faintest curve of his lips: “You’re not what I thought.”

I leaned a little closer.

“And you were better than I ever expected.”

His hand twitched, then went still.

I stayed there until his chest stopped rising.

Not long.

Not loud.

Just the way most truths die.

I didn’t know how long I sat there. Maybe minutes. Maybe longer. The cold of the stone beneath me crept through the damp of my leathers, but I didn’t move. Tolan’s body was still slumped at my side, growing heavier in death. His blood had soaked into the back of my thighs, sticky and cooling. I should have stood. I should have closed his eyes. But I stayed there, spine hunched, elbows on knees, staring at nothing.

He had saved me.

The man who questioned every step I took through these halls. The man who called me a weapon. A sinner. A servant of nothing but death. The man who would’ve gladly bound me for heresy a year ago… had chosen to shield me with his body.

And I wouldn’t have done the same.

Not for him.

Not for most.

That truth sat in the pit of my stomach like lead—ugly and heavy and quiet. I didn’t flinch from it. I wasn’t built for regret. But the feeling that replaced it was worse. It wasn’t sorrow. Not quite. It was… a tightening. A kindling.

Why did he do it?

Because it was right?

Because he still believed in redemption?

Or because he had nothing left to live for?

Maybe I was just convenient. The last person in the room worth dying for.

I stared down at my hands. Blood was caked across my gloves, blackened and thick. My fingers ached from clenching. My sword lay abandoned at my feet, the edge chipped from bone, streaked with gore. The silver of my dagger had dulled with blood, and I hadn’t even felt the kills stack up.

I’d lost count. Lost time. Lost weight.

Something inside me was shifting. Breathing. Stretching its arms after a long sleep.

It wasn’t grief.

It was rage.

Not sudden. But steady. Low-burning. Like coals beneath ash.

It moved through my veins slowly, deliberately, rising into my throat like something living. Like something I couldn’t swallow anymore.

Tolan had died for me. I didn’t ask for it. I didn’t want it.

And now I had to carry it.

I clenched my jaw, my fingers curling so tightly into fists I heard the leather strain.

This was the moment the stories always missed—the seconds between stillness and fury. Between the last breath and the first step forward.

I stood.

Not like a woman. Not like a soldier.

Like a verdict.

Tolan had passed judgment on me the moment he took that blow. And now I would pass judgment on everything still breathing in this tomb.

I left his body behind.

Because I had no more prayers. Only punishment.

I reached for my sword without looking.

The leather-wrapped grip slid into my palm like it belonged there—blood-slick, familiar, eager. Then, without hesitation, I leaned down and took Tolan’s blade from the stone where it had fallen beside him. His hand no longer held it. He had no more need of it.

But I did.

It was heavier than mine, longer, forged for defense and prayer. It had seen battles with purpose—used to protect, to hold lines, to ward against darkness.

Now it would become darkness.

One blade of death, one blade of faith.

I stood, twin swords in hand, and stepped forward into the next corridor.

The crypt didn’t greet me. It recoiled.

I moved like smoke—low, fast, silent no longer. The first vampire didn’t have time to scream. I burst through the half-rotted archway, blades rising in a mirrored flash. My sword slashed through his stomach, the other across his throat , a crisscross of steel and blood.

He dropped in pieces.

The next thrall raised a rusted axe.

I didn’t stop.

I drove Tolan’s sword through his knee, dropped him to the floor, then kicked him onto his back and plunged my own blade through his sternum.

His eyes rolled up. His scream echoed off the walls—cut short by steel.

Another vampire bolted down the stairs from the upper platform, hissing in fury, spell-light gathering at her fingertips.

I raised my palm.

Ice exploded from my fingers in a spear-like burst , the shard punching clean through her chest and nailing her to the far wall. Her mouth opened in shock—frozen in place.

I walked past her without pausing.

A thrall threw himself at me with a dagger, screaming.

I caught his wrist, snapped it backward until the bone tore through skin , and drove both blades into his chest. I twisted them in opposite directions, feeling the ribs break open under the pressure.

Blood painted the walls.

I didn’t speak.

I didn’t breathe.

I moved

Room after room. They came at me in twos, in fours, in swarms. Some with fangs. Some with swords. One with fire blooming in his hands—but I was faster.

A gust of frost tore through the corridor, shards of glass-hard ice cutting open faces and throats.

I vaulted across a broken altar, slammed one blade into a vampire’s gut, kicked her off the hilt, and caught another across the temple with the flat of Tolan’s sword. She fell like a sack of meat. I split her skull open with the heel of my boot.

No hesitation.

No mercy.

Not tonight.

Two more came from above—leaping from a stone balcony like animals. One landed near, claws slashing for my face.

I ducked beneath the strike and slammed the pommel of my dagger into her temple. She staggered, and I cut upward from groin to sternum with my blade, intestines spilling wetly onto the floor.

The second landed behind me.

I turned too slow—

He drove a dagger into my shoulder.

Pain burst down my arm. I hissed and dropped my left blade—Tolan’s.

But not my own.

I grabbed his wrist, pulled him forward, and slammed my knee into his gut. He gasped, and I wrenched the dagger from my shoulder and buried it into his throat. He twitched once, then fell gurgling.

I retrieved Tolan’s sword with a bloody grip and pressed onward.

By the time I reached the next descent, my leathers were torn. My arms burned. One sleeve hung shredded, soaked in black-red blood. My hair clung to my jawline in wet strands. My breathing was raw in my chest.

There were more.

Three in the next chamber, gathered around a dismembered corpse—laughing over the blood like it was wine.

They didn’t hear me.

They didn’t even look up.

I ran the first through from behind, my sword tearing out the front of his chest like a second spine.

The second turned, too late. I grabbed her by the hair and slammed her head into the edge of the altar— once, twice, three times, until her skull split like brittle stone.

The last tried to flee.

I flung a needle-sharp spear of ice into her back and leapt across the room after it. She was on her knees when I arrived. I tore the shard free and drove my sword down into the base of her neck, crushing the spine like a twig.

The silence that followed was different.

Not hollow.

But awed.

Even the dead, I thought, must be watching.

My breath came in bursts. My vision flickered at the edges. Wounds were layered over bruises, my legs screaming, my arms trembling under the weight of two swords slick with ruin.

But I was not finished.

Not yet.

The doors to the next chamber stood half-open, as though even the crypt itself knew I was coming.

My hands were numb. The hilts of my swords had fused with my palms—skin broken, raw. I couldn’t tell which blood was mine anymore. My vision narrowed and tunneled with each step, but I kept moving. Kept dragging myself forward like something pulled by purpose alone.

I kicked the door wider.

The chamber beyond yawned like a mouth in the stone. Pillars ringed a sunken dais. Strange runes pulsed along the floor, carved into a circular slab of obsidian. The air was different here—heavy, humming. Ancient.

And I wasn’t alone.

Three vampires stood near the dais , their backs to me—one robed, chanting softly over the circle. The others turned the moment the door creaked.

“She made it here?” one hissed, astonished.

“I thought she’d be bleeding out in the halls.” the other growled.

I didn’t answer.

Two stood at the far ends, cloaked and still— keepers , watching the ritual with cold reverence. The last two were armed— hunters , pureblood, faces marked with age and command. They’d been waiting.

I took one step forward. Then another.

And I stumbled.

Just once.

My knee hit the floor, blades dragging stone. My breath hitched—chest tight, muscles seizing. My body was failing.

The vampires saw it.

They grinned.

They advanced.

I rose—slow, shaking—but I raised both blades, crossing them before me.

One vampire lunged. I parried, barely. My arm screamed. My heel slipped on blood.

Another strike—I blocked, but the impact knocked me back, my vision flashing white.

They circled me now, laughter in their throats.

“You’re no Dawnguard,” one sneered, slashing toward my ribs. I blocked it with a desperate twist of Tolan’s sword. The vibration rang through my bones.

“You’re just a girl playing hero in a corpse’s skin.”

I was falling apart.

Not down— yet —but I could feel it. My arms were trembling under the weight of two swords. My breathing was ragged, pain singing sharp through my ribs. Blood soaked through my armor. Most of it wasn’t mine, but some of it was. And there were seven vampires closing in, teeth bared, eyes shining, smelling my exhaustion.

They weren’t rushing.

They were circling.

They wanted me to feel it—the helplessness. One had already tasted my weakness when my parry lagged and his blade opened my shoulder. Another had cracked my knee when I barely dodged.

They knew.

I wasn’t going to make it.

“Cut her legs,” one whispered. “Bring her down. Wake the coffin with her screams.”

I adjusted my grip, blades shaking.

They moved as one.

The first came from the left—fast, curved sword aimed for my throat. I blocked, but the force sent me staggering. The second came from behind. I twisted, caught his arm, slashed his chest , but my elbow cracked against the wall and the sword nearly slipped.

Then another was in front of me, driving a dagger for my ribs—

He never reached me.

His body twitched, then lurched backward, his entire head torn clean from his shoulders. Blood arced high, painting the ceiling as something fast—too fast— moved through them.

The vampires turned in confusion.

One screamed.

Eyes, crystalline blue and steady crimson, was already inside them.

No spell. No sound.

Just hands, teeth, and death.

The second vampire tried to draw back— Amon’s fingers punched through her stomach , grabbed her spine, and ripped it out through her back like wet rope. Her body dropped with a slap.

The third raised a spell—too slow.

Amon leapt, landed on him with a crunch of bones, and tore out his throat with his jaw. He bit deep, shook his head like an animal, and spat chunks of flesh across the floor.

The fourth tried to run.

Amon vanished.

Then reappeared behind him— his hand plunged through the vampire’s back, crushed the heart in his palm, and yanked it out still twitching. He flung the corpse into the wall with such force it left a crater.

One of them cried out, “What are you!?”

Amon turned toward him. His mouth was red, his fangs long, his eyes burning with something that wasn’t hunger —something colder.

He didn’t answer.

He tore his entire lower jaw off.

Blood splashed in thick ropes. Teeth clattered across the floor. The vampire choked on nothing.

Another lunged with a sword—

Amon caught the blade between his palms, let it slice into his own hands without flinching, then twisted it, breaking the vampire’s wrist with a snap like dry wood. He bit into his face, half tearing it off, then kicked the body across the room into the ritual stones.

The last one turned to me—terrified now. “Help—”

Amon was on him before I could move.

He didn’t kill him clean.

He ripped his arm off , let him fall screaming, then kneeled on his chest and caved it in with his bare hands. The vampire gurgled, still alive as Amon slowly, deliberately , shoved one hand into his mouth and ripped his skull open from the jaw upward.

The sound—wet, sharp, final —echoed across the chamber.

The chamber was silent.

The vampires were gone—what remained of them piled in broken pieces across the stone, blood pooling in runes that no longer glowed. The air stank of iron, ash, and marrow.

Amon stood in the center of it all, chest rising slow, calm.

Like it hadn’t cost him a thing.

His hands dripped red to the elbows. His jaw was stained with darker streaks—what little skin wasn’t marked by gore gleamed cold and white beneath the torchlight. His hair was damp, wild, pushed back from his face. The thin tear in his shirt revealed part of his chest— pale as snow, soaked in streaks of crimson.

His eyes locked on mine across the ruin.

Frostbite blue and a glimmering red—like fire through wine.

He didn’t speak.

He didn’t move.

And neither did I.

Until my knee buckled.

The pain hit me all at once— white-hot and everywhere. My lungs seized, the room tilted. My fingers went limp. The swords slipped from my hands and clattered to the floor.

The last thing I saw before the ground came up to meet me—

was him. Moving.

Faster than I could fall.

Strong arms wrapped around me, catching me just before I hit the stone. The air left my lungs as he drew me in— not tightly, but deliberately. Carefully. His grip didn’t shake. His chest was solid beneath my weight, slick with warmth that wasn’t his own.

My head fell against his collarbone.

I didn’t fight it.

His breath was shallow. Cold. His voice came low, right above me.

“Still breathing?”

“Unfortunately.” I rasped.

A breath passed between us. Not a laugh. Just air.

I forced my eyes up.

And saw them.

His eyes.

One was ice, pale and sharp, like a blade chipped from glacier. The other was blood, deep and steady, like a secret burning behind glass.

They didn’t belong in the same face.

They barely belonged in a man.

“I had it under control.” I muttered.

His mouth twitched. Not quite a smile.

“Sure.” he said softly.

I tried to move again, but my knee buckled.

His grip didn’t falter.

I looked at him fully then—face inches from mine. His skin, too perfect. His expression unreadable. His gaze dropped for a moment—to my split lip, the blood on my temple, the torn leather over my ribs. Then he looked at me again. Those cursed, unblinking eyes.

“You’re hurt.” he said, barely above a whisper.

“I’ve had worse.”

“That doesn’t mean you should have more.”

I hated how easily he lifted me.

Like I weighed nothing. Like I was just another broken body he was dragging off the battlefield.

But he didn’t drag.

He carried.

One arm under my knees, the other around my back—blood-soaked and silent, his grip unnervingly gentle for someone who’d just crushed skulls barehanded. My head lolled against his chest as he stepped carefully over the corpses, toward the outer edge of the chamber, where the floor was clean enough to lie down a half-dead assassin without making it worse.

“I said I didn’t need help.” I muttered, voice rasping with pain.

“You’re bleeding too fast to lie right now,” he said quietly. “You can hate me later.”

He knelt and lowered me onto the stone like I was made of glass, adjusting me just enough so my spine didn’t catch against a crack in the floor. I tried to sit up, but a hot bolt of pain ripped through my ribs and forced a hiss from between my teeth.

His hands were already moving.

He reached into his coat, fingers quick and practiced, and pulled free a small black vial etched with a silver seal. He uncorked it with one twist, the scent of clove and crushed herbs sharp in the air.

“Here,” he said, holding it out. “It’s strong. Don’t drink it fast.”

I stared at it.

“You carry healing potions?”

“I carry a lot of things I hope I don’t have to use.”

I took it with shaking fingers. The glass was warm from his body heat. I brought it to my lips and drank—slow at first, then faster as the pain dulled and the burning behind my eyes faded. The wounds didn’t close, not fully. But they stopped screaming.

He didn’t speak.

He watched.

And I hated how close he still was.

“You didn’t have to do this,” I said, lowering the vial. “I could’ve—”

“You would’ve bled out,” he said flatly. “You almost did.”

There was no softness in his voice now. Just truth.

And something else beneath it.

I turned my face away. Looked toward the altar, toward the stone sarcophagus the vampires had died trying to protect.

Amon followed my gaze.

“So,” he said quietly. “That’s what they were digging.”

And I suddenly remembered: we weren’t done yet.

The potion had dulled the pain, but not enough.

I still limped when I stood. Still pressed one hand to my ribs as I stepped forward toward the dais.

Amon walked beside me, just behind my shoulder. I could hear the blood drying on his clothes. He hadn’t cleaned his hands. I didn’t ask why. I didn’t care.

We reached the circle.

The stone slab at its center was carved with deep, winding glyphs—runic swirls that glowed faintly as we approached, pulsing like a slow, dead heartbeat . Blood had gathered around the base, soaked into the channels. Ritual blood. Vampire blood. Death blood.

I stared at it.

“So,” I said. “We open it?”

Amon didn’t answer right away.

Then, with a breath: “We should.”

I reached for the edge of the sarcophagus, placed both hands against the stone, and pushed. The lid was heavy, stiff with age—but it gave with a grinding scrape. Amon joined me silently, and together we shifted the lid aside.

Air hissed upward—cold and dry and wrong.

Then the figure inside moved.

There was a click —metal unsealing from bone—and the body fell forward.

A woman.

She crumpled to the floor at our feet in a heap of dark cloth and tangled hair.

Amon froze.

For the first time since I’d seen him tear through vampires like they were wheat— he flinched.

His foot took one step back.

“No.” he whispered.

I blinked.

The woman on the floor stirred. Her fingers twitched, then clenched. Her breath came in sharp, startled gulps. Eyes snapped open—golden, piercing, inhuman. Her head turned toward us. Toward him.

And she stared.

“You.” she breathed.

Amon didn’t move.

“Serana?” he said.

Her name was a ghost in the room.

And the way he said it—it wasn’t fear. It was something else. Something tangled. Too raw to be surprise. Too quiet to be pain.

And her face—frozen, expression tight with memories I didn’t know the shape of.

“You shouldn’t be alive.” she said. Her voice was hoarse. Cold.

“Neither should you.” Amon murmured.

They didn’t move.

I stared between them.

Whatever this was—

I wasn’t ready for it.

To be continued…

Chapter 47: Chapter 47

 

Amon and Serana.

They just stared at each other.

Neither of them moved.

Not a step. Not a breath out of place.

Serana was still on the ground, one hand braced behind her, the other curled loosely in the folds of her dark dress. Her eyes were open now—fully open. Wide, gold-ringed, ageless, and yet filled with something like disbelief. Her chest rose and fell in slow, measured beats, as if waking from centuries of silence hadn’t shocked her half as much as the man standing before her.

Amon hadn’t stepped closer.

He still stood a few paces back, motionless as stone, face unreadable. But something was behind his eyes now. I’d seen hunger in them. I’d seen bloodlust. I’d seen disinterest.

This wasn’t any of those.

This was something older. Something careful.

I stood half between them, half outside of it— as if the air itself had redrawn the space , boxing me out of their moment.

It wasn’t my silence to break.

So I just watched.

I watched Serana slowly push herself upright, her legs trembling beneath her as she rose. I watched her brush dried blood from her sleeve with grace that felt rehearsed. I watched her eyes flick to Amon’s face—and linger.

“You haven’t changed,” she said at last, voice barely audible. “Not one bit.”

Amon’s throat moved as he swallowed. Not nervously. Deliberately.

“You have.” he replied.

There was no warmth. No threat. Just… something else. Recognition , maybe. Or regret.

Serana’s lips parted like she might say more—but then her eyes fell on me.

Her gaze shifted, slow and deliberate, settling on me—as if just now realizing we weren’t alone in the room.

“And who’s this?” she asked. Her voice was smooth, cool like still water, but not unkind.

Before Amon could respond, I stepped forward. The motion sent a sharp jolt through my side, but I held my ground, spine straightening with defiance.

“I could ask you the same.”

Serana tilted her head, the gesture feline and curious. Her lips curled—not quite into a smile, more like the ghost of one. “How rude of me,” she murmured, and with a grace so fluid it bordered on theatrical, she dipped into a bow. “Serana of Volkihar.”

She said it as if it should mean something. As if her name was a crown I ought to recognize. And I did—though I offered her no recognition, no satisfaction. The name Volkihar echoed from old, yellowed pages in the classrooms of Clamcora, whispered alongside warnings of beasts in the night. Vampires, ancient and cursed. The Volkihar bloodline had long been presumed extinct—or at least silent.

Yet here she was. Flesh and blood. Standing before me.

Something twisted in my chest. Not fear. Not quite. A cold ache, a pulse of something buried and rising. I remembered the lectures: the royal vampires weren’t merely turned—they were made , through rites so cruel they birthed daughters of Coldharbour. Serana, so poised and eerily serene, couldn’t have been much older than me when it happened. And yet she stood without tremble, without trace of trauma. Perhaps time had healed her. Or perhaps time had erased what she once was.

“Niolenyl.” My name finally left my throat, dry and cracked. Pain clawed at every inch of me as the potion’s effects began to wane. My wounds throbbed beneath my skin, but I held myself together.

Then came her smile. Subtle. Strange. Almost…kind.

“A sellsword?” she asked, eyes flicking toward Amon, then back to me. “A bounty hunter? Or perhaps…” Her voice dropped, teasing. “Blood cattle?”

My brows snapped together. “Excuse me?”

“I’m joking, of course.” Serana brushed off a speck of dust from her dark dress, her tone light, but something in her gaze remained calculating.

That’s when I noticed it—the scroll, secured behind her back. Its golden bindings shimmered faintly in the chamber’s gloom.

I folded my arms, pain lancing through my ribs as the motion reopened one of the cuts. I bit down on the gasp and forced myself to stand tall.

“You know her?” I asked Amon, my voice steady despite the burn spreading across my side.

He nodded, lips parting—but Serana interjected before he could speak.

“Of course he does,” she said with a hint of amusement. “Amon, you haven’t told her anything about us?”

Us.

The word landed like a chill down my spine.

I didn’t know if it was her presence, the scroll gleaming behind her, or the blood steadily soaking into the fabric of my clothes—but a creeping chill settled over me. Cold, and deep. The kind that crawled beneath the skin.

My wounds were reopening with each breath, each heartbeat. I could feel the warmth of the blood as it traced familiar paths down my ribs, the sting sharp and constant. Standing upright was becoming harder by the second. My legs trembled beneath me.

Amon hadn’t spoken. His silence cut sharper than any words. His gaze was locked on Serana, intense and unreadable—like he was searching for something, or remembering something best left buried.

I braced myself against the monolith beside me, letting its jagged surface bear my weight. That’s when he turned.

“No time for this,” he hissed under his breath, stepping toward me.

I flinched back instinctively.

“She’s wounded.” he added, voice low, edged with urgency.

“I’m fine.” The lie was brittle. I barely believed it myself. Still, I forced my gaze to Serana, meeting her eyes with whatever strength I had left. “You’re coming with me.”

Her brow arched—just slightly—but the way her arms folded across her chest said she wasn’t taking me seriously. Amusement? Disbelief? I couldn’t tell.

“Oh?” she echoed, tilting her head. “And where would that be?”

“Fort Dawnguard.”

And then I heard it.

A pause—then a widening of her eyes—followed by a laugh that spilled from her lips like music. It wasn’t mocking, not at first. It was melodic, haunting in its beauty. A sound that might have belonged in a ballroom rather than a crypt. It wrapped around me like silk and barbed wire.

Amon’s jaw tightened at the sound, his eyes flicking toward me, then back to her—watchful, uneasy.

Serana finally drew breath, the laughter tapering into something more measured. “Dawnguard? ” she repeated, as if tasting the word. “The Dawnguard sworn to destroy my kind?”

“I don’t care what they do to you.” I spat the words, but even speaking took effort. My hand clung tighter to the monolith, nails digging into stone just to keep myself standing.

Her smirk lingered, but only for a moment. Slowly, the amusement drained from her features, leaving behind a mask of cool detachment—like a frost settling over warm stone.

Then she moved.

One step. Two.

And she was in front of me.

So close I could feel the unnatural stillness of her. I couldn’t breathe. Her presence swallowed the air, her nearness stealing every ounce of heat from my body.

Those eyes—dark wells of shadow ringed with molten gold—caught mine. They held me, pinned me in place. They glowed with a hungry sort of light, like a fire behind a cracked door.

“What if I refuse?” she whispered, voice as soft as snowfall.

She leaned in, her breath brushing my skin—ice-cold, laced with something ancient and wrong. “What if I decide to kill you right here?” Her lips barely moved, but I felt every word against my neck. “And in truth… I’m very, very hungry.”

Before I could summon a reply—or breath—Amon was between us.

Faster than I’d ever seen him move.

One hand gripped Serana’s arm, the other hovered just above the hilt of his blade. Not drawn, not yet—but close enough that the message was clear.

“That’s enough,” he said, his voice low, a threat wrapped in silk. “You don’t want to test me, Serana.”

She didn’t move at first. Her eyes didn’t even shift to him. They remained locked on mine, her expression unreadable. But then, like smoke fading on the wind, she smiled—small, secretive, and full of something I didn’t yet understand.

“Still possessive, are we?” Serana murmured, her voice laced with mockery so soft it almost passed for affection. “How charming.”

Amon didn’t respond, but his grip on her arm tightened—just enough to speak volumes.

“Where do you plan on running?” he hissed. It was sharp, but not quite forceful—more desperate than threatening, as though he was trying to convince her, not restrain her. “Back to your father’s castle? You don’t get a better choice than this.”

At the mention of her father, something in Serana changed. Her smile vanished. She went still, like ice flash-freezing over still water.

With a violent twist, she yanked her arm free of Amon’s grasp. The sound was like glacier against glacier—cold scraping cold, an echo of old wounds and older resentments.

“I’d rather rot in the snow than be chained beneath the judgment of mortals.” she snapped, her voice like steel under frost.

I’d had enough.

Pain burned with every breath, but I pushed off the monolith and stepped forward, placing myself squarely between them. My body ached, blood still seeping through my clothes, but my fury held me upright.

“I cleared an entire damned crypt,” I growled, my eyes locked on hers. “Fought through vampires and thralls to drag you out, just to finish this mission. You don’t get to walk away now just because—”

“Because what?” she snapped, stepping in close, her golden eyes narrowing like slivers of fire.

“Because you’re entitled,” I hissed. “Spoiled.”

The word hung between us, sharp as a blade. And for a moment, silence.

My eyes flicked to Amon’s—and there it was.

A flicker of amusement, subtle but unmistakable, tucked beneath the cold exterior he always wore. He didn’t speak, didn’t even smirk, but the glint in his eyes told me he enjoyed that exchange more than he should have.

Serana’s gaze cut between us—sharp, assessing—and whatever passed in that instant made her sigh, long and quiet. She didn’t look angry anymore. Just… tired. Worn down by something older than this conversation.

Her eyes narrowed slightly, her shoulders rising as if bracing herself for something distasteful.

“Fine,” she muttered. “But don’t mistake this for obedience.”

I felt it before I understood it—Amon’s arm, swift and sure, sliding beneath my ribs and curling around my waist. In a single, fluid motion, he lifted me over his shoulder.

My body collapsed against him, limp and aching. He was careful—painfully so—avoiding the worst of my wounds with a gentleness that was almost unbearable.

“Put me down!” I barked, my voice rough with exhaustion and defiance.

I kicked, weakly, the last shreds of strength flaring in my legs—but it did nothing. His grip only shifted, stronger now, one arm anchoring my thighs as he started walking with unwavering purpose.

My head hung over his back, and I couldn’t see where we were headed—only the fading chamber behind us, stone and shadow blurring together. With a twist of my neck, I caught a glimpse of Serana ahead of us, her silhouette fluid in the dim light, leading the way in silence.

Amon slowed, then bent at the knee—not to set me down, but to sweep my fallen blade from the floor. The metal caught the faintest glint of torchlight before he tucked it against his side.

He rose again, steady beneath me.

“I’ll kill you.”

“You had your chances.”

---

 

 

As we emerged from the crypt, the world was already shifting.

The horizon blushed with the first pale light of dawn, the sun’s fingers stretching through the mist-laced sky, reaching out toward us like a blessing—or a warning. The air was cool and damp, heavy with the scent of earth and pine as we stepped into the edge of the woods.

I barely moved, slung over Amon’s shoulder like a half-dead thing, but my head turned just enough to glimpse Serana ahead of us.

She paused.

The golden light touched her face—soft, tentative. And she did something that made my breath catch.

She closed her eyes.

Slowly, almost reverently, she tilted her chin upward and let the sunlight caress her skin.

And it didn’t burn her.

My mouth fell open in shock. Not just from disbelief, but awe. Her skin, smooth and untouched, shimmered faintly in the glow—unscorched, unharmed. For a heartbeat, she looked… alive. Human.

Then it was gone.

She drew her hood up swiftly, pulling the shadows back around her like armor, as if the moment had never happened.

But I’d seen it.

How could she?

Before I could speak, Amon’s voice cut gently through the silence. “We need to make camp,” he said, stopping beneath a cluster of towering trees where the light barely touched the forest floor.

The shadows welcomed us. Cold. Familiar. And I couldn’t shake the image of her face bathed in light—like something sacred that wasn’t meant to be.

He finally set me down.

Not dropped, not shoved—placed, with deliberate care. My back met the rough bark of a tree, and even that simple contact sent flares of pain rippling through my body. Sitting upright felt like being skinned alive from the inside out, but I clenched my teeth and bore it. Words couldn’t explain the ache—deep, bone-rooted, as though I’d been carved into by hours of death itself.

His eyes didn’t meet mine. Instead, they roamed over the mess of torn leather and blood-caked skin, studying each wound with a quiet intensity that felt more like a surgeon than a vampire. There was no softness in his face—only sharp focus, detached and deliberate, as if cataloging every mark I bore like entries in a ledger.

I glared at him, the kind of glare meant to cut—but he didn’t flinch. Didn’t even acknowledge it.

His hands moved toward me, fingers ghosting over the edge of my arm as if testing how deep the damage went.

I recoiled. “Don’t touch me.”

That stopped him.

He looked up, and for the first time, our eyes locked.

There was something in his gaze then—something that slipped beneath the surface of his usual calm. Not pity. Not sympathy. Something heavier. Like grief restrained behind a dam that hadn’t yet cracked.

It hit me, the way he looked at me. Like my pain was stitched into him. As if every torn muscle, every bruise and cut, had been carved into his own flesh in silence.

For just a breath, he wasn’t unreadable anymore.

He looked like a man drowning quietly.

And all I could do was breathe through the ache, wishing I didn’t see the guilt flickering like starlight in his eyes.

“Move.” Serana said, her voice firm, not loud.

She nudged him aside with a single push of her arm—more authority than force. His brow twitched with annoyance, but he yielded without a word, stepping back into the shadows. He didn’t like it. But he let her through.

Then her hands were on me.

Cold, certain, and immediate.

She knelt beside me, pale fingers pressing lightly against my ruined side. My breath caught, but not from pain—from the glow. A soft light bloomed between her palms, cool and silvery like moonlight through fog, and it spilled across my broken form.

I lifted my gaze to her, stunned by the sight—how the light wrapped her hands like water made of stars.

The pain didn’t vanish—it changed.

It dulled at first, fading from a sharp scream to a distant murmur. Then something else stirred in its place. Heat, slow and crawling. Life returning. Blood beginning to circulate in places it hadn’t dared to moments before. My heart found its rhythm again, the drumbeat of survival echoing quietly in my chest.

I exhaled, trembling.

Serana’s face was unreadable. Neither kind nor cold. Just… focused.

Like a predator patching up another out of necessity—or maybe, just maybe, something more.

“Now we’re even.” she murmured, her voice low—barely more than a breath—as her eyes finally met mine.

A shiver ran through me, unbidden. There was something in that gaze: not cold, not cruel… but ancient. As if behind those golden eyes stretched a memory too vast for time to hold.

Then her hands withdrew.

The absence of her touch felt almost as jarring as the pain had been. My body was whole now—no screaming wounds, no blood dripping fresh into the soil—yet I felt… unmoored. As though I’d stepped out of someone else’s skin. The dried blood clinging to my armor seemed foreign, like it belonged to a different body that had died a few hours ago and left me behind.

“Thank you.” I whispered. It was all I could manage, my voice rasped thin with weariness.

She nodded—barely.

Brief. Almost detached. But not dismissive.

Who was she, truly?

A vampire, yes—but not like the ones I’d studied in the cold glow of lanterns back in Clamcora, not like the beasts we’d dissected in theory during night classes on unnatural creatures. She and Amon both had something different in their marrow. A quietness. A restraint.

And the magic—

I had never seen restoration like that. Smooth, seamless, no incantation, no visible drain on her spirit. It flowed from her as if she breathed it, as if healing was an extension of her being rather than a discipline learned.

I shifted, trying to brace against the tree and rise, but her hand caught my shoulder, firm and unyielding.

“Don’t,” she said. “Not yet.”

I met her gaze again. There was no warmth in her expression, but there was something else—authority, perhaps. Experience. The weight of knowing how this worked, and how it didn’t.

“You need rest,” she added. “The magic seals the damage, but the body still remembers what it suffered. Sleep, and let it forget.

Her hand lingered a second longer than necessary before retreating, and she stood, her cloak rustling as she turned her back to me.

I sank down again, breath steadying, and for the first time since the crypt, the pain was gone.

Only the questions remained.

Behind her, half-shrouded in shadows and pine-filtered light, the golden scroll glinted faintly—a silent sentinel strapped to her back. Ancient. Sacred. Buried with her.

My gaze lingered on it, unease threading through my voice.

“What is that?”

Serana’s head turned slightly, just enough for me to catch her profile. Her lips didn’t offer an answer—only the whisper of a smile, elusive and unreadable. And then, a hum. Not a sound exactly, but something deeper. A resonance that seemed to slip under my skin like silk and command my body to obey.

“Rest.” she murmured.

And just like that, she vanished—melted into the darkness of the pine forest like a ghost dispersing into mist.

A chill curled around my spine. Where did she go? Did I let her slip through my fingers? Was my mission falling apart in the trees?

Then—a hand on my shoulder. Steadying.

Amon.

I turned to him, the question burning in my chest, but his hand hovered in the air for a breath before it found me again—his fingers brushing against my cheek, then down to my jaw, where the dried blood lingered. His thumb moved with delicate precision, like he was mending something fragile. A gesture too gentle for the battlefield, too intimate for the silence between us.

“She’ll come back,” he said, voice quiet, low with certainty.

My eyes searched his. “Where did she go?”

His gaze dipped to the hollow of my throat.

“Hunting.”

The word settled between us like falling ash.

And I could almost see her—beneath the trees, beneath the sun—drawn to blood and shadows. Beautiful, terrible, and starving.

My eyes lifted to his, a thousand questions circling my mind like foxes pacing a snare. But only one made it past my lips—half-formed, bitter on my tongue.

“Were you two—” I cut myself off.

I didn’t care. I shouldn’t. And Amon… he’d likely lie anyway.

“No.” he said, before the silence could stretch too far.

His head dipped as he pulled a flask from his coat, uncorking it with his teeth like it was second nature. The scent of aged water and faint herbs met the air.

“Drink.”

He held it out to me, his voice flat—but something about the way he looked away told me he’d heard the part I didn’t say. The part I buried in the pause.

I hesitated, the dryness in my throat growing unbearable. Reluctantly, I took the flask and brought it to my lips, feeling his gaze on me with every swallow.

“Why doesn’t the sun burn her?” I asked, my voice raspy between gulps.

Instead of answering right away, he stood and began to walk around, eyes scanning the forest floor. My brows drew together.

“It does.” he finally said, bending to gather branches. “But she is just not like the rest of us.”

I tilted my head, about to speak again, but he cut me off as if anticipating the next question.

“She’s a royal.”

His clipped answers scraped against my nerves. I pushed myself upright, wincing as I shifted my weight.

“A daughter of Coldharbour.” I said, more a statement than a guess.

That made him pause. Half-kneeling, hand hovering above a piece of wood, he turned his head toward me, a flicker of something unreadable passing through his eyes.

“Yes,” he admitted. “Bal’s blood runs strong in her. She was… chosen.”

I didn’t know what struck me more—the weight of the name or the way he said it. Not with reverence. Not with fear. Just resignation.

“Did you know she was buried in there?”

Amon didn’t answer.

My brow knit tighter as I leaned on my elbow and pushed myself upright. This time, it didn’t hurt.

I closed the distance between us, where he still crouched, gathering branches for the fire.

“Why?”

That single word pulled him to his feet in an instant, his movements sharp. There was a flash in his eyes—anger, sharper than I’d ever seen from him. And this time, it was aimed at me.

“No,” he bit out. “Why were you in there?”

I stared, caught off guard by the shift, my arms folding across my chest.

“I was doing my job.”

“Your job is to kill , Niolenyl,” he said, stepping closer, my name like venom on his tongue. “Not crawl through crypts swarming with vampires.”

I could feel the unnerve twisting in my gut, rising like bile. His anger—aimed at me—made something burn beneath my skin. How dare he? This wasn’t even about him.

Of course Astrid would never share the full details of her missions. And Amon—what would he know of the weight of mortal survival? Of the quiet, constant need for alliances, for favors, for doing what it takes just to last through the next moonrise? He wouldn’t understand. Maybe he’d seen wars, maybe he’d even started them, but to him, it was always just something to outlive. Nothing more than another century’s inconvenience.

“I made it out, didn’t I?”

“Barely.” His voice was a lash, hissed between clenched teeth as he turned away from me and marched toward the camp’s center, tossing the branches onto the half-built fire with too much force.

“Oh, right,” I scoffed, following a few steps behind, the fury in me bubbling too high to swallow. “Now’s the part where I’m supposed to thank you?”

He didn’t turn.

And he shouldn’t expect it.

“Not thanks,” he murmured just loud enough for me to hear, “just forgiveness.”

And that was it—that was all he wanted. As if it were so simple.

I remembered then why I’d been avoiding him since the last time. He was impossible. Unsettling. Always dancing around the truth like it was something fragile, something undeserving of light. He didn’t carry himself like someone centuries old—no, he acted like a boy abandoned too young and too often.

Maybe he was.

But it didn’t matter. I couldn’t afford to care—not about him, not about his ghosts, and certainly not about whatever passed for regret in that broken thing he called a heart.

He was a liar. A manipulator. And after what I’d seen in that tomb, a monster dressed in silk and shadow.

The fire had caught now, glowing steady and low as he rose to his feet. He approached me slowly, deliberately, like a man rather than a creature who could cross the distance in the blink of an eye.

“Will you?” he asked.

The color of his eyes was too clear. Too clean. I swallowed the stone forming in my throat.

“No,” I said coldly.

I turned away—but in the next breath, he was in front of me again. Always one step ahead. Always there.

I exhaled sharply, jaw clenched. How did he keep getting under my skin like this?

“Stop it,” I snapped, my voice trembling in spite of my fury. “You can play the hero all you want. But I won’t give you forgiveness. Not this time.”

Something shifted in his eyes. Not anger—something heavier. Regret, maybe. Or shame.

Too little, too late.

“I wish I’d died in there,” I said, voice like steel, “instead of being stuck with you .”

A soft clearing of a throat snapped the air between us. Both Amon and I blinked, the tension severed as we turned toward the sound.

Serana stood at the edge of the firelight, holding up a few hares by their legs like a peace offering. “Lovebirds,” she greeted with a crooked smile. “I brought food.”

I flinched at the word. With a sharp pivot, I turned my back on Amon and strode over to her, gently taking the hares from her hands.

“We are not.” I muttered.

“Uh-huh,” she hummed, completely unconvinced.

I rolled my eyes and reached for my dagger. As it slid from its sheath, the dim light caught the jewels in its hilt—bright and unmistakable. I could feel Amon’s gaze lock onto it from behind. That dagger— the gift . It might as well have been pressed to his throat.

“Okay, shoo now,” Serana waved dismissively in Amon’s direction. “Go brood somewhere else or feed. She needs to eat.”

“I was just—”

“And she needs to clean up,” Serana cut him off, casting a look at my blood-caked leathers, “preferably into something that isn’t soaked in gore and regret.”

I paused halfway through skinning one of the hares and looked up with a raised brow. “What, you had a wardrobe buried with you?”

Serana laughed lightly and pulled a neatly folded jerkin from seemingly nowhere—tucked up her sleeve. “No, but I have this .”

I tilted my head. “Where did you even get that?”

“From someone who didn’t need it as much as I did,” she replied with a wink. “He won’t miss it. Probably.”

I knew she’d killed for those. The faint blood spatter along the neckline was enough to twist my stomach with unease. Still, she wasn’t wrong. I despised the feeling—the stench—of blood clinging to my skin and leathers. Odd, perhaps, for an assassin. But I couldn’t stand how thick it became once it dried, how it darkened with time, how impossible it was to scrub from the seams no matter how hard I tried.

“Fine.” Amon said at last, dragging his eyes away from the dagger in my hand. He lifted his gaze to meet mine, and for a breath, I thought he might say something—ask for permission to stay. Or maybe he was just hoping I would.

But I said nothing.

Instead, I took the folded clothes from Serana and offered her a faint smile. She hadn’t run when she had the chance. She came back—with food and clothes. And somehow, in that moment, she felt more human than most mortals I had ever met. More present. More… kind.

When I glanced back up, Amon was gone. Vanished into the woods like a wisp of mist. I told myself I should feel relief—like I could finally breathe without the weight of him pressing down on my chest.

But the breath never came. I couldn’t say finally . I couldn’t even force the lie.

So I returned to the hares, knelt, and began to strip the meat from bone, working in silence as I prepared my meal.

Serana plucked at the edge of her sleeve, her gaze flicking toward the woods where Amon had vanished. “Seeing him like that is new.”

I didn’t respond. The meat tore under my fingers, warm and sticky, still too fresh to be appetizing.

She leaned back on the trunk, legs crossed, watching me with a kind of casual observation I found unnerving.

“He never looks at people like that,” she went on. “Not with that sort of… ache.”

I let out a quiet scoff, more breath than sound.

I didn’t look at her. “He’s a vampire. You look at people like meals.”

Serana chuckled under her breath. “True. But not like that .”

My fingers slipped for a moment, slicing too deep into the hare’s belly. I pressed my lips together, wiped the blood on the hem of my already-ruined sleeve.

“He’s dangerous.” I said flatly.

Serana hummed. “So are you.”

I finally met her gaze. She didn’t flinch or look away. Just sat there, composed and unbothered, like she knew exactly what she was doing—needling just enough to get under the skin without drawing blood.

I turned back to the carcass and spoke low. “We’re not talking about him.”

“How did you even meet?” Serana asked, her tone casual, but her eyes were sharp beneath the guise of curiosity.

I looked up again, my gaze locking with hers like a silent warning. That line hadn’t just been crossed—it had been dragged across the dirt.

I said nothing.

Still, my mind wandered. Back to that cursed crossroads.

The shadow beneath the road, the eerie stillness in the air. That half-smile, and the strange pull in my neck. And his eyes—those cursed, mismatched eyes.

“Right,” Serana muttered, clearing her throat and leaning back against the trunk. “Not talking about him.”

I exhaled through my nose and glanced down at the hare. Nearly ruined by my mood, but salvageable. I worked in silence, focusing on stripping it clean and positioning the meat carefully above the fire.

After a beat, I broke the silence. “Do you remember who put you in there?”

Serana’s eyes were closed now, her posture loose with exhaustion. She gave a soft shrug, as if the memory itself had been buried too deep. “I don’t know.”

“Dawnguard will want to know,” I murmured, turning the hare slowly over the fire so it would cook evenly. “Especially about the scroll.”

The mention of it made Serana flinch, just barely. Her eyes opened but didn’t meet mine. Instead, they drifted to the slanting rays of sunlight flickering through the trees.

“Assassin, are you?” she asked, like she already knew the answer.

Another elusive vampire. Just what I needed. One wasn’t enough—clearly, Father was punishing me with a second.

I didn’t bother replying aloud. I just gave a quiet nod.

“The Dark Brotherhood still exists? Huh. Impressive.”

“Do you know when you were buried?” I asked, steering the topic back. Her detachment didn’t fool me. There were cracks in her calm.

She gave a slow shrug, eyes slipping closed again. “Good question. Hard to say. Who’s Skyrim’s High King?”

My mouth parted, ready to say Torygg , but he was already dead.

“That’s… actually up for debate.”

“Oh, wonderful. A war of succession. Good to know the world didn’t get boring while I was gone.” Her tone was dry, but I caught the shift in her posture—more alert. “Who are the contenders?”

I sighed and reached toward the hare. Still not cooked enough. “The Empire backs Elisif. But many follow Ulfric Stormcloak.”

“Empire?” she echoed, brow twitching faintly. “What… what empire?”

“The Empire,” I said again, then hesitated at the look on her face. “From Cyrodiil.”

“Cyrodiil is the seat of an empire?” she repeated slowly. “I must’ve been gone longer than I thought.”

Her words faded into the rustling leaves, but the quiet they left behind wasn’t comforting.

Gone longer than she thought. How long was that, really? A hundred years? Two?

I stared at the hare again, my fingers tight around the stick, knuckles pale. The scent of cooking meat twisted in the air, mingling with the iron tang still lingering on my skin. I wanted to wipe it off, all of it—blood, sweat, the stench of the crypt, and the shadows still clinging to my spine.

But the feeling wouldn’t go. It never did.

Serana sat like she belonged here. Like waking in a tomb and stepping into war was just another morning.

She was hiding something.

Not just one thing—no, she was a vault of secrets, locked and layered in silence. I could see it in the way her eyes flickered whenever certain names were spoken, the way her posture tensed when the subject leaned too close to truth. For someone pulled out of a crypt, centuries deep in forgotten time, Serana was too composed, too aware. Unreliable in all the ways that mattered—but still here.

And that made me wonder.

Was it because of me?

Or was it because of Amon?

The thought was like a splinter lodged beneath the skin—small, almost forgettable, but it throbbed when I breathed too deep. What kind of bond did they share? I didn’t want to ask. I wouldn’t. But some buried, selfish part of me ached to know. Not out of jealousy—no. Curiosity, maybe. Or fear.

No. Just finish the mission. Return to the Sanctuary.

I said nothing as I finished the last of the hare, the taste of charred meat and ashes lingering bitter on my tongue. The fire crackled beside me, the scent of smoke curling through the pine-soaked air. My body ached, not with pain, but with the heaviness of everything I hadn’t said.

I rose wordlessly, the stiffness in my limbs catching up to the stillness. The blood on my skin felt like a second layer of flesh—dried, clinging, rancid. Clothes in hand, I slipped away from the fire’s light, drawn by the whisper of running water in the distance. The trees opened to a quiet lake, sunlight shivering across its surface in goldenk ripples. I crouched at its edge, stripped off the stained clothes with impatient hands, and waded in.

The water was glacial. It bit into me, pulled a gasp from my throat—but it was what I needed. I let the cold bury the heat of my rage, the weight of everything I’d carried. My fingers scrubbed at the dried blood, nails catching on crusted wounds, tearing skin I didn’t care to protect. I scratched it off like it didn’t belong to me. Like I could shed the past hour—shed everything.

When I stepped out, steam rose from my skin in the crisp air. I pulled on the jerkin Serana had given me. It was too loose at the waist, the shoulders wider than mine, but it was dry and clean, and for now that was enough. I could manage until I returned to the Sanctuary. Until I remembered what it meant to be in control again.

As I made my way back to the fire, Serana looked up from where she sat on a fallen log, legs crossed and gaze sharp as always. Her eyes softened for a heartbeat, just enough to remind me she wasn’t all thorns and mystery.

“You look—” She paused, pressing her lips into a line. I could tell she was weighing her words, caught between honesty and whatever comfort she thought I might want. “Better.”

I huffed a breath, not quite a laugh. “Must’ve been one hell of an unlucky hunter.”

Her lips curled into a ghost of a smile. “He was.”

I didn’t ask for more. I didn’t want the story. Some things were better left to silence.

The fire warmed my skin, but it couldn’t reach the fatigue pulling at my bones. It wasn’t just weariness—it was the kind of exhaustion that came from pretending to be alright for too long. From always watching, always bracing. From fighting not just for survival, but for some scrap of meaning.

Serana was right earlier. I was healed, yes—but not whole. Magic could knit skin and bones, but not what lay underneath. Not the parts of me scraped raw by memory.

I sat beside the fire and leaned back against a tree, bark rough against my spine. My eyes drifted closed, not fully—just enough to let in the flicker of light and movement, to feel the world without looking at it.

And for once, I didn’t want to think about Amon. I didn’t want to figure Serana out.

I just wanted the quiet.

Even if it wouldn’t last.

“We’ll leave in a few hours.” I murmured, my voice rough, worn thin by exhaustion. Even I could hear the fatigue in it, like a frayed edge catching on every word. My body ached for rest, and for once, I let it take me.

---

 

 

I woke to the earth groaning beneath me.

At first, it was subtle—a distant rumble that I thought was part of some half-formed dream. But then it grew. The forest floor trembled with sudden violence, a deep, guttural shake that rolled through the roots and into my bones. My eyes snapped open.

The trees above me swayed unnaturally, their trunks groaning, leaves spiraling downward in frantic motion. It was as if the sky itself was tearing, the branches bowing to something unseen, something massive.

There were no volcanoes in Skyrim. No faults beneath the soil like this.

This was not an earthquake.

A strong hand hooked beneath my arm, jerking me to my feet. My legs barely remembered how to stand.

“Get up,” Amon’s voice cut through the chaos, breathless, sharp. He was dragging me toward the treeline, urgency heavy in every movement. “We have to go. Now.” 

My thoughts lagged behind my body, the fog of sleep still clinging to me like cobwebs. But the wind—it wasn’t right. It wasn’t natural. It sliced through the air in howling gusts, carrying a sound I couldn’t place, something high-pitched and guttural at the same time. A shriek? A roar? It didn’t make sense.

Then I looked up.

And I forgot how to breathe.

High above the treetops, dancing between the clouds and the blinding midday sun, a massive shape darkened the sky. Its wings stretched wide, impossibly wide, each beat stirring the air into violent tremors. They shimmered black, like obsidian caught in firelight—huge and terrible.

The wind came from them.

The sound came from them.

From it .

I opened my mouth, but no sound came. Just the beginnings of a word that never formed.

“Is that—?”

But the rest vanished, because the truth crashed into me with the weight of a forgotten nightmare.

A dragon.

Amon grabbed my shoulders, shaking me hard. “Nio! We have to move! ”

But I couldn’t. My body refused. My limbs were stone. My gaze was chained to the sky, to the ancient beast circling above like the shadow of some dead god.

I had fought vampires. I had killed men, women, monsters. But this—this was something else.

This was something I had only heard in whispers, in stories no one believed anymore.

And now it was real.

The world as I knew it was breaking.

 

 

To be continued…

Chapter 48: Chapter 48

4E, 193,

 

The chamber shimmered with filtered light through tall, stained-glass windows, casting quiet halos across the marble floor. Scrolls, quills, and ethereal diagrams floated gently in midair, untouched, their presence a quiet reminder of order and discipline. The hush of the room was broken by the sound of the door creaking open.

Instructor Aevandelil stood by the lecture board, his hand still hovering mid-air above an illusory map of pre-First Era Skyrim. His eyes narrowed, expression frozen in a mask of dignified annoyance.

“And what do we have here,” he said with practiced coolness, “late again, Elamoril.”

The entire class shifted subtly, glancing toward the doorway.

Startled, I lifted my eyes from the book resting on my desk. Elamoril stood casually in the frame, leaning one shoulder against it, his posture relaxed but his eyes tired, dark circles betraying the weight behind his usual charm.

“If you won’t let me in, I can just leave.” he offered dryly.

“You would like that,” Aevandelil replied, voice clipped. “No. Take a seat. Quickly.”

Elamoril exhaled a resigned sigh and scanned the room until his gaze settled on mine. A faint smile touched his lips as he walked in, measured steps echoing softly against the polished floor. He slipped into the seat beside me. I felt myself inch slightly closer to him, drawn in without thinking.

Aevandelil returned to the center of the hall, his tone sharpening as he addressed the class.

“Let us establish context. The Merethic Era. A time before the taming of history, before men sullied Tamriel with their brief and noisy civilizations. The Dragons, known to the Nords as dov, were not mere beasts, but beings of tremendous power. Fragments of Akatosh’s own soul. They ruled the skies and the earth with fire and with Voice…”

I leaned in, whispering low, “Couldn’t sleep?”

“Not really.” he murmured, his fingers absently thumbing through the pages of his untouched book.

“Why?”

He hesitated, his voice softer than before. “Nightmares.”

“Again?”

I hadn’t meant to sound so surprised, but the word came out louder than I intended. Heads turned. I felt the heat of it immediately—especially from the front of the room.

Aevandelil’s gaze locked onto mine. He folded his arms with slow precision, his displeasure barely veiled.

“Ah. Niolenyl,” he said, his voice like chilled water. “So  deep in thought I feared you might vanish entirely into your own brilliance. Perhaps you’d care to share your insight with the rest of us? ”

He took a step forward.

“Tell us, if the Thu’um was truly a divine gift, what does its use against Alduin imply about the mortals who wielded it? Were they chosen or were they thieves?”

A pause. The silence was complete.

He lifted his chin.

“Or, if that is too taxing, perhaps you could simply spell ‘Alduin’ correctly for the class.”

The air in my lungs stilled. Shame coiled at the base of my neck and climbed slowly upward, blooming across my cheeks in fire. I could feel the weight of a dozen stares turning toward me, pressing down.

I parted my lips, trying to speak—anything, even a half-formed excuse—but no sound came out.

From the front row, a hand rose with practiced calm. Fara. Her tone was quick, if a little too eager.

“If I may, Master?”

Aevandelil gave her a curt nod, allowing her to proceed.

“The mortals were… chosen. Yes. The gods gave them the Voice because they had the strength to defy tyranny. It shows their worth, their ability to rise above their station. That’s why Paarthurnax taught them. They earned it.”

There were murmurs of agreement, a few nods.

But beside me, Elamoril stirred. He slipped his hand briefly over mine, steady, grounding—then pulled it away as he raised it.

Aevandelil tilted his head, intrigued, and gestured for him to speak.

Elamoril’s voice was measured, calm, and surprisingly firm.

“The Thu’um was not a gift,” he began, “and it certainly wasn’t earned. It was taken. Extracted from dragon speech by force and imitation. A dangerous act. Mortals mimicking the divine.”

He paused, then continued, his eyes never leaving Aevandelil’s.

“Paarthurnax did not teach them out of kindness. He did it out of remorse, or perhaps as a countermeasure to Alduin’s growing power. Their use of the Voice wasn’t noble. It was radical. Heretical, even. They didn’t ascend to some higher state. They shattered the boundary that separated them from gods.”

The room was utterly still.

“In doing so,” he added, his voice dropping to something almost reverent, “they unleashed consequences that would echo across time, the scattering of the dov, the unbalancing of the world, and the exile of Alduin himself. They weren’t chosen. They chose themselves. And the world has never been the same.”

The weight of his words lingered. Even Aevandelil seemed to pause longer than usual, his features unreadable.

I sat frozen, breath caught in my chest. I stared at him, wide-eyed, unable to decide what I felt more—astonishment at his knowledge or awe that it came from Elamoril.

My heart gave a sudden thud.

He turned slightly, just enough to glance my way with a quiet, knowing smile.

Aevandelil nodded at last, slowly.

“Indeed. Well spoken, Elamoril. The power to choose oneself, is both the highest ambition… and the deepest arrogance.”

 

---

 

“Will you be all right?”

My voice barely carried, fragile in the quiet. I stood in the corridor, arms crossed tight across my chest as though I could shield myself from the sight of him—Elamoril, exhausted and unraveling before me.

The green of his eyes was dull, dulled by shadows beneath them. That gleam, once so sharp and quick, was buried under sleepless nights. I searched for the spark, the mischief, the defiance that had always danced there.

It wasn’t gone.

But it was dim.

“I don’t know.” he murmured.

He opened the door to his room and stepped inside, leaving it open as if he knew I’d follow. Or hoped I would.

I did.

The room was quiet, still. Neatly made bed, every fold in place. As it should be. As it had to be. Disorder wasn’t tolerated. Not here, not ever. I sat on the edge, careful not to disturb the lines of his perfection, my fingers curling into the blanket.

“You could speak to Master Klarlain,” I said, though the words felt useless as they left me. “Maybe he—”

“No need.”

He was already turned away from me, hands working the buttons of his shirt. I should’ve looked away.

But I couldn’t.

The fabric slipped from his shoulders, and the light caught the curve of his spine, the quiet strength in him. When he let down his hair, it spilled like molten blood, rich and dark and beautiful. He was taller now, broader. The softness of youth had hardened into something else, something shaped by pain and quiet resilience.

I stared, helpless, caught in him.

Then he turned.

I dropped my gaze to the floor as heat rushed up my throat and flooded my face. But he crossed the space between us in three slow, deliberate steps. I felt his presence before I saw him—like gravity, like breath.

He stopped in front of me and knelt, one knee pressing gently to the floor.

Then he touched me.

His hand came up to my face—warm, calloused, real. His fingers cupped my cheek, tilting my chin upward. My breath caught, and I found myself looking into his eyes, so close I could see the flecks of gold that still lingered in the green.

“I have you.” he said, softly, like a vow.

The world narrowed. There was only his voice. Only the heat of his palm. Only him.

“Do you want me to stay?”

I could have told him yes, a thousand times over. I could have begged him to let me stay. To let me stay forever. Because that’s what I wanted.

That’s what I needed.

But the words caught in my throat.

So he answered for me.

“Yes,” he breathed. His thumb brushed gently beneath my chin, and my entire body shivered at the touch. “When you’re here… I sleep without dreams.”

It was everything. It was too much.

It was not enough.

My heart shattered quietly inside my chest, the pieces clattering against bone. And in the silence between us, I wished desperately, hopelessly—that I could be enough to keep his nightmares away.

That I could stay, and he would never be tired again.

That I could hold him together the way he’d always held me.

But all I could do was lean forward, just enough that our foreheads touched, and whisper into the stillness between us.

“I’ll stay.”

 

 

To be continued…

Chapter 49: Chapter 49

 

It was colossal.

Vaster than I had ever dared to imagine. Greater than all the stories, lessons, and ancient songs could have prepared me for. The sky itself seemed to yield beneath the crushing weight of its presence, swallowed whole by wings the color of midnight—wings that blotted out the sun and cast the world below into trembling darkness.

And then—it screamed.

A sound so primal, so filled with fury and age, it didn’t echo—it resonated. It throbbed through the ground, through my bones, through the marrow of my soul. My blood turned to ice.

Reality snapped back with the sting of breath I didn’t remember taking.

My gaze fell to Amon’s eyes that had always burned with confidence, defiance, even arrogance. But now, they were wide with raw, unfiltered fear. Not just for me but fear that mirrored my own. The kind of fear that stripped a man down to nothing but truth. I had never seen it in him before.

He was pulling me along, fast and wordless, his grip like iron. I didn’t know where we were going, only that I followed. My legs moved on instinct, but my mind was chained to the sky—to it.

The dragon.

It circled above like a vengeful god awakened from slumber. Each beat of its wings disturbed the world below, like it was stirring fate itself. And in that moment, I understood the desperation we all felt, the scramble for alliances, for treaties, for friends in high places and low. We weren’t just outmatched.

We were outlived.

Even united, even prepared, we would never stand a chance. Not against that.

Its eyes crimson, glowing like molten coals pierced the veil of time. There was something inside them that felt older than this world, something hollow and eternal.

Was it hunger? Or something worse?

I couldn’t tell. My body moved, but my mind remained paralyzed. A contradiction of motion—I ran, yet I felt rooted in place, as if the sky had pinned me down with its gaze. And even as we fled, I knew the truth:

Running was futile.

It saw us. It knew us. It could end us with a breath, with a flick of its neck, and if it had chosen to, if it had opened its jaws to unleash ruin, I think I would’ve accepted it.

For the first time, I understood the true nature of this war.

It was not one we could win.

And if the rumors were true… if there were more of them, if this was only the first—then we were not witnessing an attack.

We were witnessing an extinction.

“In here, go on!” Serana’s voice snapped through the numbness like a whip. Amon shoved me forward, and I stumbled into the mouth of a cave—narrow, damp, and choked with earth. It shouldn’t have felt like safety.

But it did.

Buried in stone, beneath layers of dirt and darkness, I felt the sky fall away from me. Its gaze couldn’t reach me here. I could breathe again, if only for a heartbeat.

Serana followed us in, her boots grinding against the cave floor. She stopped, arms crossed, pacing restlessly like a caged wolf. Her expression was sharp, her words sharper.

“You forgot to mention this is the new normal in Skyrim?” she hissed, the sarcasm barely masking her own fear. The frown etched into her face was deep, permanent, as if it had been carved there by years of blood and loss.

But I didn’t answer. I couldn’t.

The question fell into the silence like a stone into deep water, and there it stayed, sinking.

Because I had forgotten how to speak. How to think.

“Bal’s blood…” Serana muttered under her breath, pacing the narrow cave like a caged panther. Her voice trembled just enough to betray the fear she refused to show fully. “We’re doomed.”

And we were. All of us, mortal or immortal, it didn’t matter. I doubted the dragons would care who or what stood in their way. They would not discriminate. They would not negotiate. They would devour.

They hungered for more than just flesh. Destruction. Domination. Consumption. And if we were fortunate, if there was such a thing anymore, perhaps enslavement would be the best we could hope for.

“Shut it, Serana!”

Amon’s voice cracked—subtly, but enough. He turned on her with a snap, jaw tight, his composure faltering like a cracked mask. “Keep it together!”

“You saw that thing!” Serana snapped back, throwing her arms up. Her voice echoed off the stone walls like a curse. “Tell me, Amon, how do you think we survive this?”

He stepped toward her, squared his shoulders, and lifted his chin as if sheer will could shield them.

“You’re an ancient royal vampire,” he said coldly. “And yet mortals are showing more courage than you right now.”

Serana’s laugh was brittle and hollow. There was no mirth in it, only mockery. “Courage?” she echoed, voice low and biting. “Has time dulled your senses, Amon? Or has it made you soft?” Her boots crunched the gravel as she advanced, and though my eyes were fixed on the ground, I could feel her presence closing in like a storm.

“Do you even hear yourself?” she hissed. “What good is bravery when we’re nothing but dust beneath their wings? That thing—that monster—will not be slain by speeches or spine. We are all already dead. You know that.”

I flinched as she spoke. Her words felt like a truth I had been trying to ignore, and now she carved it open, raw and undeniable.

“Enough.” Amon growled, and his hand found my shoulder. It was meant to steady me, to pull me out of the spiral.

But I couldn’t move.

Because Serana was right.

No valor, no bloodline, no ancient power would save us from the shadow in the sky. We weren’t fighting an enemy.

We were facing the end of all things.

“Nio, look at me.”

His voice reached me, echoing through the fog in my mind. But it felt distant—muffled, like it was coming from the other side of a dream I couldn’t wake from. My eyes stayed locked to the dirt floor beneath us. Cold stone. Jagged rock. Safer than the sky.

I couldn’t look up. I didn’t want to.

But then his hand found my chin—gentle, yet firm—and he tilted my face toward his. His touch burned like sunlight against the numbness, forcing my eyes to meet his. Amon’s gaze searched mine with a quiet desperation, his brow furrowed, his breath shallow. He wasn’t asking for strength. He was begging for connection.

For proof that I was still here.

“She’s right,” I whispered, voice hoarse and hollow. “We have no chance against it.”

A beat of silence. Then he exhaled.

“Maybe,” he admitted softly. His hand slipped away, leaving a cold ghost of comfort behind. He turned his head toward the narrow mouth of the cave, his eyes scanning the skies beyond as if the dragon might still be watching. “But we’re not dead yet. Survival’s all we’ve got.”

A dry, bitter laugh broke the moment like a crack in glass. Serana had slumped against the cave’s damp wall, her silhouette sharp against the cold stone. She pressed a hand to her forehead as if trying to hold the world together through sheer will.

“Please,” she breathed, a shaky laugh riding on the edge of hysteria. “This is madness.”

Amon shot her a glare, his jaw tightening, but she went on.

“I’ve barely shaken the dust of centuries off my coffin,” she said, her voice rising. “My father’s a delusional megalomaniac, half the world wants me dead for my bloodline, and now dragons.”

She threw her hands up, then dragged them down her face, her laugh dissolving into a low, frustrated groan. “What’s next? Shall we bring back the Dwemer while we’re at it? Maybe throw in a few Oblivion gates for fun?”

Amon’s expression darkened, but he said nothing. Because what was there to say?

The world was unraveling.

And we were all fraying with it.

“We need to get to safety.” Amon said, his voice low and steady, but distant like he was speaking through a veil of dread. His gaze was still fixed on the sliver of sky visible through the jagged mouth of the cave.

Above us, the sound came again.

That sound—not just a noise, but a presence. The low, thunderous claps of wings cutting through the heavens, like a storm held aloft. The dragon was moving on, its massive body veiled by cloud and shadow, searching for another corner of Skyrim to terrorize.

Each beat of its wings reverberated through my bones.

My heart began to pound, not with adrenaline, but awakening. I hadn’t realized I’d stopped breathing. I hadn’t noticed how numb I was until that moment. The cold crawling up my limbs wasn’t the weather.

It was real fear.

This was what it meant to be powerless. This was what it felt like to witness something ancient and merciless, something that reminded you that survival was never promised.

“Nowhere is safe.” I breathed, more to myself than them.

Serana nodded silently, arms crossed as she leaned back against the cave wall. There was no smugness now, no anger—just resignation, etched deep into the curve of her mouth and the shadow in her eyes.

But Amon didn’t stop.

He turned on his heel and began walking toward the exit, shoulders squared like he could will the terror away by defying it with every step. “We’re a half-day from Dayspring,” he called over his shoulder. “Hurry up.”

The wind caught the edge of his cloak as he stepped back into the light, and I watched him go with a strange sense of detachment.

A part of me wanted to stay buried in this cave, hidden in earth and silence, far from the sky. Far from the red eyes and death that flew above.

But safety was a lie we didn’t have the luxury to believe in anymore.

And so I followed.

 

---

 

The gates of Fort Dawnguard groaned open, and a hundred eyes snapped to us.

Crossbows were already raised—metal gleaming, bolts locked. The courtyard bristled with tension, as if the very stone beneath our feet were holding its breath.

I stepped forward, flanked by two vampires.

Serana moved silently, her expression unreadable beneath the hood she had drawn up, shadows veiling her face. Amon walked just a step behind me, shoulders loose but eyes sharp. The Dawnguard soldiers watched us like we were venom about to spill.

We crossed the threshold.

No one lowered their weapons.

A sharp voice cracked through the air like a whip.

“What in Oblivion are you thinking?”

Isran stormed down the stairs, his heavy boots slamming against the stone, eyes burning with disbelief. The crossbow slung over his back looked all too ready to be drawn.

“I sent you to find out what the vampires were after,” he barked, jabbing a finger toward me. “And you walk back into my fortress with two of them at your side? Are you trying to get yourself killed?”

I opened my mouth to speak—but nothing came out. My mind was still in the sky.

Still with the dragon.

Its wings eclipsing the sun. Its scream cutting through the world like a blade of time and memory and fire.

My fingers twitched at my sides. My lungs drew breath, but my throat was tight. I was here, but I hadn’t come back yet.

“Well?” Isran snapped, stepping closer.

Amon stepped forward—and the reaction was immediate. Crossbows snapped back up, every trained soldier pivoting with military precision. In an instant, he was the center of every aim.

But he didn’t flinch. His steps were steady, his chin lifted as if daring them to strike.

“She’s here to deliver what you asked for, Isran.” he said, voice like velvet wrapped around steel.

“Keep my name outta your fang-filled mouth.” Isran snapped, spitting the words like venom.

But Amon only smiled, slow and amused, the edge of something darker glittering beneath his calm. He took one more step forward—and vanished.

Gasps echoed. The crossbows faltered.

A silent mist twisted through the air, slipping like smoke through their trained lines. The next moment, Amon stood behind Isran.

Not a single footstep.

Isran didn’t move. Not even to turn his head.

“Your soldiers are green,” Amon said softly, like a whisper meant only for him. “Do you need blood? Because I’m certain we can provide it.”

Shouts rang out—half warning, half panic. Crossbows scrambled, some men aiming at Amon’s back, others hesitating, unwilling to risk pointing their weapons near their commander.

Tension crackled through the air like flint to steel.

Then, Serana stepped forward.

“He’s joking.” Her voice was calm—icy, in fact. That same unnerving serenity she always wore like a crown. She pulled her hood down with a slow, deliberate motion, long strands of ink-dark hair falling free as her gaze swept the courtyard.

“If we were here to kill you,” she added, eyes glinting, “you’d be dead already.”

The soldiers shifted uncomfortably.

“But we’re not.” She turned her attention to Isran, her tone shifting from mocking to serious. “In fact, I might have something you want.”

The wind curled through the fortress in that moment—cold, sharp, and empty like the pause before battle.

Isran’s jaw tensed.

“Lower your weapons.” he growled, voice low and lethal.

The order hung heavy in the air.

Some soldiers obeyed at once, though stiffly. Others hesitated, their fingers twitching near triggers, eyes flicking between the vampires and their commander in stunned disbelief.

Disbelief not at us—but at him.

Isran didn’t waver. His gaze stayed locked on mine, carved from granite and just as unyielding. There was no rage left in it now. Only cold resolve.

“This better be worth my damn time. ” he said again, quieter this time—like a final warning.

 

---

 

“So that was you they were guarding?” Isran’s voice was ice, though the strain in his posture betrayed him. Having two vampires under his roof was pushing him to his limits.

“I was already guarded,” Serana sighed, tipping her head against the back of the chair like she was explaining something to a child. “They were trying to dig me up, don’t you understand?”

“Why?” Isran’s tone sharpened.

Wordlessly, Serana pulled the scroll from her side and tossed it onto the table. It landed with a dull thud, the golden casing catching the torchlight like a relic from another age.

“For this.”

Isran’s breath caught — a small, involuntary hitch — but it was Celann who found the words first.

“This…” he breathed, eyes widening as he leaned forward, “This is an Elder Scroll.”

Isran didn’t move. He stared at it, as if unsure whether to recoil or fall to his knees. The weight of centuries rested on the table between them.

“How did you get that?” His voice was a whisper now — less accusatory, more afraid.

Serana only shrugged. “Doesn’t matter, really.”

“It does,” Celann cut in, the rasp in his voice now edged with alarm. He braced himself on his palms as he loomed over the table. “You walk into a vampire hunter’s fort holding that. It matters.”

Serana’s gaze wandered lazily across the chamber, then landed on Celann with a flicker of amusement. “Reminds me,” she mused, twirling a strand of hair between her fingers, “I’m a bit peckish.”

“Don’t you dare.” Isran’s jaw locked tight, his glare fixed on her with righteous fury. “It would take more than a scroll to forgive your monstrous nature.”

“Aww.” Serana gave a dry, bemused chuckle as she reached for the scroll again. “What a compliment.”

Amon and I remained silent, standing side by side across the table, caught in the middle of this slow-burning standoff. But I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t even swallow the tight knot in my throat.

Not after what I’d seen.

Not after the dragon.

“There are bigger problems.” I finally managed to breathe out, the words trembling free like a cracked dam. My voice cut through the tension, breaking the stare between Isran and Serana. “We saw a dragon on our way here.”

Isran’s eyes widened—only for a heartbeat—but the shift in his expression was unmistakable. Then, just as quickly, he masked it with a tilt of his head, skeptical and cold.

“Dawnguard stands with the Brotherhood,” he said, almost dismissively.

“You don’t understand—”

“Even after this,” he snapped, voice rising as he swept his arm toward Serana and Amon like they were a pair of rotting corpses brought into his home, “this mockery—”

His words crashed into the room like a thrown blade, sharp and loud. But it wasn’t the vampires that haunted me. It was what we saw above the trees. The wings that blotted out the sun. The scream that froze the blood in my veins.

And I knew then, he truly didn’t understand.

Not yet.

The heavy wooden doors groaned open, the sound echoing like a warning bell through the high stone walls of the hall. A gust of cold air swept in, scattering the torchlight as Grodyl stormed inside, his soaked cloak trailing behind him, hood falling from his head in a clumsy motion that betrayed urgency.

His steps were uneven—hasty, purposeful—and there was no mistaking the strain carved into his features. Grodyl was a man of silence and restraint, but now his eyes were wild with something more primal. 

Isran began to speak, confusion flashing across his face.

“What? Who is—”

“We need to go.”

Grodyl’s voice sliced through the room like a blade. Flat. Direct. Cold.

He didn’t even glance at Isran. His entire focus was locked on me. As if no one else existed. As if the urgency in his bones belonged to me alone.

I rose to my feet before I fully realized I was moving. The shift in him, this raw and stripped urgency struck something deep. My stomach turned to stone.

He crossed the distance between us in three long strides and caught my arm, not forcefully, but with the kind of grip that carried unspoken weight.

Then, low and close to my ear, he whispered the words that turned my blood to ice.

“It’s Astrid.”

Time seemed to stutter.

I looked up at him, eyes wide, searching his face for even the faintest sign of doubt. For hesitation. For anything that might offer a sliver of hope that I’d misheard. That he’d misspoken.

But there was nothing. Only grim certainty.

Astrid.

The name alone held gravity. It fell on me like a stone, pressing on my chest, stealing the breath from my lungs.

I turned to the others. The Elder Scroll still sat at the center of the table, its golden casing gleaming like it held all the answers and none of the mercy.

“What you said earlier…” My voice sounded distant to my own ears, steady but flat, as though spoken through a tunnel. “I’ll make sure it reaches the Brotherhood. We’ll be in touch soon.”

Isran took a half step forward, eyes narrowing. “Wait—”

But I was already drawing my hood up.

Grodyl gave a sharp nod beside me, ready.

From behind, Serana’s voice called out, feather-light with mockery but laced with genuine curiosity. “And what am I supposed to do?”

I didn’t turn to her. “Entertain yourself.”

We stepped out into the corridor, the cool air of the fort pressing in as we left the hall behind. Every step echoed with the weight of something approaching—a confrontation I had feared for years but never truly prepared for.

Still, a strange impulse tugged at me. A quiet, irrational urge. I resisted it, but it lingered like a whisper in my mind.

Is Amon behind me?

I didn’t dare turn to check.

Then, the world rippled. A shimmer of violet light unfurled midair, the portal opening like a wound in the fabric of the world. Its edges glowed with slow-burning magic, tendrils curling like smoke.

Grodyl stepped through without pause, vanishing into the glow.

I lingered for half a heartbeat longer, something heavy and unreadable clenching inside my chest. Then I followed.

The portal sealed shut behind me, and Fort Dawnguard faded from view.

As my boots touched the familiar, dry stone floor of the Sanctuary, I had barely taken a breath before a hand clamped around the collar of my cloak and yanked me upward with violent force.

My body lifted off the ground—suspended in the air like prey.

“You little—”

“Arnbjorn!” Grodyl’s voice snapped from the side, sharp and commanding. “Let her down.”

But the werewolf didn’t loosen his grip. His knuckles were white, his muscles tense as if restraining something far more dangerous than rage.

“What have you done?” Arnbjorn growled, his voice low and raw with fury.

Pain shot through my neck and spine, the pressure of his hold making it hard to breathe. His deep blue eyes—usually cool with cynicism—were ablaze, wild with something unrecognizable.

I had seen Arnbjorn angry before. But this? This wasn’t anger. This was fury born of betrayal.

And he looked at me like I had set fire to the Brotherhood with my bare hands.

My eyes darted around, desperate for something to hold onto—but it wasn’t the Sanctuary hall I stood in. No, this was her chamber. Astrid lay motionless upon her bed, her body half-swallowed by shadow. Gabriel sat at her side, his expression hollow, his eyes unreadable.

There was no one else, only Grodyl, Arnbjorn-

“You heard him,” Amon’s voice cut through the thick air, sharp and quiet like a blade sliding into flesh. “Let her down, wolf.”

It wasn’t a request. There was something primal under his words, a tremor in the air—a low growl buried in ice.

But Arnbjorn didn’t budge. His hand only tightened around my collar, claws nearly tearing through the fabric as he held me suspended like a rag doll. His eyes locked onto mine, and in them I saw something deeper than rage.

He bared his teeth, eyes blazing. “You’ve always been like this,” he spat. “Reckless, stubborn—don’t give a damn who you drag down with you.”

My neck ached, spine screaming from the angle, but he wasn’t done.

“You want to die, been walkin’ that line since I met you.” He shook me hard, like trying to knock sense into a ghost. “But you don’t ever think about the consequences, do you?”

My mind went silent. Still. The world blurred as his words sank in, slower than pain, deeper than shame.

The consequences.

A whisper coiled through the hollow of my chest.

“We are one.”

 

To be continued…

Chapter 50: Chapter 50

 

Shame cascaded over me like a flood, heavy and all-consuming. But it wasn’t just shame, it was guilt. So raw and blistering it felt like it might tear me apart from the inside out.

The question wouldn’t stop echoing through my mind, relentless and damning:

How could I have been so reckless?

I knew the kind of agony my outburst would inflict. And yet, despite that knowledge, I still snapped. I gave in. I surrendered to the fury, and it swallowed me whole. I was weaker than it. Powerless against the tempest within me.

My gaze drifted to Arnbjorn. His eyes wide, frantic—were locked not on me, but on Astrid. There was fear there, yes, but not for himself. Not even for me. His terror was for her. For the woman who now lay so deathly still on the bloodstained sheets.

But even he… even the beast within him knew restraint.

He didn’t lunge for my throat. He didn’t sink those claws, dripping with the promise of pain, into my skin. Not because he pitied me—he never would—but because of Astrid. Because of the pale, broken figure sprawled across the bed like a shattered relic of what she once was.

The wounds that had ravaged my own body had vanished, erased by Serana’s touch, like a dream peeled away by morning light. But hers?

Were they still there? Still carving their wicked path through her flesh like they had through mine? Was her skin still screaming from the memory of my rage?

“I said, let go!” Amon’s voice cracked like a whip through the tense air.

His tone was sharp, commanding, but he held back. He didn’t move toward Arnbjorn—not a single step. Not because he feared him, but because he knew any sudden motion could ignite the werewolf’s fury all over again.

With a shove as sudden as it was violent, Arnbjorn hurled me across the room. My back slammed against the stone wall with a brutal thud, the breath ripping from my lungs as I collapsed onto the cold floorboards.

It hurt. Every bone in my body screamed. But I couldn’t stay down. I wouldn’t. I forced myself to my hands and knees, scrambling upright with a desperate urgency I couldn’t suppress.

“Is she—” I tried to ask.

“No!” Arnbjorn snarled, cutting me off with a guttural growl. “She woke up in the middle of the night, screaming with those cursed wounds!” His voice cracked, fury and anguish mixing into something ragged. “By Sithis, I was shocked.”

He rushed to her side, his every motion frantic, driven. His eyes flicked toward Gabriel, who stood over Astrid, his hands glowing with pale golden light as he desperately pushed restoration magic into her ruined body.

But the damage… the damage was still there.

Slashes bloomed across her ribs like crimson blossoms. Her shoulder twisted, mangled—was torn in the same exact pattern mine had been. Her pain was a mirror of mine. Except hers remained.

“Enough, husband.”

Her voice came soft but steady—clear despite the strain in her body. I rushed to her side the moment I heard her speak, heart pounding. Her eyes found mine, and for a heartbeat, I thought I saw something in them—something I couldn’t quite name. But it was gone too fast. Her gaze turned cold as steel as she shifted it toward Arnbjorn.

Her voice darkened, sharp with command.

“Out. All of you.”

“But, love—”

“Out. Now.”

Astrid’s voice sliced through the tension like a dagger, firm and unyielding, cutting Arnbjorn’s words off before they could take shape. Her tone left no room for argument. Even Gabriel faltered mid-incantation, the soft glow of his healing magic flickering out between his hands.

They exchanged no further protest. Without a word, both men rose, their movements reluctant and heavy with tension. Gabriel walked first, his shoulders tight with unspoken concern. Arnbjorn lingered only a heartbeat longer, casting one final, searching look toward Astrid, but it was met with silence. Then he turned and followed, footsteps dull against the stone.

Only Amon remained at the threshold, still as a statue. His presence lingered, carved in the air like smoke refusing to dissipate. Our eyes locked for one suspended moment, something unspoken passed between us, sharp and unreadable—then at last, he turned and moved after the others, the door closing with a soft but definitive click.

The room was suddenly still.

I lowered myself beside Astrid’s bed, the weight of silence pressing down like snowfall. Her face was pale, expression unreadable. Not agony, not exactly… but blank. Cold. Distant. And yet, beneath that mask, I could see it—faint, buried deep in the stillness, disappointment.

“Dawnguard.” she murmured at last, voice hoarse but controlled as she slowly pushed herself upright, bracing her back against the carved wooden headboard.

“They’re with us.” I answered, voice clipped, each word heavy with everything I was trying not to say. My gaze refused to meet hers, choosing instead to fixate on the dark stains marring her tunic—the blood I had put there.

“Good.” she said, nodding faintly, her head tilting ever so slightly in my direction. There was something in her eyes as she looked at me. A shadow. A flicker. But before she could speak, I drew in a shallow breath and spoke first.

“I should have been more careful.”

“Nonsense.” She waved a dismissive hand through the air, the gesture as soft as falling ash. “Arnbjorn is just… scared.”

Scared. The word rang hollow in my ears.

I swallowed hard, unsure what to make of her calm. She was sitting there, wrapped in sheets soaked with her own blood and yet she offered a serene smile, as if it were all nothing more than a passing storm.

“You did what you had to do.”

But I hadn’t. Not really. I had done more than that.

More than I should have.

I could have moved silently, taken them down without the fury and tearing my own body apart in the process. Without transferring that torment to her.

I could have been smart. Strategic. I could’ve walked away with nothing but bruises. Instead…

“There was a vampire cult,” I began, falling into the measured cadence I used when giving reports, my voice flattening under the weight of control. “They were excavating an ancient vampire.”

She didn’t respond, so I continued, letting the facts spill out in place of the shame still clawing at my chest.

“She knows more than she’s admitting. But Isran… he’ll get answers, eventually.”

A long pause followed.

Then Astrid spoke, her voice low and bitter.

“More wars.” Her hand clenched around the blood-stiffened sheets, knuckles white. “As if we don’t already have enough fires burning.”

I gave a small nod, a silent agreement. The weight of the world was already on our shoulders and now, another burden was added to the pile.

“Astrid…”

Her name trembled on my tongue before I could stop it. I swallowed the weight in my throat and looked up, meeting her faint brown eyes—dull now with exhaustion, but still carrying that flicker of fire she never seemed to lose.

“I saw one.”

Her brow arched, sharp and inquisitive. There was a spark there, curiosity igniting behind her composed expression like dry kindling catching flame.

“A dragon?”

I nodded slowly, the memory creeping over me like a shadow stretching across the earth.

“We don’t stand a chance,” I murmured, my voice barely above a whisper. “Not against something like that. And if there are more—”

“If so,” she interrupted gently, her voice unwavering, “Father will welcome us into his arms.”

I blinked, stunned by the calm that wrapped around her words like silk. Her serenity was jarring in the face of such a monstrous threat.

There were dragons returning from the grave, skies splitting open with fire and wingbeats, ancient gods waking in the bones of the mountains… and yet she spoke of it as though it were a passing storm.

But then she added, firm and resolute:

“Our family will not go down silent. That much, I promise you.”

The conviction in her voice struck something deep in me. I felt my heart stutter, just once, before it resumed its rhythm, faster now, pounding against my ribs like a war drum. The sound echoed in my ears, sending a cold shiver down my spine.

Family.

The word lingered in the air between us like smoke. Not an order, not a title, not a name spoken for strategy or necessity. It was personal. It was a vow.

Without thinking, I asked, “Will you be alright?”

The question escaped before I could catch it, though I already knew the answer. I also knew she would lie.

“I am,” she said, offering a soft smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “Gabriel works wonders. You know that.”

She gestured faintly toward the door where he’d vanished, as if conjuring his presence would make the pain fade faster. But I saw the truth.

The tremor in her hand as it rested on her bloodied tunic. The tightness around her mouth. The way she held her shoulders just so, to hide the pain radiating through her bones.

She was breaking. But Astrid would never admit it. Not when the world was still spinning. Not when the family needed her.

Not when I was watching.

 

---

 

Sleep was elusive—slipping through my fingers like mist, always out of reach. I couldn’t explain why, not exactly. But I didn’t need to.

There were more than enough reasons to lay my head on a pillow and lie there, motionless and haunted, for eternity.

Astrid’s pain was only a sliver of it. A small shard buried deep in the whole.

Perhaps I feared what would come when I closed my eyes, that terrible, burning gaze, those eyes as red and consuming as fire. Crimson. Unrelenting. Or perhaps it was the scream. The scream of the beast—ragged, ancient, echoing through bone and memory.

So instead, I found myself in the armory.

The grindstone sang beneath my hands as I sharpened my blade with mechanical rhythm, the metal whispering against stone while thoughts devoured me from the inside out. Maybe I just needed to do something. Anything. Something more than dodging Arnbjorn’s eyes or enduring Gabriel’s quiet concern.

I felt trapped within a world that was no longer mine.

The night dragged on, sleepless and cold, offering neither comfort nor clarity. When at last I stopped, my shoulders ached from stillness rather than strain. I stepped away from the grindstone and slid the blade into its sheath with a slow, deliberate motion.

Morning must have come by now—though it was hard to tell.

I considered stepping outside, letting the wind slap some feeling back into my skin. But the skies… gods, the skies frightened me more than anything. As if the moment I stepped beneath them, it would descend—the wings, the roar, the fire. It would be waiting.

I tried to shake the thoughts loose. Thoughts of everything that had happened. Thoughts I had buried, only for them to claw back up like restless corpses.

Serana haunted my mind, her face half in shadow. I wondered what she was doing now in that cold, stone fortress surrounded by men who would drain her dry if given the chance. The irony stung.

But it was the thoughts of Amon I kept locked behind steel walls in my mind. That was the door I wouldn’t let open.

The memory of his monstrous strength. His blood-soaked hands. The look in his eyes when they met mine, something ancient and tortured, almost begging.

No.

I wasn’t ready to forgive him. I never would. It didn’t matter how much time passed or how many scars healed over.

I felt sick at the memory of trusting him. Of saving him. Of dancing with him in front of my entire family. As if he belonged there.

I should have killed him when I had the chance.

And yet…

I knew the truth, didn’t I? I wouldn’t have made it out of that crypt without him. Not alive.

Still, the truth offered no solace.

And he was a Brother, foremost.

That was the part that stung the most.

Amon was one of us, accepted by Astrid despite everything. Despite the lies. Despite the poison that followed him like a shadow. She welcomed him with that same calculating mercy she offered all of us: the kind that wasn’t kindness at all. No, he was just another piece on her board. A tool. A sword to be sharpened, wielded, and discarded the moment it dulled.

Just like the rest of us.

I let my feet carry me outside, one slow step at a time. The first rays of sunlight were just beginning to stretch across the land like fingers of gold brushing the earth, pale and cautious. I pulled my hood over my head—silly, maybe—but it felt like a small defense against the endless sky. Against what might be up there. Watching. Waiting.

I didn’t dare lift my eyes.

Instead, I kept them fixed on the dirt path before me. Each stone. Each patch of grass wet with dew. I walked toward Falkreath with the weight of my thoughts pressing down like a second cloak. They came and went, those voices. Whispering, shouting, leaving pieces of me behind each time. Hollowing me out until all that was left was a dull echo I’d grown used to carrying, but never really understood.

The morning mist lay heavy over Falkreath, curling low like breath on a mirror—soft, veiled, and full of ghosts. It drifted between the pines that lined the road like ancient sentinels, their trunks slick with moisture. Dew clung to mossy stones, and the damp scent of pine, wet soil, and distant woodsmoke hung in the still air.

Dawn crept slowly across the horizon, bleeding lavender and gold into the sky above the Jerall Mountains, painting the town in the kind of light that made everything look like memory. The kind of light that didn’t last.

Falkreath’s gate stood ajar, its timbers dark with the last of the frost. The sentries on either side looked as if they hadn’t moved in hours—hooded, silent, their breath rising like spirits in the chill. Behind them, the town stirred.

Wagon wheels groaned against cobblestone, and hooves clacked in the half-light as merchants trickled in, carts burdened with crates of vegetables, bundles of firewood, and bolts of linen wrapped in oilskin. A red-haired woman in a patched cloak adjusted her basket of mountain blossoms and nodded politely to the guards as she passed. On the edge of the square, a hunter led a line of gutted deer into town, their bodies swaying rhythmically on the poles. The scent of blood kissed the air, mingling with pine and bark.

A raven croaked once from a skeletal branch overhead, and a dog barked at something unseen before going quiet again.

Falkreath was small—but beneath the hush of morning, it felt timeless. Like it had always been here. A town half-consumed by the forest, half-asleep, always watching.

I let myself drift through the streets, letting the stillness of life around me offer some illusion of peace. Outside Dead Man’s Drink, the scent of stale mead and cooking fat clung to the porch. Laughter spilled out from within, coarse and weary, and a handful of early drinkers stood outside clutching tankards in gloved hands, their cloaks wrapped tight against the cold. Some lounged against the support beams, eyes heavy with sleep, while others blinked blearily toward the market square as it slowly woke.

Then I saw him.

A boy—no older than thirteen—darting up the street toward me with hurried, reckless steps. I thought nothing of it. He was likely heading home, maybe to fetch bread, or to sit down to a warm breakfast prepared by a mother who didn’t know what hunted the skies. A family whose life still pretended to be ordinary.

But he collided with me.

His shoulder brushed mine and he slipped something beneath my arm with surprising precision. I froze. My body tensed before my mind could catch up.

“I’ve been waiting forever to give you this!” he blurted out, wide-eyed with excitement, as if he had just delivered the most critical message in all of Tamriel.

And then he was gone. Darting off between buildings, disappearing down a side alley without so much as another glance.

I stood still for a moment, stunned, uncertain.

A note? For me?

I turned quickly down a narrow lane, wedging myself between two wooden houses whose beams leaned together like old friends. The space was shadowed, quiet. Private. I pressed my back to the damp timber and unfolded the small parchment with careful fingers.

My breath caught.

 

“Niolenyl,

I do not know when these words will reach you. I only hope they are not too late.

Time has grown peculiar since I last saw you. It no longer flows, mostly lingers. As though the world itself has paused in your wake, reluctant to move forward without you.

It offers me a quiet comfort to believe the 7th of the coming month might reunite us, should you choose to follow the course I laid out. I will not assume your answer. Only that, if your feet carry you to that place, I will be there. Waiting, without question or impatience, as I said I would be. At the very place where this message found you.

P.S. I hope the dictionary continues to delight. Your taste remains impeccable, equal parts wit and wonder.

 

Yours, truly.

O. ”

 

To be continued…

 

Chapter 51: Chapter 51

 

The paper trembled in my hand, though I knew, with grim certainty, that it was not the parchment that quaked, but me. My fingers, traitorous and unsteady, curled tighter around the delicate script inked in the most elegant handwriting I had ever seen.

O.

Ondolemar.

The initial alone was enough to ignite something deep within my chest—a bloom of heat and dread and something cruelly tender. My heart lurched against my ribs, too fast, too loud. The name struck like a spark to dry tinder. I could see him in an instant: the candlelit dinner, the tears, the dagger ever strapped to my thigh.

With sudden urgency, I folded the letter and tucked it away into a hidden pocket of my leathers, burying it beneath the weight of steel and obligation—as if concealment could quiet the storm it had stirred within me.

The Embassy. The party. It was approaching faster than we’d allowed ourselves to admit.

Astrid and I had spoken of the plan in brief, when our minds weren’t consumed by blood or war or wounds that refused to close. But since then, the matter had faded beneath the weight of other tragedies. Now, it loomed undeniable and near.

I turned, scanning the street in search of the boy who had slipped me the note. His voice still echoed faintly in my mind, full of eagerness and triumph. But he had vanished, as if swallowed by the mist.

Of course.

Ondolemar had known the letter would reach me. He had known when, and where, and how. He always knew more than he should. But then again, he was Thalmor. I could expect nothing less.

And yet…

There was something more than strategy laced between those lines. A softness dressed in formality. Precision masking something far more dangerous.

 

---

I stood before the mirror that claimed an entire wall of my room, a monolith of glass dragged in by two grumbling Brothers days ago who had cursed Astrid’s name with every heaving step. I hadn’t blamed them. The request had been excessive. Absurd, even. But Astrid had insisted, as she always did, and now the mirror bore witness to my suffering.

The corset wrapped around my waist like iron vines, cinched so tightly I could barely draw breath. Each inhale was a shallow theft, each exhale a silent plea. My shoulders ached from the stillness I was forced to hold, my spine locked in place by silk and expectation.

Astrid sat behind me, poised like a queen upon the edge of my bed, her legs crossed elegantly at the knee. In her hand, a wine chalice swirled lazily, red as blood and twice as cruel. Her gaze met mine in the mirror—a sharp smirk playing at her lips, as if my discomfort were the punchline to her private joke.

Gabriella and Fennori flitted around me, arms draped in bolts of radiant silk—brighter than sunlight, smoother than frost. Their hands worked quickly but without tenderness, their long fingers fastening fabric and stabbing pins with more relish than precision. It wasn’t lost on me how often their nails found skin.

Insufferable. Degrading.

All because I had dared to tell Astrid about the letter.

After reading it, she had wasted no time. “We follow Ondolemar’s plan,” she said, as if there were no other path. Suddenly, she trusted the Thalmor more than her instincts. Perhaps she thought this way was safer. Quieter. Perhaps she thought I was safer playing the part of a guest than a blade in the dark. For herself, or for me—I wasn’t sure.

But she made one thing certain: no combat. Under any circumstance.

A laughable command.

“Hold it up—just like that.” Gabriella muttered, nodding at Fen, who was clearly enjoying this more than she let on.

Another pin jabbed my side.

“Ouch!” I hissed, jerking instinctively.

“Stand still, Niolenyl,” Gabriella snapped, not looking up. “Or we’ll never finish this damned dress.”

“I am trying—”

A knock at the door froze us all in place. The fabric stilled. Astrid looked up from her wine.

Fen stepped toward the door, brushing her palms off on her skirts before pulling it open. From where I stood, I couldn’t see who it was, but I didn’t need to.

The voice was unmistakable.

“Hey, um—”

“Yes?” Fen’s tone was a sharpened edge.

“I know you’re—”

“What do you want?”

Amon.

His name wasn’t spoken, but it echoed through my spine just the same. His voice threaded through the room like smoke—familiar, dangerous, unwanted.

He had no place here, not among silk and lacquered smiles. Not in this fragile illusion of civility and porcelain masks. Yet still, he came.

“Listener sent me.”

Astrid exhaled a long-suffering sigh, the kind that carried boredom sharpened to a blade. “Really?”

“May I—” Amon began.

“You may not.” Fen interjected sharply, stepping fully into the doorway before his eyes could search the room. She was a wall of indifference, chin tilted high, and from the dryness in her tone, I could almost see the frown forming between his brows.

Amusing.

“Well,” he murmured, voice muffled but persistent, “He said there should be an addition to the mission.”

“Not you again, I hope.” I muttered under my breath, unable to resist. Gabriella snorted softly behind me before smothering the sound behind her hand.

Astrid didn’t hide her curiosity this time. One elbow propped on her knee, she leaned her cheek lazily against her palm. “What kind of addition?”

“This—”

“What even is that?” Fen snapped, unimpressed, her arms crossed and her tone brimming with disdain.

I didn’t turn toward the door, though I was curious now. More than curious. Something about Amon’s tone—it wasn’t his usual arrogance. There was a note of urgency there. Precision.

“Some coal dye,” he explained, “The kind used for leatherworking.”

“I’m not dyeing this dress black—” Gabriella began, aghast.

“It’s not for the dress.” Amon’s voice cut clean through the room, quiet but final. Gabriella halted, her lips still parted, then slowly crossed her arms and turned toward the doorway with narrowed eyes.

“It’s for her hair,” Amon added. “Nazir says it’s necessary if she’s to remain unnoticed. For her safety.”

The room stilled.

A sudden silence fell over all of us, not the kind born from shock but from understanding. The plan was no longer a theory, no longer a game of gowns and pins and laced-up waists. It was real.

“Well,” Fen murmured as I heard the faint shuffle of cloth and glass, “you’ve made your delivery. Farewell.”

“Wait—”

The door slammed shut in his face, the impact echoing through the room like a bell struck off-tempo. The wall vibrated faintly, and so did the tall mirror before me, its surface trembling just enough to fracture my reflection.

Astrid exhaled through her nose, swirling the wine in her chalice before taking a measured sip. “Nazir has a point,” she said, voice low and cool. “We can’t afford mistakes. Not this time.”

Fen and Gabriella both gave curt nods. Silent agreement. No argument left to offer.

I turned slowly to face them. Fen held the dye bottle like a weapon as its surface shimmered unnaturally, absorbing light, blacker than ink or shadow. It gleamed with purpose, heavy with finality. A thing not meant to decorate, but to erase.

My gaze drifted back to the mirror. To the cascade of pale hair that spilled over my shoulders, the color of bone and winter frost—the shade that earned me the name. The name they whispered, tracked, hunted.

My identity.

A thousand thoughts surged beneath my ribs like wolves clawing to be free. It wasn’t the dye that troubled me. It wasn’t the mission, or even the corset biting into my sides.

It was the trust.

Because beneath Nazir’s order, I saw the truth: Ondolemar wasn’t to be trusted with me.

He was a Thalmor.

And if things went wrong, if the veil slipped for even a moment, it would not be the dress they recognized.

It would be me.

The Ashenblade. The name that still echoed through wanted posters, whispered through both the Dominion and the Empire like a ghost they could never catch.

And if that name resurfaced now… not even Ondolemar could save me.

Not even if he tried.

After the fitting, an agonizing hour of pins, silk, and too-tight stitching — it was Fen who helped with the dye.

Each winter-white strand of my hair, each thread that once whispered of snow and silence, was slowly drowned in a cold, consuming black. What shimmered once like frost now clung to me like soot. The dye seeped into my scalp and my breath, bitter and cloying, making my stomach churn as if I were being unmade from the outside in.

I refused to watch it happen. Not because of vanity but because the transformation felt like a severing. As if every stroke of Fen’s hand over my hair was peeling away something essential, something I wasn’t ready to let go of. These strands were more than hair; they were memory, legacy.

When I finally lifted my gaze to the glass of the mirror, I saw her — the reflection that stared back.

Not her , exactly.

Someone else. Drenched in shadows darker than anything I had worn before. Stripped of the brightness that once set me apart.

Altered.

Though it was only my hair that had changed, I looked like someone else. Someone who could not be traced. Someone who could not be the Ashenblade.

At least — not to their eyes.

“What do you think?” she asked, a bright smile blooming across her face, her eyes lit with mischief and something gentler beneath.

I hesitated. “Good, I guess?”

She gave a pleased hum and pulled me closer by the arm, standing beside me in front of the mirror.

“We look much more alike now. Like real sisters.”

She was right.

Our hair, now the same shade of deep obsidian, reflected the candlelight in matching glints. In the mirror, our resemblance was uncanny — not just in appearance, but in posture, in the way we stood together as if shaped by the same world, by the same wounds.

I looked at her — at the glint of pride in her eyes, the slight curl of her lips, the fierce protectiveness she tried to hide.

Then I said it, softly.

“We are real sisters.”

 

To be continued…

Chapter 52: Chapter 52

“Breathe in.”

I drew a sharp breath, tightening my abdomen as Gabriella yanked the corset strings with a determination that bordered on violence. The silk groaned under the strain, pressing into my ribs like a steel trap designed not just to sculpt—but to suffocate.

“Perfect.” Astrid murmured.

She stood beside me with her arms folded, her gaze hard and surgical as it cut through my reflection in the mirror. She was measuring, calculating. Dissecting every inch of the image before her, not just how I looked, but what I became in that moment.

The dress was… impossible.

White silk poured like moonlight over my skin, threaded with golden embroidery that shimmered like starlight from the high collar down to the sweeping train. The fabric hugged my arms and waist like a second skin, then flared loose at the wrists with ethereal elegance. It was opulence sewn into shape—soft, cruel, and immaculate.

But my eyes didn’t linger on the goldwork or the silk.

They found my hair instead.

Dark and braided in the Altmer fashion, strands woven intricately and pinned back, some draped over my shoulders, others caught in a small knot at the nape of my neck. It framed my face not like armor but a crown. Regal, controlled, and far too delicate for the hands that had taken so many lives.

I inhaled again, trying to ignore the pressure squeezing against my lungs. Each breath came shallow. Restrained. I wondered half bitter, half bemused if I could endure the night like this without cracking.

Then I shifted my weight.

There. The weight on my thigh.

A blade slim, sharp, and kissed with poison rested against my skin beneath the folds of silk. My only comfort in this cage of gold. It grounded me, faintly. A whisper of my true self beneath the illusion.

I turned my head toward Astrid, the edge of a smirk ghosting across my lips.

“You enjoy this far too much.”

Her smile was lazy and wicked. “Seeing you in a dress? Nazir’s going to regret staying behind.”

My brow knit. Nazir… I could already hear the laugh in his voice. He always imagined me like this, wrapped in silk, dangerous beneath it.

“Done.” Gabriella announced, tying the final knot like a death sentence before stepping away, leaving me to bear the burden alone.

Astrid nodded once, satisfied, and met my eyes through the mirror.

“Then you’re ready.”

Was I?

Every movement felt like wading through water. Heavy. Restrained. Controlled. I gave a final glance at the figure staring back at me, a stranger clothed in finery and masks.

No… not a stranger.

A version of me.

The one they needed tonight.

And that was the point, wasn’t it?

We moved down the hall in silence, my footsteps hushed against the stone. I prayed for the corridor to be empty—no eyes, no questions, no judgment. I looked ridiculous here. Out of place. Not myself. My gaze stayed locked on the floor, each step dragging me closer to the looming black door at the corridor’s end.

“By Sithis!”

Fen slipped her arm through mine, her voice a gleeful whisper that still somehow echoed like thunder. “ You don’t even look real , Nio!”

I winced.

Heads turned.

I shut my eyes tight and angled my face downward, trying to will myself invisible.

Please… don’t.

“I should come with you to Falkreath.” she added quickly, eager and naive.

“No.” I didn’t miss a beat. My steps didn’t falter.

“It’s too risky.”

“Why not?” Her pout was audible even without looking head tilted, brows furrowed, lips forming that same stubborn curve.

I sighed. “The Thalmor will be there. None of the Family can be seen with me. I’m the only one risking anything, remember?”

“That’s true.” Astrid said from behind, her voice cool and resolute as ever. Still walking, still watching.

When we reached the door, I stopped. Fen lingered at my side, her features tight with worry, her fingers curled slightly toward me as if resisting the urge to hold me back.

“I’ll be fine.” I said gently, though the weight in my chest said otherwise.

“But promise to tell me everything that happens there!” Fen begged, reaching for levity. “Every silly little detail—what they wore, what they said—”

“Enough, Fennori.” Astrid’s voice was a blade, clean and final. “Stick to the plan. No bloodshed.”

“Not even a drop.” Gabriella echoed, arms crossed, her gaze unwavering. She was too enamored with her own creation, her art wrapped around me in silk and gold.

I gave them all a single nod. No promises. Just a silent vow.

Then I turned to the door.

It opened with a low groan, releasing a rush of cold afternoon air that filled my lungs like frost.

I didn’t look back, though I could feel their eyes pressed to my spine, worried, watching.

Falkreath rose through the mist like a half-remembered dream—wooden walls slick with rain, ancient pine pressing in from every side. The path narrowed as I neared the gate, the fog curling around my ankles and the hem of my gown, trying to drag me back into the trees. Maybe I should have let it.

Each step felt heavier than the last, the silk gown swishing softly with every movement. Gold embroidery caught what little light broke through the clouds, glittering faintly with each breath of wind. I looked like something summoned, an apparition draped in white and gold. Not a killer. Not the girl who buried blades in throats and vanished before the blood hit the floor.

But the blade was still there, pressed cold against my thigh beneath the silk, kissed in poison, silent and patient. Just like me.

When the city gates finally came into view, I slowed, straightened, and exhaled through my nose. Two guards leaned near the threshold, exchanging idle words until one caught sight of me. He stiffened. The other followed his gaze, and both fell quiet.

Their eyes swept over me, from the tight bodice to the glint of metal woven in gold, to the calm stillness I held like a shield. I didn’t avert my gaze. Didn’t smile. I let the silence stretch between us like a drawn bowstring.

They didn’t ask questions.

The gate opened with a slow, uneasy groan.

And I stepped through it.

As my steps carried me toward the place where the note had first found me—just as Ondolemar instructed—I felt it.

A hand.

Sliding around my waist, slow and certain. Possessive.

Before I could react, the figure beside me matched my pace, steering me forward with the ease of someone who had already claimed the moment. The silk of my dress shifted against his arm, too tight to let me twist away. My breath caught in my throat.

I looked up.

A hood veiled most of his face, but not his eyes.

Crimson wrapped in ice.

“What are you—”

“You really thought you could wander through Falkreath looking like this,” he murmured against my ear, his voice rich and indulgent, like honey poured over a blade. “and not expect the monsters to follow?”

The sound of his voice slipped beneath my skin, smooth and deliberate. My heart stuttered, and I tried to pull away—but the corset held tight, and his grip didn’t falter.

“Let go.” I breathed, careful not to draw attention.

A soft, wicked chuckle hummed from his chest.

“Careful,” Amon whispered, lips ghosting along my jawline, “you’re making it very hard to behave.”

My pulse roared in my ears, caught between fury and something far more dangerous.

Then he added, low and amused, “Has anyone ever told you… black doesn’t just suit you. It obeys you.”

My heart kicked violently against the cage of the corset, as if trying to claw its way free. The silk that once felt regal now stuck to my skin like a trap, every breath a struggle under its weight. I hated how my body responded to his touch, like it remembered something I had worked so hard to forget.

I hated him.

Didn’t I?

Then why was my breath shaking?

And then I saw him.

Ondolemar.

Standing just beyond the crowd, beneath the shadow of a towering stone arch at Falkreath’s square, framed by the soft gold wash of the late afternoon sun like some painted figure from a lost era.

It was the suit that struck me first.

Dark slate-grey velvet, cut to perfection and tailored with the kind of precision that whispered of wealth, power and restraint. Every line of the jacket curved with intent, cinched slightly at the waist, then flaring just subtly over his hips. The high collar stood crisp against his neck, edged in quiet gold embroidery that shimmered when he moved.

His gloves were black leather, elegant and soft-looking but fitted too well, like second skin over a killer’s hands. His silver hair had been brushed back, every strand in place, gleaming faintly beneath the hood of the polished cloak draped over one shoulder.

His eyes a deep, unforgiving gold swept the street in measured rhythm, and when they found me, I forgot to breathe altogether.

That look.

Like he already knew everything I was thinking.

It wasn’t the stare of a man who wanted me.

It was the stare of a man who couldn’t look away.

He took me in from head to toe slowly, unhurried, as though every inch of me deserved to be seen twice. There was no smirk, no crude hunger. Only a quiet, astonished silence behind his golden gaze. Something I hadn’t expected to find there.

Respect.

Something shifted in the air between us, and I forgot how tight the corset was.

Then his attention finally flicked to Amon. “I don’t recall your presence being requested,” Ondolemar said, his tone smooth and precise, like a blade drawn without haste. “Nor required.”

Amon let out a low chuckle, rough and deliberate. “That’s the thing about me,” he said, voice dragging with something heavier than amusement. “I don’t wait for invitations.”

Ondolemar didn’t flinch, didn’t blink. His gaze passed over Amon like frost. “No. You simply arrive, unwanted and uninvited. A habit, it seems.”

Amon’s grin widened, crooked and self-assured. His eyes settled on me. “She may walk in beside you,” he said, each word a quiet claim, “but she walks out with me.”

My heart thudded hard, like my chest was too small for it. His words weren’t pleading—they were a promise. A threat. A memory.

I looked up at him and then at Ondolemar, who stood untouched by the drama, his composure its own kind of challenge. His eyes narrowed slightly not in anger, but in thought. He didn’t reply to Amon. He simply looked at me again, his gaze quieter now, as if trying to read what I wanted rather than what was expected.

Then, with deliberate grace, he extended his hand.

“Shall we, Niolenyl?” he asked, my name smooth and formal on his tongue.

Offered. Not taken.

Behind me, Amon leaned in—close enough that his breath grazed the curve of my jaw, unwelcome and warm.

“Go on,” he murmured, voice a low flame barely held in check. “Play the noble’s game for a night. Then come back to where you belong. Like you always do.”

My hand hovered between them.

Duty on one side, dressed in elegance and promise. The past on the other, ragged, burning, and all too alive.

Ondolemar waited with the patience of a man who believed in order, in purpose. In me, perhaps. Not in the way Amon did, but maybe in the way I needed.

Amon wouldn’t wait. He never waited. He invaded my space, my thoughts, my damn heart.

Always uninvited. Always inevitable.

My chest tightened. No, cracked. Right down the center, like a split in ancient stone weathered by silence, not time. I wanted to scream. To run. Or to end it all here, before it twisted into something I couldn’t unravel.

I took Ondolemar’s hand.

But as my fingers curled into his, I felt it, the shift in the air behind me.

I turned, breath caught.

Amon was already gone.

Only a curl of black mist drifted where he’d stood, swallowed by the wind like a half-forgotten dream, or a threat never spoken aloud.

“Our carriage waits just beyond the gates,” Ondolemar said, his voice smooth as ever, like silk drawn through still water. “Walk with me.”

I nodded, slipping into his stride, my hand still resting in his. Each step felt deliberate—his pace calm, mine quieter still.

But inside, my heart was a war drum refusing to quiet, echoing with footsteps that had already vanished into mist.

“You look…” His voice trailed for a breath, not out of hesitation, but precision as if seeking the exact phrase that would do justice to what stood before him.

His golden eyes rose, tracing the slope of my hair, the unfamiliar color of the braids.

Then, down again, to where my gaze waited unreadable.

“Changed,” he said finally. Then, with a subtle incline of his head, “But no less radiant for it.”

I wanted my heart to stop right there. Just for a moment. Just long enough to feel nothing but the warmth in his eyes.

The soft flame behind that golden gaze steadied me, even as my steps continued forward, even as the too-tight corset forced the blush to rise in my cheeks.

“The Brotherhood wanted to ensure my cover.” I murmured, trying to focus on my words and not the sound of our joined footsteps.

“As they should,” he replied, his voice calm, composed. A silver strand slipped forward, grazing his cheek as he inclined his head.

“You are… well-guarded. Fiercely so, it seems.”

His gaze flickered just past my shoulder—brief, deliberate—then returned to mine.

“The Initiate is just—”

“Don’t.” His hand tightened gently around mine not to claim, but to anchor.

“Let tonight be about your presence, Niolenyl,” he said, softer now. “Before it all turns red and the night forgets how to be gentle.”

Gentle.

A word I didn’t realize I’d missed until it left his lips.

I drew a breath, or tried to, within the prison of the corset. My lungs fought the fabric as much as my mind fought the chaos threatening to rise beneath my ribs.

Ondolemar’s hand remained steady around mine. He didn’t grip, didn’t clutch, he offered. A quiet anchor in the storm.

His gaze didn’t demand. It didn’t possess. It simply… remained.

And I found myself holding onto it like a ledge.

Behind us, the cold shadow of another name tried to claw its way back into my thoughts—feral, unrelenting—but I shut the door on it.

I couldn’t let him in. Not tonight.

Not when everything depended on clarity.

Duty demanded my focus.

Only duty?

I wasn’t sure anymore.

I kept my gaze forward, avoiding Ondolemar’s entirely. His hand in mine was steady, almost tender, but the memory burned beneath my skin—of a different night, a darker one. Of him holding me not in gold and grace, but in pain. Of the potion that set fire to my veins and the torture that followed.

No amount of silk or soft words could unwrite that night.

And yet… that version of him had never returned.

Since then, he had been gently relentless. Soft in his speech, thoughtful in his distance. Even his letter had a way of unsettling me, not through threats, but through the trembling weight of sincerity.

As we stepped through the gates of Falkreath, I saw it.

The carriage.

Drawn by two pristine white steeds, their manes braided in gold thread, their armor glinting with the unmistakable emblems of the Thalmor. The carriage itself was a masterpiece of gilded craftsmanship, its dark wood inlaid with swirling gold patterns, polished until it mirrored the waning light.

My stomach twisted.

Each step felt heavier than the last, the weight of history pressing into my spine. I faltered.

Ondolemar stopped—slowly, gracefully—and turned toward me, not in question, but in silent offering. A request that I look at him, and only him.

So I did.

From the fold of his coat, he drew a small pin delicately, with reverence. It caught the dying light as he held it up between us. A piece of goldwork, fine and intricate, but what stole my breath was the gem at its center: a single ruby, deep and dark, like a drop of still blood captured in glass.

It swallowed the gold around it, anchoring all that shine in shadow.

A quiet acknowledgment.

Not of the person I was trying to be tonight but of the one I truly was beneath the silk. A killer, yes. But more than that: someone who had survived.

Red, like the blood I had spilled. Red, like the blood yet to come.

A tribute, not a chain. An unspoken gesture of respect.

For who I was.

For where I came from.

“May I?” His voice was soft like a thread tugging my gaze to his.

My mind flickered back to the last time he’d asked that. When his hand had slid across my thigh to strap a dagger against my skin. The way his touch had lingered.

I flinched—quietly, inwardly. But I nodded all the same.

He stepped forward, and the space between us thinned. His hand reached up, threading carefully into the back of my hair. Each strand trembled under the weight of his fingers as he nestled the golden pin into my bun. His touch was delicate, deliberate, and far gentler than I remembered him capable of being.

Why does that unsettle me more?

When he stepped back, his hand found mine once more. A smile tugged faintly at his lips as we resumed our walk toward the carriage. And somehow, the knot around my chest eased. Just a little.

“Help the lady into the carriage.”

“At once, Justiciar.” One of the guards moved swiftly, his elven armor barely whispering as he offered his hand to me.

I took it, stepping up into the carriage.

Inside, I was surprised. It wasn’t suffocating.

Quite the opposite.

The air was cool, scented faintly of cedar and something sweet beneath it, like night-blooming flowers. The cushions were a lavish sea of softness, silk-lined and more yielding than any pillow I’d ever rested my head on. Gold filigree twisted through the dark wood of the carriage interior, curling like ivy along the edges of the open window where a quiet breeze slipped in.

Refined. Elegant. A gilded cage.

And yet… I didn’t hate it.

Not yet.

He climbed the steps behind me, settling into the seat across from mine and somehow, the space shrank the moment the drapes fell shut. As the world outside was muffled into silence, I felt its weight settle over my shoulders, heavier than before.

How long would the ride be?

I knew the way to the Embassy. I’d walked it once with blood on my hands and a contract in my pocket. But now, my thoughts dragged like my breath, slow, reluctant, unwilling to move forward.

Ondolemar’s gaze lingered on me. First at my eyes, then lower to where silk dipped across my collarbones. I turned my head sharply to the window. I couldn’t watch him watch me. Not again.

It was a struggle not to trace him in return.

When the carriage finally stirred to life beneath us, I realized I’d been holding my breath.

The cold air that seeped through the windows touched the back of my neck and drew a quiet shiver from me.

“Not a fan of the cold, are you?”

His voice was soft, almost indulgent. I tilted my head without turning toward him.

“I’m from Solstheim,” I replied, still gazing into the dusk. “Cold doesn’t bother me.”

There was a pause a silence that listened before I added, with a faint huff of breath:

“Though… not when I’m in silk.”

I glanced at him then, catching the flicker of quiet amusement in his eyes at my unexpected honesty. It passed quickly, dimming like a candle bracing for wind.

“Did you ever go back home?” he asked.

The question was quiet. Measured. But it still struck like a blade.

My blood didn’t chill from the cold this time.

It was from the truth.

“The Brotherhood is my home.”

The words were smooth. Honest. Cruel.

But they didn’t shake when they left my tongue.

The Brotherhood is my home.

But as the carriage wheels turned and the forest thinned around Falkreath, I felt them splinter inside me.

Because it wasn’t true. Not completely.

It was just the only place I had left.

My real home had smelled of moss after rain. Of sun-warmed bark and flowering rot. The trees in Solstheim had whispered to one another when the wind passed through them, and I used to swear I could understand them as if they spoke in the same voice my mother did when she sang to the moons at night.

I remembered soft deerhide beneath my bare feet. The sound of insect wings. Bark-etched talismans tied around my neck with woven vine. We were poor, but the kind of poor that still knew peace.

Still knew joy.

My father used to carve arrows from fallen branches, and I would help my mother braid feathers into her hair before hunts. I was always the quiet one.

Until the day the forest lost me.

And I never returned.

I told myself it was gone. That whatever grove or glade I came from had vanished along my kin. But the truth? The truth was worse.

It was still there. Still growing. Still breathing.

But it had gone on without me.

I wasn’t part of it anymore.

I wasn’t of it anymore.

Now I wore silk. Now I sat in golden cages and called them missions. Now I killed with blades that had no roots.

Ondolemar sat across from me like a painting. Composed. Polished. Still. And I let him look at me, let him believe I was whatever I appeared to be in this moment.

But I wasn’t.

I was the forest girl still. Somewhere.

Underneath.

The one who once spoke to trees.

The one who no longer remembered how.

 

To be continued…

Chapter 53: Chapter 53

The first glimmers of the Embassy broke through the treeline like a wound of light on the horizon. Even from a distance, it shone too brightly, its walls catching the last breath of evening sun and throwing it back in glints of polished marble and burnished gold. My spine went rigid. The plush velvet cushions beneath me, once a quiet comfort, suddenly felt foreign and suffocating. They gave too easily beneath my weight, like something trying to lull me into false ease.

I shifted, pressing my fingers into the carved wood of the carriage’s edge. My breath sat too high in my chest, unsteady. The closer we came, the less air there seemed to be.

Ondolemar sat across me, silent, unmoving. He hadn’t spoken once since we’d left Falkreath. Yet his golden eyes remained fixed on me, not intrusively, not demanding but like an anchor cast in still waters. His gaze never wavered. It was maddening. Comforting. Too much.

Ahead, the Embassy rose from the landscape like a temple built to pride itself, tall and cold, a monument of elven elegance and hubris. Its walls were carved from white-veined marble, polished so finely they mirrored the twilight sky. Every edge gleamed with delicate gold inlay, curling around corners and archways in serpentine patterns. The grand gates stood half-open, forged from darkened brass and shaped into the forms of twin dragons coiled in mirrored judgment.

Manicured gardens unfolded before the structure, stretched wide like an offering bowl beneath the gods. Rows of hedges clipped into unnatural perfection flanked the stone path, interspersed with marble statues—heroes and kings frozen mid-glory, their blank eyes watching the carriage approach. Every flowerbed bloomed in tight, deliberate arrangements, their beauty too sterile to be alive. It was all exquisite. And wrong.

It smelled faintly of lavender and wax. Clean. Too clean. Like Clamcora. The memory rose unbidden, gilded halls that whispered lies behind every smile, where nothing bloomed unless ordered to, and where love and cruelty wore the same perfume.

Then, a touch.

His hand settled gently on my knee, and though it held no force, it sent a jolt through me. I turned to him sharply, breath caught halfway.

Ondolemar leaned forward just slightly, his voice soft, low, and unshakably calm.

“Breathe,” he said, as if the storm inside me were something he could steady with a word.

His fingers didn’t tighten, but they stayed—firm, real, grounding.

“I’m here,” he murmured, firmer now, his fingers pressing gently. “Whatever happens in there… you don’t face it alone. Not anymore.”

I looked into his eyes, searching for pity, for the distance I was used to seeing in the faces of those who didn’t know what to do with the weight I carried. But there was none of that. Only warmth. Only presence. The kind of gaze that didn’t look at you but into you. It unnerved me. It steadied me.

Y’ffre help me, it mattered.

I nodded. A shallow, faltering thing but it was all I could manage without my voice cracking under the weight of it.

The carriage slowed, then rolled to a stop with the gentle creak of wood and metal. The gate had fully parted now, opening into the Embassy’s grand entrance courtyard. Cobblestones fanned out beneath the wheels in intricate spirals, each stone polished until they reflected the garden lanterns above. The flickering light of the lamps caught on gilded trims, casting dancing shadows across the hedges and the flowerbeds and the perfect faceless statues.

Ondolemar stepped down first. The instant his boots touched the ground, he turned and extended his hand to me not out of obligation, but with the same quiet grace he carried into every room, every battle, every silence. There was no command in the gesture. Only invitation.

I took it.

My fingers slid into his palm, and I let him steady me as I descended. I held the hem of my silk gown in my free hand, lifting it away from the gravel with care. The fabric clung to me in the night air, elegant, expensive, utterly useless against the creeping chill. Or maybe it wasn’t the weather. Maybe it was memory, thick and cold and rising from the marble like a fog.

Ondolemar’s hand gave a soft twitch, barely more than a breath against my skin—a question unspoken.

And I answered it in a step.

Together, we crossed the courtyard toward the tall carved doors of the Embassy. They stood ahead like judgment itself, ready to consume me. I had walked through gates like these before, dressed in Thalmor suits, wrapped in protocol, bleeding behind my smile. But this time, I wasn’t walking in alone.

“Justiciar Ondolemar, sir.”

The voice came crisp and formal from the guard stationed at the great arched doorway. He stood tall in polished golden elven armor, its surface catching the lanternlight and scattering it in fractured glimmers across the marble. Intricate glasswork gleamed along his pauldrons, etched in the curling patterns typical of high Thalmor craftsmanship—more ceremonial than practical, meant to impress rather than protect. He held a parchment with the guest list rolled partially open in one gloved hand. His gaze flicked from Ondolemar to me, narrowing slightly with trained scrutiny.

“And the lady?”

Ondolemar didn’t hesitate. “Cylsa.”

The name fell from his lips like a blade sheathed in silk. Smooth. Intentional.

I felt the word strike something deep inside me.

Cylsa.

The name I had given him beneath the cracked bones of the Talos shrine in the stone-walled city, back when I believed he would forget me as easily as I had tried to forget myself. I had made it up on instinct. I hadn’t expected it to last beyond that night.

But he remembered.

My heart stilled. Not from fear. From something quieter, more dangerous.

“Please, go in, sir. My lady.” The guard gave a stiff nod to each of us in turn, stepping aside with the crisp efficiency of someone trained not to ask questions especially not of a Justiciar.

Ondolemar moved first. His steps were measured as he crossed the threshold, and I followed half a pace behind, feeling the world shift around me.

The Embassy I remembered was not this.

It had not been washed in golden light, nor humming with music. There were no soft strings echoing from within, no laughter tucked into corners, no scent of honeyed wine or wildflowers in bloom. That memory was colder, sterner. A place of silent judgment and polished stone floors that rang with the sound of footsteps and nothing more. It had been empty of warmth. Empty of life.

But tonight… it was wearing a mask.

Crystal chandeliers bathed the atrium in soft amber light, refracting through their cut edges like droplets of fire suspended in the air. Velvet drapery in deep indigo cascaded down the walls, and long tables of silver and ivory groaned under the weight of curated decadence, bowls of ripe fruit, gold-flaked pastries, glasses of spiced wine trembling under the hum of conversation. A string quartet played from a raised dais, their melody elegant and eerily restrained, as though even music here had to know its place.

This wasn’t the Embassy I remembered.

And yet, somewhere beneath the gilded illusion, the bones of the truth still remained.

Cold. Watching. Waiting.

Ondolemar’s shoulder brushed mine as we stepped fully into the hall, and I realized I hadn’t exhaled.

“Smile,” Ondolemar murmured near my ear, his breath barely brushing my skin. His voice was low, velvet over steel. “She’s coming.”

I didn’t need to ask who.

The room itself seemed to shift around her as Elenwen approached, each heel of hers clicking on the marble with chilling precision, each step deliberate, as if she were measuring the world beneath her feet and finding it wanting.

She stood tall and untouched by flaw, her posture sculpted by years of command. Draped in silk dyed the color of twilight deep violet edged in silver threads her gown moved like smoke across her frame, clinging to her height with regal cruelty. Her golden hair was swept back in the formal Altmeri knot, not a single strand out of place. She looked as though she had been born of moonlight and high places.

She didn’t wear the room, she commanded it. Every conversation dimmed slightly as she passed. Every glance flickered her way.

“Ondolemar,” she purred, her voice the embodiment of indulgent frost.

She extended her hand, long and pale and adorned with a ring that gleamed like a shard of starlight. Ondolemar, ever composed, bowed his head with a reverence I’d never seen offered to another. He took her hand and brushed his lips against her fingers not enough to linger, just enough to show his fluency in the dance of power.

“What a delightful surprise to see you here tonight.” she said with a curve of her lips that was more weapon than smile.

Her amber gaze then turned to me.

It sliced straight through my ribs.

“And with company.”

A thousand words nested inside that single sentence, none of them friendly.

My throat tightened. I forced the breath to move. I forced myself to move. Every instinct screamed to flinch from her beauty, from her authority, from the gleaming mirage of perfection she wore like armor. I had seen wolves with less hunger in their eyes.

And by Sithis, part of me still wanted to shred that beauty, to tear it off her like spoiled silk and drag her through the cold marble halls until her elegance bled.

But I didn’t.

Instead, I bowed as I had been taught. Precisely as they demanded of one born beneath lesser trees. Graceful. Measured. Obedient.

“Lady Elenwen.” I said, and the words came smoother than I expected, quiet, reverent, even warm.

Her lips curled a breath wider. Almost amused.

The game had begun.

Elenwen’s eyes lingered on me with the kind of gaze that looked past flesh and silk and bone, searching instead for cracks in the lie.

“A Bosmer,” she mused aloud, not bothering to hide the faint note of surprise or the faint edge of distaste. “And not one I’ve seen at court before.”

I met her gaze without trembling, though my pulse beat just beneath the skin like a trapped bird.

“I don’t often step out of the forests, my Lady,” I replied, offering a tempered smile. “The Dominion has many voices, I am but one among the quieter ones.”

Ondolemar stepped forward, not interrupting but curating the moment. His voice came warm, measured, and assured. “She speaks with humility, but not without merit.”

Elenwen’s gaze flicked toward him, curious now. “You know I have no love for surprises, Ondolemar. Especially when they come wrapped in silk and secrets.”

“I would not insult you with secrets,” he said, the smile on his lips courtly but not soft. “Only opportunities. Cylsa is a scholar of the Green Pact from a reclusive enclave near Elden Root.”

She blinked slowly, registering the story with that highborn Altmer calculation. Remote. Hard to verify. But not impossible.

“She was recommended to me,” he continued, “after assisting in the resolution of a sensitive issue involving Dominion artifacts left to rot beneath a forgotten Talos shrine. Her discretion was… exemplary.”

Elenwen’s attention returned to me, her expression unreadable. “Is that so?”

I bowed my head, not too low. Just enough. “Only a servant of order, my Lady. Nothing more.”

Nothing more than blood.

There was a pause. A long, simmering pause. Then—

“Well.” She turned slightly, offering her arm to Ondolemar, though her eyes still lingered on me like a blade unsheathed. “Let us not keep the others waiting. The First Emissary of the Dominion can hardly be fashionably late in her own halls.”

Ondolemar accepted the gesture with the kind of confidence that turned obedience into power. “Of course.”

He stepped between us, not protectively, but purposefully. Like a wall built of gold and quiet fire. As we walked, his arm brushed mine in the faintest contact, grounding me.

Elenwen swept ahead, her attention elsewhere now, her gown whispering secrets behind her like a trailing shadow.

Still, I felt the weight of her watching. Even when she wasn’t. Especially then.

“You held your ground,” Ondolemar murmured as the music and conversation resumed around us. “Beautifully.”

I didn’t speak. But in the corner of my eye, I saw him glance down. That knowing look in his golden gaze again. Like he had wagered something on me, and just won.

The ballroom stretched out before us like a glimmering net, every polished marble tile reflecting swirling gowns and shadowed faces. Laughter rose like perfume, delicate and tainted. The music was crisp, elegant, and cruel in its perfection.

I felt the walls closing in, not physically but in the way poison creeps beneath skin, quiet and invisible.

Ondolemar returned to me moments later, effortless in his grace, a chalice in each hand. His armor caught the light like polished obsidian, and his expression was unreadable save for the faint tilt of amusement at the corner of his mouth.

He offered me one of the silver-rimmed goblets, the crimson liquid within glinting like rubies.

“I can’t,” I murmured under my breath, my fingers curling instinctively away. “You know I can’t.”

“I know,” he said softly, stepping closer. “But you must.”

His voice dropped an octave, threading between the music and my thoughts. “One sip. For me?”

It wasn’t a plea. It wasn’t a command. It was something in between, a weapon of silken tone, dipped in concern and laced with something gentler, something dangerous.

I looked at the goblet again. The scent of the wine rose, floral, spiced, old. Green. My mouth went dry.

Ondolemar leaned in slightly, so that no one could hear but me. “It’s expected. You’re here as a guest… and mine.”

I took the goblet. My hand didn’t shake.

His eyes didn’t leave me as I brought it to my lips. The taste bloomed like heat on my tongue, dark fruit, star anise, something bitter in the bones. I didn’t swallow too fast. Just one measured sip. Enough to wet my lips, enough to be seen.

I exhaled slowly, passing the chalice into my left hand to free my right. My fingers grazed the silk of my skirt, grounding myself.

“What’s the plan?” I asked, my voice barely above the stringed melody drifting from the quartet on the raised dais. My gaze remained fixed on the gilded ballroom, where light and shadow played across the floor like rival dancers. “Because I can’t keep smiling and sipping forever.”

Ondolemar’s golden eyes flicked sideways to me, the edges of his lips curling into that familiar smirk—one that never quite gave away its purpose.

“Acting too hastily will only get us caught mid-act,” he said smoothly, offering a passing noble a nod so polished it felt rehearsed. “We wait until Elenwen has had another sip or two. Wine loosens more than tongues.”

A sigh slipped from between my lips, quieter than the swell of the violins. Gods, I hated waiting.

“And then?” I asked, though I wasn’t sure I wanted to know what came next.

“Then we get her alone,” he said, casually tilting his goblet as if demonstrating nothing more than a toast. “With help, of course.”

Help?

I scanned the room subtly, letting my eyes drift from the golden balconies to the perfume-drenched alcoves. No guards moved unusually. No eyes lingered on us. No slight nods of recognition. Just nobles draped in silk and smugness, talking with mouths full of wine and words they thought mattered.

Help was invisible. Or perhaps watching us now. I didn’t know which was worse.

It was too perfect.

The air smelled of jasmine oil, roasted fig, and something sour beneath it all, false civility. It reminded me, sickeningly, of the feast at the Sanctuary. A colder light here, gold instead of candle-amber, and no laughter, no bickering siblings. Just poised masks and secrets stewing behind every glass.

I hated that too.

But that… that had been home.

This—this was a battlefield in silk and polished marble.

I lowered my goblet, fingers curling around its stem like a weapon I didn’t quite trust.

Ridiculous. I felt ridiculous.

An assassin shouldn’t be attending more balls than a spoiled noble’s daughter. Whether for missions or family ceremonies, it was absurd. I wasn’t made for this. For smiling through cloying perfume, for curtsies and wine-stained teeth, for pretending the weight of a dagger didn’t still sit hidden beneath the pleats of my skirt.

No. I was made for shadow. For silence. For blood drawn quick and clean. Not this charade of civility under golden chandeliers.

And yet—here I was.

A wolf in a velvet cage. Smiling on command.

A laugh, loud, slurred, and entirely out of place crashed through the golden-tuned hum of the ballroom.

“By the Eight,” a voice bellowed, “what vision have I stumbled upon?”

I didn’t have to turn to feel the weight of a Redguard’s gaze—thick and unashamed, crawling over me like wine spilled down silk.

He stumbled slightly as he approached, goblet in one hand, his other already lifting toward mine. “My lady,” he crooned, bowing in a sway more than a motion. “If I die tonight, let it be with the image of your beauty burned into my soul. Would you… would you grant me a dance? Or at the very least—” he hiccuped—“a smile to take with me?”

My spine straightened instinctively. I opened my mouth, but I felt the air shift beside me.

Ondolemar stepped forward, not quickly, but with a calm that chilled the air more effectively than frost magic. His golden eyes softened, lips curving into that diplomat’s smile he wore like armor. He reached out, gently adjusting the lapel of the Redguard’s doublet like one might fix a child’s collar.

“My good Razelan,” Ondolemar said, his voice a velvet ribbon laced with steel, “if beauty unmoored you so completely, I fear what a dance might do. We’d have to scrape your remains from the floor.”

Razelan blinked, confused. He laughed, uncertain whether it was a joke or a warning.

Ondolemar’s smile didn’t move, but his eyes sharpened.

“This is Lady Cylsa,” he added, “my guest. And I am rather possessive of my dances tonight.”

Razelan stared a second too long, until Ondolemar tilted his head just enough to make it a threat.

The noble chuckled nervously and stepped back with an exaggerated bow. “A thousand pardons, Justiciar. Lady Cylsa.” He turned, almost colliding with a servant bearing wine.

As soon as he was gone, Ondolemar turned his face toward mine, his voice low.

“You attract the stars, it seems,” he murmured. “Even the falling ones.”

“Stop.” I murmured, the word slipping past my lips before I could tame the shake beneath it. The weight of the moment still clung to my shoulders like a too-heavy shawl, Razelan’s gaze, the glimmering eyes across the room, the endless need to play a role.

The wine met my lips again before I could think better of it, just a sip, bitter and spiced, burning softer than I remembered. Just enough to steady my breath. Just enough to remember who I was pretending to be.

“Oh, but I won’t.” Ondolemar said, his voice low—barely louder than the sweep of silk across marble—as his arm came around my waist from behind.

Not forceful. Not demanding. Merely… present.

A quiet gesture meant not for me, but for them—the watching crowd. The lingering stares. A warning cloaked in elegance,

She is with me.

His hand rested light against the curve of my hip, no tighter than a whisper, but his body heat bled through the thin silk of my dress like a secret only I was allowed to keep.

It was not a claim, not a chain. It was a shield dressed in gold.

I swallowed, breath catching in my throat as my heartbeat skipped, stumbled, and found a new rhythm beneath my ribs. His presence pressed close behind me, calm and coiled, and I hated how easily I leaned back into it.

As if, just for a moment, I could stop being the assassin in silk and pretend to be the woman someone might protect.

My ears caught the subtle clash of voices rising from a nearby table, half-lost beneath the harp’s song and the clinking of crystal. Wine spilled more freely than secrets, but some slipped through the cracks of careful tongues.

“I doubted the party would even happen,” a man’s voice murmured, low and wary. “Not after… what happened to the King.”

There was a pause—sharp enough to cut through the warmth of the ballroom—and then another voice, haughty and indignant.

“Lady Elisif ordered me to attend. Were it my choice, I—”

“Oh, spare us your nobility, Erikur,” a woman interjected, tone sweet as sugared venom. “You enjoy balls and wine far more than you do mourning crowns.”

Their laughter, restrained and painted in gold echoed against the marble.

I kept my face still, but inside, something turned.

It was a cold move, if one thought on it too long. To throw such a glittering feast while the High King’s blood was barely dry on the stones of Solitude. To drink and laugh and dance beneath chandeliers while his murderer still roamed the world, face unseen, fate uncertain.

But that was the way of the Thalmor, wasn’t it?

They didn’t mourn. Not really. Not like the rest of us.

They observed. They calculated. And then, they moved on.

Like death meant less than diplomacy. Like grief was something to be tidied away behind silk screens and silver goblets.

I looked around the room, at the gilded faces and jeweled hands and all I saw was performance. A parade of masks, playing at civility while the realm bled outside.

Ondolemar shifted slightly behind me, his arm still lightly resting at my waist. His posture hadn’t changed, but I felt his attention shift away from the room, the music, the nobles and settle quietly on me.

He had heard them too.

“You wear that look again,” he murmured near my ear, his voice low enough to be lost beneath the hum of music and crystal. “The one that says you’d rather burn this place down than smile through another toast.”

I didn’t answer, but my grip on the chalice tightened.

He went on, tone smooth, unreadable. “They laugh because they’re expected to. They sip wine because it’s easier than swallowing silence. It’s not about mourning. It’s about surviving appearances.”

A pause. Then quieter, as if it were meant only for me,

“Let them play at grief. We have a different game to finish.”

I looked up at him, catching the slight tilt of his head, the cool glint in his golden eyes that betrayed just how deeply he saw through all of it. Through them. Through me.

“I know what this place reminds you of,” he said. “I see it in the way your shoulders never really drop.”

My breath caught.

“And yet,” he added, softer now, like a secret laid gently in my palm, “you’re still standing. That matters more than they’ll ever understand.”

He turned away again, smoothly lifting his wine to his lips as if nothing had passed between us. As if he hadn’t just peeled back the edges of me with a sentence.

I hated how easily he read me.

More than that, I hated how gently he handled what he found.

The ballroom around us blurred for a moment, its music fading into the background hum of memory and static. My jaw tensed, and I forced another smile as a pair of nobles drifted past, giggling behind their goblets.

Still standing. 

He didn’t know how close I was to collapsing.

My voice came quieter than I intended, barely above a breath. “I hate this place.”

“I know.”

“I hate them.”

“I know that, too.”

I didn’t look at him. Couldn’t. Not with how bare I already felt.

Then came his whisper, like something meant to be lost beneath the music.

“I’d rather we were somewhere else.”

I blinked. “Where?”

He let a small breath out, almost a laugh, but quieter. Warmer.

“Anywhere with fewer eyes. And fewer masks.”

I glanced sideways at him, unsure whether I was hearing what I thought I was.

But he didn’t push. Just let the words rest between us like a promise too fragile to touch.

His hand stayed at the curve of my back, not possessive, just steady. Just there. Shielding me without needing permission.

And for a heartbeat, I didn’t hate the weight of the moment. I didn’t feel like I was alone in it.

Only for a heartbeat.

Then the music shifted, and the rustle of silk came too close.

Elenwen was turning toward us again.

“Ondolemar,” I murmured, jaw tight. “Focus.”

“I am.” he said, golden eyes glinting just enough to make me wonder—on what.

Elenwen’s perfume reached us before her voice did, some alchemical blend of jasmine and power, soaked into silk and ego. She glided across the floor like she owned the marble, and for a moment, I felt the entire ballroom pivot to watch her orbit.

“I hope you’re enjoying yourself.” she said, her words just a little too loose around the edges. She raised her goblet, the wine trembling faintly inside.

Ondolemar dipped his head with that maddening grace he wore like a second skin. “Immensely, my lady. It’s a rare pleasure.”

Her gaze slid to me, sharp and golden despite the haze in her eyes. “And you, Cylsa? Are our northern halls treating you well?”

I gave the softest smile I could manage. “It’s… a sight to behold.”

“Indeed.” She sipped again, longer this time. “It’s not every day one sees Ondolemar arrive with such lovely company. You’ve kept her quite the secret.”

Before he could respond, a server swept past—a Bosmer, his motions deft, his eyes downcast. He carried a polished silver tray with four filled chalices, moving through the crowd like smoke. But as he passed beside us-

Splash.

A full-bodied claret spilled forward, cascading down Elenwen’s twilight silk like blood over moonlight.

Gasps rose around us. Elenwen stiffened, her goblet clinking sharply against the marble as her free hand instinctively flew to the stain blooming across her bodice.

“Oh—by the gods—I’m so sorry,” the Bosmer sputtered, bowing hastily, napkin already in hand. “My grip—my apologies, Lady Elenwen, I didn’t—”

Elenwen turned on him, seething elegance curling at the edges of her expression. “Do you know what this fabric is?”

“N-no, my lady, I—”

“It costs more than your monthly wages.”

The Bosmer bowed deeper, holding the cloth out with trembling hands. “Allow me, please—”

Elenwen’s jaw tightened, but she inhaled, nostrils flaring as she reeled in her anger. “I expect better from the staff,” she muttered, and turned back to us, dabbing uselessly at the stain with the edge of her sleeve. “Excuse me. I must change.”

I stood frozen, heart pounding—not from sympathy, but from the glint I’d caught in the Bosmer’s eyes.

Not clumsy.

Planned.

Ondolemar leaned toward me, wine in one hand, and whispered without looking: “You asked about the plan.”

I nodded faintly, gaze flicking to the servant now disappearing behind another column.

“Now,” he said, offering me his free hand, “we begin.”

It was time.

I let the weight of the moment settle into my shoulders like a cloak. The mission had begun.

I stepped forward with practiced elegance, placing my goblet on a passing tray, and lifted my chin.

“Lady Elenwen,” I called after her, my tone soft but laced with the concern expected of a well-bred guest. “Please, allow me to accompany you. I can help you clean up, it would be rude to leave you alone.”

She paused, halfway to the stairs, her jaw still tight, but her pride wouldn’t let her refuse. Not with guests watching. Not with Ondolemar watching.

She offered a tense nod.

“If you insist,” she said coldly, though I could see the irritation still simmering in her eyes. “This party seems determined to test my patience.”

I moved to follow her, carefully keeping pace with her long strides, the faint echo of my heels in sync with hers across the marble.

Ondolemar’s hand brushed my wrist as I passed him a fleeting, grounding touch.

Not a goodbye.

An anchor.

He let me go.

The Bosmer had already vanished, likely through the servants’ passage, clearing the path. Elenwen swept forward, unknowingly walking into a snare spun in silk and shadows.

And I, once again, slipped into the skin of someone I wasn’t, smiling, composed, unarmed to the eye.

But underneath it all, every breath was a blade.

Every step was a countdown.

 

To be continued…

Chapter 54: Chapter 54

Elenwen’s quarters were almost obscene in their elegance. A pocket of Summerset splendor, carved into the bones of Skyrim like a wound refusing to close. Richly polished wood framed every surface, dressers, shelves, the headboard of a bed draped in pristine silks that never knew the bite of winter. Every corner seemed to have been arranged with intentional detachment, a display of superiority rather than comfort. On the far end, a desk stood like an altar of vanity, too empty to be of any true use. It was the kind of room built not to be lived in, but to remind others they never could.

I stepped in after her and closed the door.

“Stupid insect,” Elenwen snapped, storming toward her dresser. Her hands clawed at the zipper on her back, her long fingers struggling to undo the gilded dress that clung to her like arrogance. “Ruined my gown and the entire look. I looked divine tonight.”

Her venom was for the Bosmer, the servant, who’d been part of our plan. A quiet pawn. A forgotten casualty.

“Let me help you.” I offered, stepping forward.

She didn’t look at me. She barely heard me, lost in her mutterings, too consumed by her own imagined insult. Her mind still shimmered with fury, with self-righteousness. She was a woman who had never been powerless for a single day in her life. Not really. Not the way I had been. Not the way I still was, in places too deep to reach.

I could feel the moment tighten in the air. Like the breath before a scream.

This is it.

My fingers slipped beneath the fabric of my skirt, where the dagger lay hidden, waiting. I had worn it like a secret against my skin all night. I drew it slowly, carefully, its jeweled hilt catching the candlelight, its blade gleaming like ice, like purpose.

“Lowborn filth,” she hissed to herself. “I shouldn’t be surprised. Of course, you—” she paused just long enough to let the venom sharpen, “—you are different from the rest of your kind.”

I moved behind her, quiet as snowfall, and wrapped one arm gently around her throat not in force, but in promise. The dagger’s edge found the hollow of her neck, just beneath her jaw.

She stilled.

For a breath, I felt her heart jump beneath the skin, felt her inhale catch like a trapped bird.

“Indeed.” I whispered, just below her ear.

Her silence was not fear. Not yet. It was calculation. Understanding. And then… something softer. A sigh. As though she had expected this all along.

“I should have known,” she said quietly. Her voice no longer held rage. Only fatigue.

In the mirror, I saw her eyes meet mine. She didn’t move. She didn’t need to. The reflection held us both: her—tall, poised, golden as ever and me, the ghost behind her shoulder.

“I should have recognized those hollow eyes.”

I didn’t move. I didn’t speak. But something inside me shifted, something slow and heavy and cold.

“I should have known the Ashenblade was our precious, lost Snowflake.”

My grip tightened instinctively.

“Snowleaf.” I corrected her beneath my breath.

I didn’t know why I said it. Why I felt the need to give her the truth. She didn’t deserve it. But perhaps the dead should be told the truth before they were sent off. Perhaps I needed to say it, just once, out loud. To remember that I had a name before the Brotherhood gave me another.

Her lips curled slowly into a smile—a smile that was far too pleased. It was not joy. It was recognition. Something old and cruel.

“Then he is not the sole survivor of the Catastrophe.”

Her words punched through me. My heartbeat thundered in my chest, fierce and fast and too alive. I stared at her reflection, unable to tear myself away. My blade remained steady, but my thoughts scattered like broken glass.

“If you call that survival.” she added, and her voice was almost wistful.

I couldn’t tell if she was mocking me or mourning something herself. Her words hung in the air like smoke, thick, dangerous, ungraspable. I didn’t know if she meant to confuse me, or if she truly knew something. Something I didn’t.

“What survivor?” I asked before I could stop myself.

That’s when I saw it, the spark in her eyes. The glint of triumph, however small.

“Put the dagger down,” she said softly, her smile never faltering, “and we’ll talk about the boy with the crimson hair.”

The words hit like a blow to the chest.

My breath vanished. My knees nearly buckled.

My mind flooded. My ribs felt too tight to hold my heart. That boy—

My pulse roared in my ears. I felt it thudding beneath my skin, louder than thought, louder than reason. I hadn’t felt anything like this in years. Not hope. Not dread. Not this terrible, fragile thing that might have been both.

Elamoril.

“Impossible.” I breathed.

My dagger did not move. But my world shifted.

And Elenwen smiled.

Her words coiled around my throat like a noose.

“Why?” she asked, voice soft, sharp. “Is it because you killed him?”

Something inside me cracked.

My breath faltered, not because of fear, not entirely, but something worse. Something black and bottomless. My grip on the dagger didn’t weaken, but my body felt hollow, like a doll stuffed with ash. The edge pressed against her neck, but I couldn’t feel the hilt anymore. My fingers were numb. My chest, my ribs, my bones all of it was going silent.

You killed him.

No.

I didn’t want to think. I didn’t want to remember.

But memory didn’t care what I wanted.

It crept in like mist under a door, curling in through cracks I had sealed with blood and years of silence. Images surfaced, jagged, colorless, blurred around the edges like a dream too dangerous to name. The soft glow of snow. His voice. A hand reaching toward me. A flash of fear—his, or mine, I couldn’t tell.

I blinked.

Was that real?

No, no, it couldn’t have been. It had been so long. My mind had twisted everything. I’d been used. Drugged. Lied to. I couldn’t trust those memories, those whispers in the dark.

But his eyes. I remembered them.

Gods, I remembered those green eyes. The way they looked at me just before—

I staggered back half a step, but the dagger remained at her throat, held by instinct alone. My body moved on the memory of control, while my mind splintered into too many pieces to hold.

I wanted to scream at her. I wanted to tell her she was wrong.

But my tongue wouldn’t obey. Because… what if she wasn’t?

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.” I said, but the words rang hollow, even to my own ears. A shield made of parchment, already burning at the edges.

She smiled again.

And then she choked.

At first, it was subtle, her shoulders tensing, a strange twist of her mouth. But then her breath hitched, broke, and she clutched at her chest. A second later, the cough came dry, hacking, violent.

I stared at her, still dazed, too slow to react.

Too late to save her.

She stumbled forward, gagging, her limbs betraying her as her balance failed. Her hands scratched at her throat. Her knees hit the stone with a sickening thud.

I dropped beside her, grabbing her arm.

“What—what is this? What did you do?” I demanded.

But there was no answer. Only the gurgling rasp of a woman drowning in her own lungs.

“No!” I shook her.

She looked up at me, lips parted, eyes wild—amber and full of something I couldn’t name.

Victory? Pity?

And then… stillness.

Her body slumped against the floor, unmoving. The room fell silent but for the shallow, ragged sound of my own breath.

The dagger slipped from my fingers and landed beside her, useless.

And I sat there frozen, bleeding on the inside not from wounds, but from memory.

From truth I could not bear to name.

Could it be true?

After all these years, after burying him beneath the weight of silence, after dragging his name like a ghost through the corridors of my grief, could he still… be?

Alive?

Somewhere, in some forgotten corner of this cursed world… could he still breathe?

Could that heart, the one I had felt falter beneath my hands, the one I had mourned with every fragment of my being, could it still be beating, defiant against the story I had written in blood?

No.

No, it wasn’t possible.

It wasn’t fair.

My thoughts began to dissolve, unable to hold themselves steady beneath the pressure building in my chest. My heart was pounding too loud, louder than anything else, louder than reason, louder than her words.

It shouldn’t have been possible.

I had watched the light vanish from his eyes.

I had felt the warmth of his blood as it soaked into my palms—my hands, the same hands that still carried the stain no water could cleanse.

They took him from me.

The Thalmor.

They didn’t just burn my past, they stole it. They reached into my chest and tore out the only pieces of myself that had ever truly mattered. My childhood. My laughter. My love. My name.

Every soft thing in me had died with him.

And now she had dared to say otherwise?

My vision blurred, not from tears, but from something deeper. Heavier. My breath came ragged, uneven. My fingers twitched at my sides trembling from something older than rage. Something deeper. More ancient. A grief so sharp it circled into madness.

I could feel it stirring, rising up through the soles of my feet, winding its way into my spine. That familiar, bitter heat. The tremble before the quake.

Wrath.

It came not as fire, but frost. A cold so sharp it burned. My jaw clenched. My pulse screamed in my ears.

I heard Astrid’s voice, “Remember, no bloodshed.”

But hadn’t they shed mine?

Hadn’t they spilled every drop of it? Not with blades, not with arrows, but with years. With silence. With all the pieces of myself they carved away one by one and called it order, called it peace, called it Thalmor law.

They shed the blood of my blood. They shed the blood of my heart.

And they gave it a name. The Catastrophe.

They wrapped it in politics and power, crafted a tale out of the corpses, and left me to rot in the ruins.

But I remembered. I remembered the look on his face. I remembered the sound the world made when he died.

And if he lived by some twisted, cruel mercy he had survived then they had lied.

And I…

I would drown them in the truth.

There were footsteps outside the door.

Two sets, heavy, armored. Thalmor soldiers. They would have heard something. The coughs. The fall.

The last thing Elenwen had done, perhaps, was summon her little protectors. Loyal hounds.

I turned toward the door, dagger still warm in my grip. My breathing slowed. My heartbeat didn’t.

It thundered in my ears, steady now, not from fear but from purpose.

The first guard stepped through.

He didn’t even have time to speak. I moved like shadow.

One hand to the mouth. The other drove the dagger up beneath his chin, fast, brutal, precise. A wet click as silver met spine. His body jerked once and went still in my arms. I held him there, gently, like I was putting him to sleep.

The second stumbled in behind him, confusion on his face—too slow.

I released the first and lunged.

The dagger slipped beneath his ribs and twisted. He gasped, but I pressed my hand against his throat and smiled. It wasn’t personal.

But it was necessary.

They both collapsed in silence.

I stepped over them without looking back.

So much for no bloodshed.

But it didn’t feel like bloodshed. Not really. It felt like… balance.

The hall beyond was too quiet. Warm candlelight flickered against polished stone walls, too golden, too perfect. The same halls that once echoed with forced laughter, diplomatic poison, and the perfume of power.

I moved like a shadow carved from memory.

Another guard ahead. I knew this corridor. I had walked it before. I had played the part.

He turned at the last second.

My hand covered his mouth, blade sliding across his throat in a smooth, practiced arc. His eyes widened in shock. Mine stayed cold. He dropped like cloth.

They don’t scream when you’re fast enough.

I padded down the hallway, silent and deliberate. Every breath was measured. Every heartbeat, a war drum. I was no longer the girl who cried for her lost home. Not the woman who ached in silence for a crimson-haired boy.

I was the ash that rose after the fire.

I moved from room to room, each one a small theater of death.

A diplomat caught half-dressed behind a screen gasped, tried to speak. I slit his throat and let him bleed into the silk rugs he thought made him powerful. A battlemage stepped into the hall from the library too confident. He raised his hand to cast. I was faster. The dagger pierced his neck, and I drove it up into his skull. His soul fled before his spell could even form.

Their blood painted the walls like red ink, as if I were writing the truth across their lies.

They had called me an orphan. A donation.

They had shaped me in shadow and called it mercy. They would now learn what their mercy made.

I descended the stairwell, slow and soundless.

The basement was colder, darker. Fewer guards but they would be expecting something now. A trail of silence was still a trail.

I caught a soldier by the arm as he passed. He blinked in confusion, not fear until I drove the dagger through his eye. His weight crumpled into my chest. I let him fall gently. No sound.

Was he alive?

The thought surfaced again.

Elamoril.

Alive.

Or had she lied? One final cruelty before death? A distraction to not face it?

I didn’t know.

The sound of music echoed faintly from above.

A soft swell of strings. Laughter. The rhythmic shuffle of expensive shoes across marble floors. Somewhere above me, the ball carried on. The ballroom bright, gilded, full of silk and wine was alive with voices.

They didn’t hear a thing.

They couldn’t. The crowd’s murmur, the clink of glasses, the orchestra, every note masked the sounds down here. The quiet deaths. The wet gasps. The last twitches of those who never had time to scream.

It was almost beautiful, in its own way.

They waltzed above while I carved truth below.

They had trained me to kill for their convenience. Whispered commands in the dark and shaped my hands around a blade. They thought if they dressed it up in gold, if they smiled while giving the order, it would be clean.

Two more guards patrolled the lower hall. I saw them before they saw me.

One turned to speak to the other, a joke whispered under his breath.

I stepped into the light and slit his throat with such precision that the second didn’t react until his companion was already falling.

He reached for his blade.

My dagger found the soft space beneath his chin.

Both fell at my feet.

A burst of applause echoed faintly from the ballroom. Someone had given a toast.

I moved through the embassy’s bowels like a shadow given form.

Blood smeared on stone. Crimson footprints. The air was thick now—metallic, warm, clinging to my skin like memory.

Footsteps—light ones, careful.

I turned the corner, blade in hand, ready to strike.

But it wasn’t a guard.

It was him.

The Bosmer servant froze in place, eyes wide as they landed on the blood-slick dagger, then drifted past me to the silent trail I had left in my wake.

Bodies. Blood. No alarm. No noise. Just death in stillness.

“By the gods…” he breathed, voice low, reverent.

He looked pale. But not afraid. No, there was something else flickering behind his eyes, something closer to awe. Or relief.

“They’re all dead,” he whispered, half to himself. “You killed them all.”

I said nothing.

Blood dripped from my dagger. My breathing was calm now. Too calm. Like my rage had folded inward, tucked itself behind my bones, quiet and watching.

He stepped closer, cautiously, as though I were a flame he wasn’t sure wouldn’t burn him.

His voice was hushed, caught between disbelief and some kind of grim satisfaction. “You know how long I’ve waited to see them bleed?”

He let out a shaky laugh, soft and bitter. “Years. Watching them raise glasses and pass judgments like gods in silk.”

His jaw clenched. “And now they’re dead.”

Still, I didn’t speak.

The silence stretched long between us.

Then his expression shifted, something more practical rising beneath the adrenaline.

“We’re not safe here,” he said quickly, glancing over his shoulder. “They’ll notice soon. The guests, someone will come down eventually.”

He stepped beside a large cask, pressing his hands to the wall behind it. With a click, the panel shifted slightly, revealing the faint outline of a hidden door.

“There,” he said. “The old servant tunnel. It leads out past the embassy walls, through the cliffside. We follow it to the end, we’ll find our way back into the wild.”

My brow arched, we?

I turned to him. Our eyes met, his full of urgency, mine… unreadable even to myself.

His voice dropped lower.

“Take me with you,” he said. “I can’t go back upstairs. Not after this.”

I stared at him for a long moment.

He didn’t flinch.

His hands trembled slightly, but his jaw was set. He was serious.

I gave a short nod.

He exhaled like someone surfacing from deep water.

The wall shifted open with his help, revealing a narrow, downward-sloping passage swallowed in darkness.

The music from above still played, sweet, oblivious.

The blade in my hand still dripped with everything I had lost.

The tunnel yawned before us, narrow and damp, hewn from stone with no care for beauty or comfort. The Bosmer slipped in behind me, closing the hidden door with a final, heavy click. The sound of the ball faded behind stone and silence.

The darkness was thick. The walls sweated with cold.

“We’re close now,” He whispered behind me, his voice tight. “Just need to follow this slope, it leads down to the outer passage.”

But something in the air shifted. A smell.

I froze.

It wasn’t mold or dust. It was sharper. Older.

Iron. Blood.

A distant sound—soft, yet unmistakable.

Chains. A low groan.

Bosmer stiffened. “Shit.” he breathed.

He didn’t need to say it.

I followed the scent like a hound.

Down the passage, it opened into a larger room, low ceilings, heavy with stale air. Dim torches sputtered in sconces, casting long shadows over the walls.

Cages. Chains. A rack in the corner.

I moved without sound.

The torturer didn’t see me at first. He was hunched over his victim, humming low under his breath as if the man’s agony was a lullaby. His tongs gripped a red-hot poker, its tip glowing in the dimness like the eye of a god that never blinked. The prisoner, barely conscious, trembled under the restraints, his mouth gagged, his eyes swollen nearly shut.

“You’re going to tell me,” the torturer said calmly, “if not today, then tomorrow. They all do.”

He smiled, slow and patient, and turned toward the brazier—

—and stopped.

He saw us.

His face didn’t show fear. Not at first. Just confusion.

I stepped into the light.

Blood stained the arms of my gown to the elbows. My blade hung from my fingers like an extension of my will. And my eyes, whatever they saw in them made him hesitate.

“Who—?” he started.

I didn’t let him finish.

The dagger flashed, but I didn’t go for the throat. Not this time.

I drove it into the back of his knee. He howled as the joint gave way, buckling with a sickening crunch as he fell to the ground.

Another scream tore out of him when I twisted the blade and ripped it free.

“You like screams,” I said, my voice eerily calm. “Let’s hear yours.”

He clawed at the stone floor, trying to crawl, but I grabbed his wrist and stomped on his elbow. It shattered beneath my heel. The sound it made, wet, splintered, was better than his cries.

He screamed again. Higher. More frantic.

I kicked him onto his back and sat on his chest, pinning him. My dagger traced the line of his ribs.

“You broke them one by one, didn’t you?” I murmured, sliding the blade beneath his tunic, “Took your time. Listened to them beg.”

He whimpered, shaking his head, a pathetic denial slipping from cracked lips.

I didn’t care.

I pressed the edge into the soft flesh of his stomach and cut slowly. Not deep. Not yet. Just enough to draw blood, to hear him thrash beneath me.

“Do you know what they made me do in a room like this?” I whispered.

His eyes widened. He tried to answer, tried to speak, but only spit and blood came out.

“They called it instruction. They said it was for the good of the Dominion.”

I carved a second line across his belly, and he shrieked. I smiled.

“I was fifteen.”

His face twisted in horror. Maybe guilt. Maybe not.

It didn’t matter.

I dragged the blade higher, just along the edge of his ribs. He sobbed, his broken arm twitching uselessly.

“Please,” he gasped. “I didn’t—I was just—just following—”

I leaned close, lips near his ear.

“So was I.”

Then I drove the dagger into his mouth.

It pierced the soft tissue beneath his tongue and punched through the back of his throat. His body jerked once. Then stilled.

I pulled the blade free with a slick sound and stood over him, blood pooling beneath my boots.

The prisoner had gone silent.

The Bosmer stared at me from across the room. His face was pale, jaw clenched, but he said nothing.

I turned toward the exit.

More would come.

The torturer’s body lay broken behind me.

Blood still steamed on the floor. The stench of it clung to the back of my throat, and for a moment, the silence in the chamber rang louder than any scream ever had.

I turned to the prisoner, his face slack, barely conscious, but alive. The Bosmer was already at his side, easing him free of the last of the chains, murmuring something soothing, something soft. I couldn’t hear it. My pulse was a storm in my ears.

“We need to go,” he said. He looked up at me, cautious now, like he was afraid I might keep going.

I didn’t answer. Just nodded.

We slipped from the chamber into the back corridor. The air grew colder, the walls damp. The stone under our feet grew uneven. The tunnel opened slowly into a natural cave, its ceiling low and dripping, the exit up ahead just a slit of dim moonlight in the distance.

Almost out.

Almost.

Then I heard it—footsteps. Steady. Measured.

Not running. Not fleeing. Someone confident.

I froze.

“Someone’s coming.” I hissed.

Bosmer turned, startled. “What?”

“Go.” I pressed the prisoner’s weight into his arms. “Take him. Get out of here. Now.”

He hesitated. Just a second.

Then he nodded and moved.

I pressed myself to the jagged wall, hidden in a curve of the cave. Shadows clung to me like old friends. I had killed tonight without a whisper. I could do it again.

The footsteps grew louder. Crisp against the rock. Not rushed. Not armored like a soldier—but there was strength in them. Control.

Whoever it was, they weren’t afraid.

I waited. The darkness was a second skin.

And then—there. A tall figure emerged from the tunnel behind us, silhouetted in torchlight, head slightly turned as if listening.

I didn’t hesitate.

I struck like instinct, like breath, like a blade unsheathed from the soul.

I caught him in an instant, my arm around his throat, dagger to the soft space beneath his jaw, pulling him back into the dark with the ease of someone who had done this a hundred times before.

I felt the intake of breath. The surprise. But he didn’t struggle.

I pressed the blade to his throat. Hard.

He didn’t cry out.

Not even a gasp.

His hands didn’t rise.

His voice, when it came, was quiet.

Calm.

Unshaken.

“…Is this how you greet me now, dove?”

My heart stopped.

My mind… blanked.

That voice.

No—

My grip loosened.

I turned his face toward the faint shaft of light that spilled from a crack in the stone above.

And I saw him.

Ondolemar.

His expression didn’t waver. Only the slightest twitch in his jaw betrayed the impact of the dagger still at his throat. He hadn’t resisted. Hadn’t moved.

He let me grab him.

I stumbled back a step, my arm dropping, the dagger trembling in my grip like it no longer belonged to me.

Dove.

That name didn’t belong to a killer. It didn’t belong to the creature I had become beneath the Embassy. It belonged to something soft. Something long dead.

“You—” I breathed, choking on it, “You shouldn’t be here.”

He didn’t argue. Just straightened, composed as ever, and crossed his arms over his chest. His gaze swept over me slowly—down the length of my blood-streaked gown, across my shaking hands, and back to my face. His eyes lingered a moment too long, but not in revulsion.

Something colder. Something deeper.

His lips curved, almost imperceptibly.

“I always thought that dress was too pure for you,” he murmured, voice low and laced with silk. “It wears truth better in red.”

I blinked.

The heat rushed into my cheeks before I could stop it. My gaze dropped. The once white silk clung to me, soaked through in deep, soaking red. It was almost black now. Like the dress had bled out with me.

A soundless breath escaped me. I felt… exposed.

Not because of the blood.

Because he saw me.

His expression shifted just barely. He stepped forward, quiet as shadow.

“Such a mess you’ve made.” he said softly.

He reached up and tucked a blood-matted strand of hair behind my ear. A gesture so gentle, so intimate, that it carved deeper than any blade I’d used that night.

I looked away.

But the questions were rising, slithering up my spine like cold fingers.

I didn’t want to say it.

But it pressed itself out of me anyway.

“Elenwen…” I whispered.

His hand stilled near my jaw.

“She’s dead.”

He didn’t speak. Didn’t blink. He simply waited.

So I finished it.

“Not by my hand.”

My eyes finally found his.

There was no surprise there.

No flicker of judgment. He already knew.

And that was what unsettled me most.

He was too calm.

Like he had expected it. Like he had accounted for every outcome, including this one.

Then it washed over me like ash settling slow and choking deep.

The truth.

If it was the truth.

If I dared to call it that.

My mind drifted unbidden back to the ballroom. The warmth. The poison of pageantry. And his voice cutting through it all:

“Wine loosens more than tongues.”

Casual. Effortless.

The wine.

I looked up at him. Everything inside me recoiled.

“You,” I whispered, stepping back. His hand, still near my face, slid from my skin like silk abandoning flesh. “It was you.”

He didn’t move.

Didn’t even blink.

But the silence between us pulled tight, like a string just before it snaps.

He still didn’t deny it. That silence was worse than a confession.

My hand clenched around the air where his touch had just been.

All that blood.

All that rage.

All that cost.

And he—

“You had a contract,” I said, my voice starting to shake. “You brought me here just to poison her yourself?”

He didn’t move. His eyes stayed fixed on mine, unreadable.

“Why?” I snapped. “Why drag the Brotherhood into this if you were going to slit her throat with a goblet of wine?”

The cave echoed with the sharpness of my voice.

I stepped forward, dangerous now, not with a blade, but with fury that had nowhere to go. I jabbed a bloodstained finger toward his chest.

My breath hitched. “Why did you let me think it was mine to finish?”

He watched me, still and composed, letting the storm break over him.

I hated how calm he was.

How measured.

He didn’t move. His expression held its usual quiet elegance, untouched by alarm. He studied me as though I were a riddle already half-solved.

“I didn’t trust Elenwen to die cleanly.” he said at last, voice smooth as polished stone.

His eyes flicked over me—not cold, not accusing, just… seeing. Measuring.

“She had a gift for digging into the softest parts,” he continued. “Whispers. Names. Confusion. If there was breath left in her, she’d use it to bury the blade elsewhere.”

“And you thought I’d fall for it?” My voice rose sharp and hurt.

He didn’t flinch.

“I thought,” he said carefully, “that I couldn’t be certain what she’d say. And I had to be certain.”

My breath caught.

So he had done it, poisoned her, ended her with wine before I ever got the chance, just in case.

Just in case I failed.

Or worse, just in case I hesitated.

“So you didn’t trust me,” I said, but it came out too quiet. Not angry. Just hollow.

Ondolemar met my eyes. “I didn’t trust her.”

I felt sick.

Because he was right.

Not about me. Not about what I’m capable of. I had painted the Embassy in blood tonight, hadn’t I?

But about her.

She had distracted me.

She had slipped her fingers into my grief and pulled. And for a moment, I hesitated.

I clenched my jaw, forcing the thoughts down, pressing them into the dark corners of my chest.

He didn’t know.

And I wouldn’t give him that piece of me.

So I said nothing.

Let the silence build like a wall between us.

Ondolemar stepped closer again, unhurried. The distance between us melted inch by inch until there was nothing left of it but breath.

“It won’t be long before they come down here,” he murmured, the words soft as velvet. Not urgent. Just real. A gentle hand pulling me back to the world I had drowned in blood.

Then, more quietly,

“Before you go… one last thing.”

His hand slipped gently around my wrist, the wrist of the hand still holding the dagger. I felt the shift in him then. The slight pull of his fingers. My eyes snapped up to his.

He said nothing.

He only guided my hand, careful and delicate, until the tip of the blade pressed against his side. Not his chest. Not anywhere fatal. A soft spot. A wound that would bleed, ache, but never kill.

I froze.

My grip faltered.

But he held it steady for me.

“Come now, little dove,” he whispered near my ear, “with all that rage inside you… this should be easy.”

I swallowed, hard.

He was clever. He had always been clever.

Wounded like this, he could play the victim. The survivor. The one noble Justiciar who stayed behind.

The one who tried to stop it.

He would be hailed. Pitied. Protected.

And someone would need to take the fall.

The Brotherhood? No. A single assassination, yes. But this—this was no quiet job in a back alley. This was slaughter. A message in blood.

No. This was personal.

This was me.

“What is your plan this time?” I asked, my voice finally slipping past the wall of thought. The dagger still hovered, its point nestled just beneath his ribs.

The corner of his lips twitched, an almost-smile.

“If that’s what you need to know,” he said softly, “Brotherhood’s name will never touch this.”

He looked at me as if that should matter.

As if he was protecting me from something.

But I wasn’t sure whether to feel grateful…

…or owned.

“I swear it.” he breathed, voice barely above a whisper, spoken into the air between us like a secret meant only for me.

His eyes locked onto mine, unwavering.

And suddenly, something distant rose to the surface.

A feeling that’s strange, aching, familiar.

An oath.

Another one from years ago, beneath the pale gray sky at the gates of Markarth. When Elamoril and I were about to depart, and Ondolemar stood just behind us after an oath to tell no one about what had happened at Karthspire.

An oath he never broke.

My throat tightened.

A softer memory pressed in next, my voice, hoarse and broken with Tears that he had fed me,

“You’re an oathkeeper, aren’t you?”

The words came back to haunt me now.

Like a whisper from myself.

Could I trust him again?

Could I believe he would spin the tale to protect me, to shield the Brotherhood, to carry the guilt and suspicion away like smoke into the air?

My mind reeled, torn between the blade in my hand and the warmth that clung to his.

His grip tightened on mine. Just a little.

And he nodded.

He knew.

He saw the hesitation in me, the fire, the grief, the questions clawing at my throat and he didn’t flinch.

I hated how clearly he saw through it.

Through me.

How could he do that?

How could anyone look at what I had become tonight and still hold my hand like it wasn’t covered in blood?

I refused to believe whatever web he thought he was weaving, whether he expected gratitude, debt, or loyalty. From me. From the Brotherhood. I didn’t care.

Because above all… he had stolen it.

My contract.

My kill.

My hand twitched around the dagger. And I saw it, the flicker of amusement in his eyes. Just enough to make my stomach twist.

I hated that look.

I hated how calm he was at the edge of a blade. How unbothered. How inviting.

So maybe I should remind him who it was that painted the Embassy red before he ever lifted a goblet. Let him bleed before he framed it all as tragedy, survival, heroism.

What would happen if he didn’t succeed in shifting the blame really? The Brotherhood would carry the weight. Fear would cling to their name again. That… might even please Astrid.

But he couldn’t just stand there with that polished composure and that half-smile, watching me as if this, too, was his design. As if I were simply an instrument playing to his tune.

He may have known anatomy well, but I had studied it. Perfected it. Thalmor had all been taught the same, hadn’t we? But I had carved bodies open like texts, learned the language of nerves and arteries, the lines between agony and silence.

So I matched him.

Smile for smile.

And for a flicker—just a flicker—I saw something shift in his golden gaze.

Something unreadable.

Maybe for the first time, he didn’t know what I’d do next.

My free hand rose to my hair. The pin, golden, delicate, placed there by his own hand hours ago, slid free.

I met his eyes.

Then placed the pin just beneath his collarbone.

Not deep. Not fatal. But it would bleed.

And it would hurt.

He tilted his head, curious. Studying me like a scholar facing a riddle but his smile remained.

And then, without a word, hands came to my waist. Not rough. Just steady.

He braced himself, spine firm, legs strong, like a marble statue waiting for the sculptor’s blow.

I held my breath.

And with everything I had left, everything broken, bloodied, burning, I pushed the pin and the dagger in.

Both sank into his skin in perfect tandem.

No sound escaped him. No groan. Not even a twitch of the brow.

He just looked at me.

As if watching something sacred. As if watching a flower bloom in the middle of a battlefield.

Blood blossomed beneath the silk of his robes.

Slow. Deliberate. Controlled. Just like him.

His lips parted slightly, not in pain, but in breath. And he looked down, where my hands still lingered, where the dagger hilt rested against his side and the golden pin gleamed from his collarbone like a jeweled wound.

Then his gaze rose to mine.

And his faint and devastating smile curled just enough to make the breath catch in my throat.

“How poetic.” he murmured, voice like warm velvet dragged across a blade.

He exhaled slowly, almost as if savoring the ache, the closeness, the shared cruelty of it all.

“I hadn’t imagined you’d wear them quite so… intimately.”

The words skimmed across my skin, laced with quiet amusement but dressed in silk and shadow. There was no mocking in his voice. Only a dark sort of affection, like he was proud of what I’d done with his gifts.

My fingers twitched on the hilt of the dagger, unsure if I wanted to pull away… or press deeper.

His hands at my waist remained steady and anchoring.

He leaned in, only slightly, just enough that I could feel the warmth of his breath trace the shell of my ear.

“If you meant to punish me, little dove…” he whispered, “you’ve only made me remember why I gave them to you in the first place.”

Was that pride in his eyes?

Was that… affection?

No.

No, it wasn’t affection. It was control.

It always had been.

He was orchestrating something, shaping the narrative before the first scream ever rang out above. And I? I’d stepped into the part like a good little puppet, dripping in silk and rage and red.

I wanted to scream at him.

To slap the smirk off his mouth, to spit at his feet, to ask him—

Why do you speak to me like I’m beautiful while I’m covered in blood?

Why do you touch me like I’m not ruined?

He thought he knew me.

Thought he had me tethered, controlled, already woven into his plan.

And maybe I had played my part, bloodied the halls, torn the Embassy down to its marrow. But this?

This would be mine.

I let my fingers drift upward graceful, almost tender and closed them around the pin nestled beneath his collarbone.

His eyes watched me.

Still smiling.

Still waiting.

I moved it.

Slowly.

Deeper first.

A fraction of an inch. Just enough to make him inhale, just enough to make the skin resist before it gave.

Then I shifted it sideways, dragging it through flesh. Not tearing, opening.

His breath caught, but he didn’t move.

My other hand tightened around the dagger, still resting in the soft place just below his ribs.

I rotated it once clockwise felt the resistance of muscle, the give of blood vessels.

Then—

I pulled them both out.

Fast.

Clean.

Cruel.

He didn’t fall, just steadied himself, knees bending to brace. His spine stayed like carved marble. His breath came slow but steady.

He held his stance as if he invited me to finish.

Still, he didn’t make a sound.

But his smile… faltered. Just for a second.

His gaze lowered, watching the red spread. Watching what I had done.

The last of the blood dripped from the dagger in my hand.

I heard a brush of stone behind me—just a shift, like someone stepping into flickering light.

I turned, eyes narrowing.

He leaned against the cavern wall, arms folded, grin sharp as glass. His pale hair wild, his posture lazy, his gaze full of heat and delight. He was dressed in black, of course, shadow blending into shadow, but his smile…

His smile burned.

“Well done,” he drawled, voice silken with venom. “A performance worthy of applause. And blood.”

His eyes slid past me to Ondolemar, still steady on his feet, bleeding but not broken.

“How long have you been standing there Amon?” I asked, my voice low, brittle.

Amon tilted his head.

He shrugged, calm as smoke. “Long enough to learn the show was worth waiting for.”

I didn’t want to know what that meant.

Didn’t want to imagine what he’d seen.

Didn’t care.

I hated the heat rising to my face. I hated the weight of his eyes now joining Ondolemar’s, as if they were passing me back and forth like some half-opened secret.

“Shall we go, then?” Amon asked, gesturing toward the exit with a casual flick of his fingers. “Unless you plan to bleed everyone else dry before the sun rises.”

There was laughter beneath his words. And not a trace of shame.

I didn’t answer him.

My hands were still slick. My heart still pounding from the unbearable quiet that followed the violence.

I turned toward the exit.

But before I could move—

I felt it.

A touch at my wrist. Gentle. Careful.

Ondolemar’s hand, blood-warm and shaking only slightly, wrapped around mine, not to stop me. Not to hold me back.

Just to reach.

His fingers squeezed just once, measured, steady.

“I meant what I swore.”

I didn’t speak.

I couldn’t.

His thumb brushed the edge of my knuckle, one last gesture. Barely there.

“When,” he asked, too calm for it to be desperation, too quiet for it to be casual, “will I see you again?”

I stared at him.

That golden gaze was steadier than it should’ve been. Bleeding. Dying, maybe. But steady.

Always steady.

I said nothing. Because I didn’t know the answer.

Maybe he’d see me in the next blood-soaked hall.

Maybe not at all.

But whatever he saw, whatever came next-

It would no longer be his.

I slipped my hand from his grip.

And left him bleeding in the dark.

 

To be continued…

Chapter 55: Chapter 55

The air outside the tunnel was thick with shadow and damp, the scent of moss and blood clinging to the stones like smoke after fire. The ground was slick beneath my shoes, ridiculous shoes, still dusted in gold, soaked now to the silk lining. I stepped out into the night with blood under my nails and death tucked inside my lungs.

No one followed me. No one needed to. The silence behind me was full of bodies.

My hands were full too.

In one, I still held the dagger, the one Ondolemar had given me. Delicate, elegant, and now baptized in his blood. In the other, the golden pin he had placed in my hair hours earlier. A keepsake. A symbol. A curse. I hadn’t let go of either. I just couldn’t.

The storm hadn’t broken yet, but the wind had changed. It carried warning, sharp, cold, restless. The clouds above looked bruised and heavy, stretching thick across the sky like an old wound. Distant thunder rolled once, low and slow, like a god whispering through his teeth.

I stepped forward through the rocks, past a dead tree whose branches had long since surrendered to the wind. The path curved upward and there, just beyond it, waiting like he’d been carved from the dark itself, was Amon.

He stood beside the lone steed, one hand resting lightly on its mane, the other tucked behind his back with casual grace. He looked like he belonged here, amidst the ruin, the stillness, the hush before the downpour. His coat was immaculate. His boots dry. Not a drop of blood on him.

His face lit faintly under the flicker of distant lightning. Sharp lines, one eye glowing faintly red, the other glacial blue—one fire, one frost. I didn’t know what kind of creature he was tonight. He didn’t look like a man. He never truly did.

“Only one horse?” I asked, voice dry.

His smile was slow, amused. “Only one of you.”

I stopped short, shifting my weight like I might turn away. The cold wind caught the hem of my ruined dress, white silk now dark, heavy with memory.

“I’m not riding with you.”

“You’re not walking either.”

“I’ll do whatever I damn well please.”

“Oh, I know.” He tilted his head, eyes glinting. “That’s why it’s so delightful to watch you unravel.”

I have no time for this.

I turned my back on him and started walking. The path curved upward into the trees. I didn’t know where it led. I didn’t care. My legs moved on sheer will, the dress tangling around my ankles like a snare.

“You’re not going far in that gown,” he called after me. “Unless the plan is to die dramatically at the next tree line.”

“I’ve survived worse.”

“You’ve never survived yourself.”

That stopped me.

I turned my head slightly but didn’t face him. “What do you know about survival?”

“I know you didn’t kill him.”

My grip on the dagger tightened.

“I watched,” Amon said, now stepping toward me. “ I saw the way your hand trembled when you struck him. And how you pressed the blade in anyway. It was exquisite.”

I turned to face him, eyes sharp.

He took another step, then stopped a pace away from me. Close enough for me to smell the storm in his coat and something darker beneath it, like stone and copper and grave soil.

“You left him alive,” Amon said, voice lower now. “That’s cruelty, Nio. Not mercy.”

I couldn’t name the tone. Was it astonishment? Amusement?

He added softly,  “Now, you’re falling apart in the prettiest dress I’ve ever seen you wear.”

I didn’t answer. The rain began then, soft at first, then steady. Cold drops landed on my face, soaked into my scalp. The coal dye began to run, slow black streaks curling down my cheeks like warpaint melting off.

I turned my eyes to the horizon, the trees, anything but him.

But I felt him behind me again, closer this time. He didn’t touch me, but I could feel the warmth of him through the thin fabric of my dress. It was wrong, the way it comforted me. The way his presence steadied my breathing, even when it shouldn’t.

“Get on the horse.” he said softly, now beside me.

“No.”

He leaned in, lips barely near my temple. “Then I’ll carry you.”

“I’ll gut you.”

“Please do. You’ve got a real talent for poetic wounds.”

I turned toward him fully, the dagger tight in my hand. He looked at it, then at me. Lightning cracked behind the clouds, lighting us both in ghostlight. I expected him to flinch. He didn’t.

Instead, he stepped back and gestured to the saddle. “We can argue the whole way to nowhere, or we can ride home in silence.”

Home.

My arms trembled. Not from exhaustion. Not from fear. From something deeper. Something I didn’t have words for yet.

I finally relented and climbed onto the horse, feeling the cold leather of the saddle beneath me. As I settled in, I heard Amon move behind me, graceful as always. He swung himself up onto the horse with ease, the leather creaking softly as he settled close behind me.

I felt his arm slip around my waist, steadying me, his touch confident and unashamed. He leaned in, his lips brushing close to my ear, his voice a low whisper that sent a shiver down my spine.

“You know,” he murmured, “there’s a certain beauty in the chaos you leave behind.”

I clenched my jaw, trying to ignore the thrill his words sent through me. “I didn’t do it for your entertainment.” I replied, my voice steady but quiet.

“Of course not,” he said, his tone teasing. “But I do enjoy seeing that fire in you. It’s what makes you so very captivating.”

His words were like honey laced with poison, and I hated that part of me was drawn to it. As the rain began to fall harder, his arm remained steady around my waist, a constant reminder of the dangerous game we played. He didn’t speak again, and for that, I was grateful. The silence allowed me to retreat into my own thoughts, even as the rain began to blur the world around us.

The questions swirled like a storm inside my mind. Was Elamoril truly alive, or had Elenwen twisted the truth for her own ends? The thought of him, somewhere out there, made my heart ache with a mixture of hope and dread. If he was alive, what would that mean for everything I had become?

And then there was Ondolemar. His motives were a labyrinth I couldn’t navigate. He had promised that the Brotherhood would remain untouched, yet I couldn’t shake the feeling that there was more to his plan than he let on. Had he meant for things to unfold this way, or had I simply become another piece on his chessboard?

The questions felt endless, and each one seemed to lead to another, a chain of uncertainty that wrapped around my heart. I found myself clutching the dagger and pin even tighter, as if they could somehow ground me amidst the chaos.

But despite the turmoil, a strange calm began to settle over me. The steady rhythm of the horse’s gait, the gentle weight of Amon’s arm, the sound of the rain—all of it created a cocoon of quiet in which I could simply exist, if only for a moment.

I knew that the answers would come in time, and with them, more challenges. But for now, I let myself surrender to the night, to the questions, and to the quiet understanding that some truths could only be found in the silence.

 

To be continued…

 

 

Chapter 56: Chapter 56

The air beyond the escape tunnel of the Embassy was thick with rain, each drop slicing through the night like tiny knives, as if the sky itself wept to cleanse the blood spilled beneath it.

Ten Stormcloak prisoners stood in a silent line, bound and bruised, their hands tied behind their backs with the same roughness that had bound them to a war they barely understood. Some were boys, barely past childhood, their lips trembling despite efforts to remain stoic. Others were older, men with grizzled beards and hollow eyes who no longer feared death but waited for it with the weariness of those who had already lost too much.

Feraendel, one of Ondolemar’s two ever-loyal guards, stepped forward with disciplined grace, though his golden armor was dulled by rain and mud. “Justiciar,” he said evenly, bowing his head, “these are all the survivors we could bring back alive from the camp.”

Ondolemar did not answer immediately.

He stood amidst the storm, blood seeping from the long, deliberate wounds that stretched down his body, Niolenyl’s farewell. It hurt with every breath, but he refused to let his spine bow beneath the agony. Pain was a form of prayer to him now, one he bore in silence as he stepped toward the line of captives.

His eyes, sharp as ever despite the ache, moved over the group with a strange detachment. He didn’t expect mercy from himself but for the briefest flicker of a moment, he pitied them. Especially the youngest. Children swallowed by someone else’s war. Sent to die for a broken crown and a dream carved from blood and ice.

One of the older Nords spat at his boots, the glob thick with contempt and rainwater. Ondolemar stopped.

He turned, slowly, like something ancient and unraveling. Golden eyes met pale blue.

“Thalmor filth,” the man growled. “Be done with it already.”

Ondolemar tilted his head, as if contemplating a question that had no right answer. His face gave nothing away. But something behind his gaze darkened, something ancient and tired. He had known hatred before. He wore it like a cloak. But this felt different. Not personal. Not venom. Just resignation.

From the edge of the group, a woman’s voice cracked through the rain.

“Please,” she gasped. “Please… have mercy.”

“Shut your mouth, Gretka,” barked a younger man beside her, her brother, maybe. Their eyes held the same storm. “Whatever this is,” he hissed, glaring at Ondolemar, “we’ll face it with honor.”

Honor. The word hung like smoke, useless and heavy.

Ondolemar’s gaze passed between the boy and the man who had spat. “Your son,” he said quietly. It wasn’t a question.

The man clenched his jaw. Silence was his only answer.

Ondolemar turned to him fully, hands folded behind his back despite the sharp tremor of pain that moved down his torso. The storm beat harder, as if the sky itself grew impatient.

“Please—” Gretka tried again, rising, the other guard Volathil’s gauntlet shoved her back into the mud with ruthless indifference. Her cry was sharp, and quickly swallowed by the thunder.

Ondolemar walked to her, slowly. He knelt, achingly, and touched her chin with one rain-slicked hand, lifting her face. Her eyes were the same pale blue. But they weren’t cold. They were full, too full, with tears that had nowhere left to go.

“Back off, you—” the older man tried to rise.

Feraendel pushed him back down. “Stay down.”

Ondolemar didn’t look away. He could see it now. A father. A daughter. A son. Dragged into this doomed defiance together.

Cruel. So cruel. But this world had never been anything else.

He knew what it meant to survive it. Knew that the decisions made in the name of freedom and pride often cost more than just your own life, they consumed everyone who stood beside you.

“We die like true sons and daughters of Skyrim, Gretka.” the old man said quietly.

Her tears fell harder. She didn’t scream. She didn’t sob. But her lips trembled as she pressed them shut, as if sealing in every word she would never get to say. Every life she would never live.

“Our ancestors are smiling at us.” One of them barked.

“I’ll see you all in Sovngarde.” Another muttered at the end of the line. One nodded, and then another.

Ondolemar’s throat tightened. Whether it was grief or disbelief, he didn’t know. That they still believed they would die as heroes, that there was meaning in this… it was almost beautiful.

Almost.

He looked at Gretka again, brushing her tears away with his thumb. Her skin was warm. Still warm.

“Forgive me,” he murmured. Whether to her or to himself, he couldn’t tell. Maybe both.

Her eyes widened at the words. Not because they changed anything but because they meant nothing. What comfort was forgiveness at the edge of a grave?

“I have an oath to keep.”

His voice was quiet. Firm. Final.

The spell came like a shiver through the rain, deep violet lightning arching in silence, devouring breath before anyone could scream. One blink, and the Stormcloaks fell.

No agony. No struggle. Just… stillness.

Mud, rain, and bodies.

Ondolemar stood in the middle of it all, pain surging fresh through his side. But he did not look away. He would not pretend this didn’t cost him something.

A breath passed. Then another. The silence left in the wake of death was heavier than any scream.

Volathil approached from the shadows, his armor dark with rain and ash. The elf’s voice was low but urgent.

“Justiciar… your wounds need tending.”

Ondolemar didn’t answer at first. His gaze lingered on Gretka’s lifeless form, her eyes still slightly open, as if she had died in the middle of remembering something—perhaps a warmer time, or a name she would never speak again.

“I said-“ Volathil insisted, stepping closer.

“Place the bodies in the tunnel,” Ondolemar said softly, but with the weight of command. “In the upper halls too.”

Volathil paused. “Sir—”

“Be quick about it.”

The rain answered in his silence, falling harder, drumming against steel and stone like the ticking of some divine clock counting down to something else. Something worse.

Ondolemar did not look at his wounds. He already knew them. He felt every inch of where her blade had passed. Knew where her hands had shaken. Where she had hesitated. And where she hadn’t.

Volathil bowed his head and turned to Feraendel.

They moved to obey, hauling the fallen like broken dolls toward the dark mouth of the tunnel. Ondolemar stood still as stone, alone in the storm. His shoulders straight, though his body screamed. His robes clung to him like burial wrappings, crimson spreading beneath the folds.

The rain washed over the dead. The storm kept howling. And somewhere in the black sky above, the gods remained silent.

 

To be continued…

Chapter 57: Chapter 57

 

“Look what the vampire dragged in.”

Arnbjorn’s voice cut through the dimness like a knife dulled by familiarity but still sharp enough to wound. He stood at the far end of the hall, arms crossed, his tone amused and disdainful in equal measure.

The hall itself was half-asleep, lit only by a handful of stubborn candles that burned low and steady, casting long, flickering shadows across the stone. The silence was not empty, it was expectant, like lungs holding breath. From deeper within the Sanctuary, I could already hear the thudding of hurried footsteps and the whispers of the awakened. Word had traveled fast.

I rolled my shoulders back in an attempt to brace myself. Not from the ride that had been endless, cold and from what was to come. And still, even as I stood on my own two feet, I could feel the ghost of Amon’s presence pressed behind me like a memory I couldn’t shake. He was beside me now, standing with a quiet confidence, his smirk subtle, his gaze fixed on the werewolf like a challenge spoken without words.

“What is the meaning of this?”

Astrid’s voice rang out sharp and sudden, like a sword unsheathed too fast. She stormed into the hall, clutching the folds of her nightgown, her hair tangled and wild. Fury laced her every step. Her eyes locked on mine, bloodshot and blazing. I hadn’t seen that look directed at me in years, not since the early days when I was more weapon than woman in her eyes.

“What have you done?”

The words weren’t whispered. They were thrown, like stones meant to bruise.

“Caused a mess, as always-” Arnbjorn muttered, but the moment the words left him, he winced, Astrid’s glare slashing through him like a dagger to the gut. He said no more. None of them dared to.

Figures began to fill the edges of the hall, like shadows drawn to a fire. My arrival was no secret, it had been dissected, discussed, exaggerated already, I was sure. I could feel their stares crawling over me, feel the questions curling on their tongues.

And gods, what a sight I must’ve been.

My hair was loose, hanging in wild strands. The coal dye had faded in streaks, leaving behind a tangle of black and snow-white locks matted with dried blood. My silk dress was stained in shades of red mingling like some sick tapestry of war.

Silence crackled around me, tense and brittle. Astrid stepped closer.

For a heartbeat, I thought she might strike me. Her fury flushed her throat and cheeks, veins standing out in stark blue lines against her pale skin. Her hands clenched, unclenched. But she didn’t raise them. Not yet.

“Your orders were clear,” she hissed. “No blood but the contract’s. And yet—” she paused, her voice low and dangerous, “I doubt a single man can bleed that much.”

A cruel twist of irony. The only one whose blood hadn’t painted my path was the contract.

My fists curled tight at my sides.

“It was necessary.” I said. My voice was quiet, but it carried.

Her eyes narrowed into slits.

“How many?”

There was no mercy in her voice. Only a hunger for the scale of my defiance.

I didn’t answer. My gaze shifted to the growing circle of assassins who had come to watch, their breath caught in their throats, waiting for a verdict, or a spectacle.

“All of them.” Amon said lazily, arms folded, his voice smooth as wine left too long in the bottle—dark, rich, and edged with rot.

A hush fell over the room. My heart thundered once. Twice. Then stilled altogether as Astrid’s eyes slid to him.

And there it was, that sharp, visceral loathing that she never bothered to mask around him. Not fear. Just hatred. Pure and simmering. Not for what he’d said—but for what he was. For simply being here.

Her eyes narrowed, jaw locked. But when she finally looked back at me, it wasn’t him she was going to bleed, it was me.

Then—

“Nio?”

Fen’s voice wavered gently through the tension. She had pushed through the crowd, barefoot and breathless, hair half undone. Her eyes flicked over my clothes, my hands, my face.

“Are you hurt? By Sithis, you’re—”

Her hand reached out, light and trembling.

“She’s fine.”

Astrid didn’t turn. Her voice came like frost.

Fen faltered. “But she’s bleeding—”

“It’s not her blood.” Astrid’s voice was calm now. Cold. A blade pressed against the throat of kindness. “Step aside, Fen.”

She would know it wasn’t mine. Of course she would. No wounds had opened on my skin tonight, nor on hers.

Fen’s mouth opened, then closed again. Her gaze lingered on me pleading, protective, helpless. Desperate for a sign I wasn’t crumbling beneath all that red. But I gave her nothing. I was stone. I was silence.

Standing in the middle of a massacre I’d painted with my own hands.

She stepped back, slow and reluctant. Quiet. Angry. Powerless.

Astrid turned to me then, the full force of her fury now focused. Her movements were restrained, almost elegant, but the rage beneath her skin was molten, waiting to spill.

“All of them?” she echoed, soft and sharp at once. As if tasting the words. “You went in for one. And you slaughtered the rest.”

I didn’t speak. I didn’t need to. The truth was carved in the blood still drying on my shoes.

“Did you even think,” she hissed, “what kind of chaos you’ve invited into the Brotherhood?”

Her eyes bore into mine, searching for regret. For weakness. For something she could twist into obedience.

But there was nothing left to twist.

“Nothing will happen to the Brotherhood.” I murmured, the words scraped from between clenched teeth. My voice low. Steady. I met her stare without flinching.

She raised an eyebrow, stepping in closer. The scent of her fury was acrid on the air.

“Oh?” she crossed her arms. “And who, exactly, is going to clean up your carnage?”

“The blame will fall elsewhere,” I said, each word as cold as her own. “He made sure—”

A pause. Her eyes narrowed.

“He?”

And then she laughed. Bitter. Sharp. Poison in the sound.

“So now we’re trusting Dominion filth with the future of the Brotherhood?”

She spat the words like they tasted vile, though her smile curled like a blade unsheathed. Her fists clenched once at her sides, and for a heartbeat, the room forgot how to breathe.

I lifted my gaze to hers, slow and deliberate, just in time to watch the remnants of her bitter laughter slide off her lips.

“You,” I said, soft as silk drawn across a whetstone. Each word carefully savored. “You were the one who trusted him first.”

A ripple moved through the crowd, small, sharp gasps held behind hands and glances.

“You were the one who forced me into the role.” My voice did not rise, but it carried cutting clean through the silence. “Into a scheme he prepared. Dominion filth, you call him. And yet you handed him my blade.”

Each word struck like a match. I could feel my voice wavering from weariness. The kind that seeps into your marrow. From the blood, from the ride, from the endless cycle of being used, obeyed, and punished.

From her.

I straightened.

“You should know by now,” I said, letting my hand drift to the side as I turned slightly, “I am no prey. I never was.”

More gasps. A collective shift in the crowd. Astrid’s gaze flicked toward them briefly, then snapped back to me, sharp as ever. I saw it in her eyes,

Don’t. Not here. Not in front of them.

But the line was already crossed. She knew it. And so did I.

With a soft motion, I reached into my hair. The golden pin, still crusted with dried blood, came free, and the strands fell in a cascade over my shoulders, white streaks tangled in black, wild as the night I’d survived.

“Consider this the payment.” I murmured.

Without looking, I tossed the pin in Arnbjorn’s direction. He caught it in a single breath sharp and instinctual, stared down at the blood-stained gold. I saw the way his eyes widened.

No more words were needed. Not for them. Not for this stage.

I turned.

But I hadn’t made it more than a few steps before Astrid’s voice cut through the air again.

“Do you know what this means?” she said, low and lethal. “To disobey orders?”

I didn’t stop. Not at first. But I turned my head slightly, just enough to catch her from the corner of my eye.

I knew what it meant. But I wanted to hear her say it.

“Punishment.” she hissed.

Only then did I stop.

I turned just enough to let her see the question etched in the tilt of my face.

What will it be, then?

Astrid’s jaw tightened. Her voice dropped to a snarl.

“Dungeons.”

The reaction was immediate. A single gasp, this time collective, full-bodied. The crowd recoiled in disbelief, as if she had struck one of them instead.

Me?

Punished?

Me. Her favorite.

Me. The Ashenblade.

My brow lifted. Barely. But I held her gaze, unwavering.

“No bath,” she spat, as though each word delighted her. “No bed. No food.”

She said it like she had waited years for this moment. As if it tasted sweeter than any victory. As if it proved something.

Let her savor it.

But she’d forgotten one thing.

I was forged in worse places than the dungeons of the Dark Brotherhood.

The silence stretched taut between us, binding our gazes like a thread pulled too tight to snap, two opposing forces caught in an embrace neither would break.

Authority and power.

Control and madness.

Maybe they were the same thing.

Maybe this was the only way she could feel whole by breaking me in front of them.

Maybe she had to make an example of me.

And still, none of it mattered more than the exhaustion burning through my bones, or the way my reputation cracked and crumbled at the feet of my so-called brothers and sisters, none of whom could seem to comprehend what they were witnessing.

Her eyes said it clearly:

Know your place.

Stay there.

Be a good little asset.

My jaw clenched before I could stop it. But I said nothing. I didn’t argue. I didn’t turn away in rebellion.

I couldn’t.

Not because I feared her. I’d made my peace with the cost the moment I painted the Embassy walls in red.

I had expected her anger, her rules had been broken. Her orders defied.

What I hadn’t expected was this. Her obsession. Her unraveling.

Since the Black Hand’s visit, she had been walking a fragile line. Paranoia veiled as authority. Pride masked as control. Maybe she feared what tonight would say about her more than about me. That she had failed. That she’d trusted the wrong blade.

She knew the Black Hand would learn of it. She knew Speaker Virel would hear every detail. And she knew he would laugh behind a closed hand, pity her, shame her for not sending Furoir instead. For not trusting the golden boy who never left witnesses.

But she knew me. Didn’t she?

She should have known what I was.

What I could be.

I said nothing.

I turned toward her fully, shoulders squared, head held high, and stepped past her slowly, toward the stairs that led down into the dungeons.

She didn’t stop me. Didn’t move. Didn’t tear her eyes from mine.

And I had no more words to give her.

Just blood drying on my skin.

And a storm still breaking inside me, silent and unseen.

Two sets of footsteps echoed behind me, one light, quick, urgent; the other slow, deliberate, unfazed.

I didn’t turn.

Not until a hand caught my arm—gentle but firm—halting me in the corridor that led to the dungeons.

“Nio, wait!”

Fen’s voice trembled with breathlessness, but her grip was steady. I faced her.

She searched my face with wide eyes, as if willing it to give up secrets I refused to speak.

“Are you alright? What happened back there? Tell me—”

“I’m fine, Fen.” My voice was flat, exhausted. I straightened my posture to appear more whole than I felt. “Just tired.”

And I was. Bone-deep. Not a single wound marred my body, but the weight of the night had settled on my shoulders like a second skin. Blood-slicked and soul-heavy.

From the corner of my eye, I saw the other set of footsteps approach.

Amon.

He strolled into view with that maddening ease of his, hands in pockets, expression unreadable—except for the faint smirk tugging at the edge of his mouth.

I narrowed my eyes. My brows pulled together.

He shrugged in response, unapologetic.

Smirking.

“You—” I began, jaw tightening.

But he was faster.

“Excuse me,” he interrupted smoothly, gesturing toward one of the stone cells lining the corridor, “but I live here, you know.”

His tone was light. Almost cheerful. As if this were a routine stroll to his bedroom and not a slow descent into punishment.

But it was the truth.

A sick, quiet truth that he did live here. And now I, too, was to spend the night here. Maybe more, if it pleased Astrid. The thought scraped at the inside of my ribs.

I found myself suddenly, absurdly, grateful to the former brothers who had thought ahead and built more than one cell into the dungeons.

Fen’s frustration simmered beside me, though her gaze was more tangled in confusion than anger. She kept looking between us, as if trying to thread together a story she hadn’t been told.

“I’ll come back in a few hours,” she said softly, brushing a hand against my sleeve. “With food. And I’ll get you to the bath. I know how badly you need it.”

Before I could answer, Amon swept past us with theatrical ease, alerting the half-asleep guard with a tap of his knuckle against the bars.

“Right, she stinks,” he said without missing a beat. “Even I can’t bear it.”

The nerve.

I nearly turned to slam his face into the wall but stopped myself. I wouldn’t give him that satisfaction.

The smirk on his face spread wider as he passed through the threshold of his cell. The guard shut it behind him with a hollow clink and turned to me with an expression that was equal parts blank and baffled.

What in Oblivion are you doing here?

I ignored him.

I turned to Fen again. Her eyes were softer now, lips pressed in a thin line.

“Don’t get yourself into trouble for me,” I murmured. “I’ll be fine.”

“Please,” she scoffed gently. “Astrid’s gone too far. She’ll realize it soon enough.”

I gave her a small nod. Just enough.

Before I could retreat, she stepped forward and wrapped her arms around me—no hesitation, no fear of the blood or the dirt staining her sleeping clothes. Just warmth. Just Fen.

I let her hold me.

I patted her back, light and slow. Her presence made the chill of the dungeons just a little more bearable. She pulled back with a look that cut like kindness often does—one last glare at Amon, cold as ice, and then a warm flicker of a smile toward me.

“This is temporary.” she told the guard as if daring him to believe otherwise.

The man blinked, still processing everything. I stepped toward him, my voice steady despite the exhaustion knotting in my throat.

“Speaker’s orders.” I jerked my chin toward the door.

“Of course, sister.” His hands shook slightly as he fumbled with the keys, unlocking the second cell under my watchful eye.

His curiosity lingered as the cell door creaked open, iron groaning like it mourned for me. But I stepped inside without a word.

The cell was bare, stone walls, a rusted bucket in one corner, and a sad excuse for a bed: a heap of hay barely shaped into a nest. I sat down slowly, the straw crinkling beneath me, and leaned back against the cold wall. The chill seeped into my bones. Oddly, it felt like relief.

But in the corner of my eye through the iron bars dividing us, I saw Amon.

Lounging against the opposite wall of his own cell, looking far too entertained for a man behind bars. His smirk stretched lazily across his face, fangs glinting in the low torchlight. He didn’t look imprisoned.

He looked home.

I shut my eyes and leaned my head back. Maybe if I pretended hard enough, the stone would swallow me whole.

But of course, silence never lasted long around him.

“Such an overkill.” he murmured.

“Shut up.” My voice came flat, tired. I didn’t even open my eyes.

But I could feel him smirking in the dark. Could hear it in the silence between words.

“Come now, sister,” he coaxed with mock innocence. “Don’t be a stranger. Are you mad at me for saying you stink?”

“Funny,” I said, dry as ash. “Didn’t hear you complain when you were the one begging to ride with me.”

There was a beat of silence. Then—

A strand of my hair moved.

Lifted, featherlight, as if tugged by a breeze. My eyes snapped open.

Amon’s arm was extended through the bars and the only thing he could reach was the lock of hair that had fallen close.

I recoiled instantly, scooting to the other side of the cell in a sharp motion, hay crunching beneath me.

As far from him as possible.

“You’re right.” He leant closer to the bars, one hand curling around the iron with ease, his voice low and smooth. “Nothing about you can bother me.”

The corner of my mouth lifted in disgust as I leaned my head back against the stone.

Honestly, the dungeon was nothing. The cold, the damp, the stench, it didn’t compare. Not to this. To him. To his voice, slithering around every word like it was trying to dress itself as affection. To the way his presence made the walls close in, too tight, too warm.

“And nothing you say can get me mad at you,” I lied, flat and quiet. “Because I don’t care about you anymore.”

He didn’t reply.

The silence itched under my skin.

I leaned my head back again, closed my eyes, let the cold wall cradle my skull. I needed sleep.

I needed to be ready for whatever came tomorrow, punishment, confrontation, more blood. If Astrid had already sent word to Nazir…

But then—

A shift.

Warm air curled too close to my skin. Not a sound. No door. Just presence.

My eyes opened.

He was in front of me.

One knee sunk into the straw, the other planted firmly. His body was tall, broad, and unbearably close. He hovered over me, his thigh brushing just barely against my knee, his breath already warm on my cheek.

No space.

No warning.

My heart kicked hard against my ribs.

Before I could react, his hand slid over my mouth firm and cold.

Shock and fury surged, but my limbs hesitated. Not fear. Just the confusion of heat blooming where it shouldn’t. My breath hitched against his palm.

I tried to shove him back, but his other hand caught my wrist and pressed it into the wall behind me. His strength wasn’t like a man’s. It wasn’t even like a beast’s.

It was something older. Something undead.

His eyes met mine. Red, glowing faintly. And blue, lit like a flame behind ice. And gods—he was looking at me like I was already his.

“Really?” Amon breathed, his voice softer now, but heavier, more intimate. His gaze flicked toward the guard, slumped in sleep again, just like before. “What about the things that I do?”

His words soaked into my skin.

I moved again, but slower now, less certain. I hated the heat crawling up my neck.

His hand slid down and his thumb brushed just along the edge of my jaw.

A breath escaped me.

He felt it. I knew he did. And he didn’t smirk. He didn’t speak. He just watched me.

“So easy for you to speak behind bars,” he said lowly, “when you believe they could hold me back from you.”

His head tilted, slow, deliberate.

His mouth came close, not quite touching mine, but close enough. His breath was warm, and thick with something metallic. Something that shouldn’t have stirred anything in me.

But it did.

I could have reached out to the dagger strapped on my thigh, but my fingers just curled into the straw at my side. Every nerve in my body pulled taut.

He leaned in, just enough for his cheek to brush mine, and whispered:

“Tell me… what about now?”

I tried to find something solid, some anchor beneath me, some corner of reality I could cling to. My mind searched for the ground, for breath, for control, but my body felt like it had unraveled beneath his presence. It was mine, I knew it was, but in that moment it responded to his as if his nearness rewrote the laws that held me together.

What was it in me that resonated with him so closely? Why did I tremble under his touch not from pain or fear alone, but from something deeper, something more dangerous? Something shameful.

I hated how easily he unraveled me. Hated that the same skin that had weathered war and bloodshed now tensed, flushed, under the weight of his breath. I wanted to pull myself back, wanted to snap the thread that bound me to this moment, but the thread only tightened.

I tried to reason. Tried to break through the fog. How had he even gotten in here? But the question wouldn’t form properly in my mind, the words sluggish and senseless.

Every instinct I had screamed to push him away, to break free, to reclaim the air between us. But my limbs knew better. No strength I possessed could move him. I had felt it, his grip around my wrist like steel carved from ancient death. He could pin me like this forever if he wanted to. And that truth sent a quiet bolt of panic through me, cold and fast, and far too deep.

He could do anything.

And I could do nothing.

So I tried to drag my thoughts away from his body and back to who he really was. The way he lied without blinking. The way his smile curled around sins he never intended to confess. I told myself to remember, remember that there was no shame in him. No guilt. No line he wouldn’t cross. And still, part of me had dared to believe that he had changed. That the monster I had once saved had shed some of his hunger.

But I had been wrong.

That part of him, that invasive and twisted part, hadn’t died at all. It had been waiting. Patient. And now it was here, crouched over me like a shadow I had called into my own bed.

My breath hitched in my throat. My mind flared with protest, but the words came slower than they should have.

“I—” I tried.

Why didn’t I just let him die?

The answer lodged in my chest like a splintered dagger. And maybe it was cowardice, or maybe it was clarity, but what finally left my lips wasn’t rage, and it wasn’t a scream.

“I hate you,” I whispered. “Always did. Always will.”

There was no force behind it. No cry for help. Just a breath. A confession soaked in everything I wanted him to believe.

He smiled. Of course he did.

It was knowing. It was the kind of smile that said he saw through every word I spoke and down into everything I didn’t.

“So you lied,” he murmured, voice still warm against my skin. His eyes met mine, glowing low in the dim light. “You do care.”

I hated how quiet his voice was. I hated that he didn’t need to raise it to make it feel like pressure beneath my ribs.

I shoved against him, hand flat to his chest. But he didn’t move. He didn’t even blink. He was stone beneath my palms, unyielding and terribly alive. I pushed harder, and still he didn’t move.

Then he reached for my hand.

His fingers curled around mine, right there against his chest, and his touch was gentle. Sickeningly so. His thumb brushed over my knuckles like a lover’s might, and my stomach twisted with revulsion and heat all at once.

“Next time,” he said quietly, “think before you speak.”

The words sank deeper than they should have.

Because part of me wanted to answer. Part of me wanted to fight. But the rest of me was too busy burning with something I didn’t know how to name.

He brought his mouth just behind my ear, the barest graze of air brushing my skin as he spoke.

“I want you to know, I was there.” His voice was softer now, slower. “At the fort, the crypt, the Embassy...”

I swallowed hard. He didn’t stop.

“I watched your hands go red. Watched you fall apart… and come alive at the same time.”

My throat tightened. My body was screaming to move, to hit him, to pull away, to reach for the dagger, but something else, something lower, was burning too hot beneath the surface to name.

“And not once,” he whispered, his voice nearly breaking into a sigh, “did I look away.”

His head tilted toward mine, his lips close, so close I could feel the shape of his smirk without even seeing it.

“You’re angry,” he murmured, “not because I’m here.”

His lips hovered just above mine.

Not touching.

Not yet.

Just there, like a cliff edge I was being dared to step over.

“But because you want me closer.”

I could feel the pull of it, of him, like gravity bending the air between our mouths.

And Father help me, my body didn’t flinch.

It froze.

My thoughts curled in on themselves like smoke, and all I could feel was the heat of him, the press of his words still clinging to my skin, echoing in places I didn’t want them to reach.

You want me closer.

No.

No. No.

I moved before I could think.

My palm cracked hard across his cheek.

The sound of the slap cracked through the air, sharp and final.

Amon’s head turned with the force, his cheek blooming red. But he didn’t flinch. Didn’t retaliate. His hand caught my wrist, and for a long, breathless moment, he simply stared, eyes dark and glittering, lips parted as though savoring the sting.

“There it is,” he whispered, “Fire. I wondered if you’d lost it somewhere in all that blood.”

His grip on my wrist loosened, but his body didn’t retreat.

My other hand slid down, slow and silent, until it closed around the hilt of the dagger beneath  the silk.

He didn’t look down, but he knew. I knew he felt it.

And that damn smile curled wider across his face.

But then—

“What in Oblivion—?”

The guard stirred, boots scraping against stone as he jolted awake. His voice was thick with sleep and confusion, but the weight behind it was real.

“Is everything—?”

When I looked back—

Amon was gone.

No sound. No movement. Just gone.

The guard blinked at me, clearly unsure what he’d walked in on.

I stood there, back to the wall, wrist sore from the grip that had vanished like it was never there. My other hand still clutched the dagger, hidden in the folds of fabric, pressed tight against my thigh.

Amon sat in his cell as if he’d never moved. Legs stretched out. One arm draped over his knee. The red mark on his cheek the only proof of anything that had passed between us.

He didn’t speak.

He didn’t need to.

I slowly loosened my grip on the blade and drew in a breath that didn’t quite steady me, but it held.

The guard stepped forward a little, uncertain.

“Everything alright, sister?”

I didn’t look at him.

“Water,” I said, voice hoarse but even.“Bring me some water.”

A pause. Then a flurry of keys and boots on stone as he moved.

Amon was still watching me.

Like he wanted me to drown in silence.

To be continued…

Chapter 58: Chapter 58

Steam curled against the stone walls, soft and slow, like the air itself was exhaling after a night held too tight.

The bath chamber was dim, lit only by a few flickering sconces, their light dancing off the water’s surface in ripples of gold. The water was warm against my skin, heavy with lavender and moss, already clouded from blood that wasn’t mine. I sank into it slowly, letting it rise over my shoulders, over my collarbone, hoping it would take more than just the dirt with it.

Hoping it would wash away him.

The press of his hand. The feel of his breath against my cheek. The iron grip that pinned me to the wall. The way his voice had curled around me like smoke, like something I couldn’t breathe through.

I scrubbed harder at my arms, my throat, my wrists.

But it was no use.

Amon’s touch wasn’t on my skin. It was beneath it.

Fen sat across from me, arms resting on the edge of the stone basin, the ends of her braid damp and clinging to her collarbone. She looked at me with fear. Just steady, soft concern.

“I know you don’t like sharing the bath,” she said gently. “But… considering the circumstances—”

“I’m grateful.”

And I meant it.

Maybe it was the heat. Maybe the silence. Maybe just the exhaustion pressing into my bones but I didn’t mind her being there. Not this time.

I leaned my head back against the stone, eyes slipping half shut.

“You shouldn’t have brought me here.”

“I know.”

A beat passed. Then her voice dropped, quieter.

“But you looked like someone who needed to be saved.”

I didn’t answer. Just let the warmth lap at my shoulders and the silence curl between us.

She didn’t press. She never did.

That was what I liked about Fen. She knew when to ask, and when to just be there.

Tonight, she had done both.

And somehow, that felt like enough.

For a moment.

But not for long.

Her voice came again, gentler than before, barely more than a ripple across the water:

“What happened, Nio?”

My eyes opened slowly.

She wasn’t accusing. Just asking. Just trying to understand.

“At the Embassy,” she added, “All of them?”

I gave a small nod. My gaze didn’t leave the far wall.

“Is it true?” Her voice wavered slightly. “Did you really—”

“Yes.”

The word fell between us like a stone.

Fen didn’t move. Didn’t recoil. She just absorbed it.

“And Elenwen?”

My chest tensed. Heat pressed in around my ribs.

“She’s dead.”

A pause.

“But not by my hand.”

That surprised her. I saw it flash across her face.

“Then whose—”

“It doesn’t matter.”

I met her eyes finally. “It was a mess. I lost control. And Astrid—” I forced a breath through clenched teeth, “She made her point.”

Silence. Then, softly,

“Did someone make you lose control?”

The question hit harder than I expected.

Elamoril.

His name crashed against my ribs like a wave, sudden and bruising. I could barely hold my breath against it.

He was supposed to be dead.

I had mourned him, buried him with songs in my head and blood on my hands. I had made him a ghost and lit candles in the quiet places of my memory just to keep him there.

But what if he wasn’t gone?

What if he was still somewhere?

My throat ached, and I didn’t realize my fingers had curled into fists beneath the surface of the water.

If he’s alive… then everything I became was built on a grave that didn’t exist.

All my blood. All my rage. All my choices.

Would he even recognize me now?

Would he want to?

Or would I be another monster to him, one more thing that should’ve stayed dead?

I blinked the heat from my eyes and leaned forward, resting my arms on my knees, water lapping gently around me.

Fen didn’t speak again, not after the bath, not during the climb back through the tunnels, not even when we passed the flickering torchlight near the guard’s post.

We moved like shadows.

Every breath was a risk. Every step down into the undercroft another chance to be caught. But Fen didn’t hesitate.

And I followed.

When we reached the final turn before the dungeons, she stopped me with a touch to my arm. Her fingers were damp from the bath, her eyes steady in the low light.

Then, wordlessly, she reached into the folds of her cloak and pressed a cloth-wrapped bundle to my chest.

“From your room,” she whispered. “Figured you’d need something familiar.”

My hands closed around it.

The weight told me it was books. But not just any books.

She’d gone to my quarters. The place I wasn’t even allowed to return to.

My breath caught as I peeled back the edge of the linen.

Three books, two worn volumes I recognized by touch alone. And between them… the slim, black-bound tome I’d stolen from Ondolemar’s study. The Dovahzul dictionary. 

My throat tightened.

Of course Fen wouldn’t ask about it. Wouldn’t mention its origin. She probably didn’t even know. Or maybe she did, and that was why she brought it.

My fingers closed around the bundle.

“Fen—”

She cut me off with a look. Fierce. Certain.

“You’ll need something to keep you sane.”

A breath. “You kept me sane, more than once. Don’t argue.”

And with that, she slipped past the half-dozing guard and vanished into the stone halls above.

The cell door creaked shut behind me.

The books were still clutched to my chest, pressed to damp skin beneath the folds of my cloak. I stood for a breath, maybe two, letting the dark settle around me again.

But I wasn’t alone.

“Well, well,” Amon’s voice drawled from the next cell, low and amused. “She returns… reborn.”

I didn’t answer. I moved to the haystack and sat, laying the books carefully beside me like they were worth more than steel. In some ways, they were.

The scent of lavender still lingered faintly on my skin. But it was fading. And I hated how much of me wanted to hold onto it.

“You smell better,” he said softly, like a compliment spoken behind a smirk. “Not that I minded you before. But now? You’re radiant.”

I didn’t look at him.

But I felt the way his eyes followed me in the dark.

He always did that. As if looking was a kind of possession. One he never asked permission for.

“Get some rest,” I muttered. “Your flattery stinks worse than I did.”

I didn’t look at him. Not yet.

But I could feel the way he leaned closer to the bars, his voice curling through the dark like smoke under the door.

“You look like a woman who just crawled out of fire. And came out glowing.”

My hand tightened around the spine of the book.

“Do you want me to call the guard?” I said, quiet and cold. I turned my head, finally meeting his mismatched gaze.

“Have them chain you to the wall with silver? I bet they’d be thrilled to watch you scream.”

That earned a low, delighted sound from him, half-laugh, half-growl.

“Mmm,” he hummed, “Is that a promise, or are you just trying to turn me on?”

I stared. Unblinking.

“Try me,” I said. “I will make sure they melt it down and pour it straight down your throat.”

He grinned, teeth sharp even in the dark.

“Careful sister,” he murmured. “You keep talking like that, and I’ll start thinking you care.”

I turned away.

Not because I didn’t have more to say but because I did. And I didn’t want him to see it on my face.

Instead, I opened the dictionary.

My fingers traced the pages slowly, deliberately.

Let him talk.

Let him try.

The book sat in my lap like a stone. Heavy. Familiar. Stolen.

I had taken it from the shelves the last time I was in Ondolemar’s house without asking, without even thinking. Just slid it under my cloak like I had every right to it.

But as I sat in the dark, back against the stone wall, I couldn’t stop my fingers from tracing the edges of the pages like they were something sacred. Not because of what the book held.

Because of who it had belonged to.

It smelled like his house.

It smelled like him.

He hadn’t given me this book. He hadn’t given me anything. Not his trust, not his loyalty, not even the truth, not really.

And still I had told Astrid, with every ounce of conviction I could gather, that he would fix what I’d done. That he would protect the Brotherhood. That he had a plan.

But now, in the silence, I didn’t know if I believed it.

What if he didn’t?

What if the Embassy burned and the Dominion pointed their blades and the Brotherhood fell and it was all because I put faith in a man who had always walked the line between ally and stranger?

I turned the page, slowly. My eyes scanned the unfamiliar symbols, but I wasn’t reading. I was remembering.

Years ago, he had kept an oath to me.

To Elamoril.

He’d stood between us and the abyss once quietly, without thanks, without ever asking for more. Just did it. Because I asked.

Because he said he would.

Was that still true now?

Did any part of that man still exist?

I didn’t know.

But I wanted to believe.

Father help me, I wanted to believe he would come through again.

My eyes caught on a word in the middle of the page

Fus.

I stared at it, unmoving. The page beneath my hand had begun to curl slightly from the steam that still clung to my skin, but I didn’t notice.

I had heard that word before.

Not in the real world. Not from a voice I could see. But in my mind, shouted, deep and thunderous, rattling through my bones like a distant storm.

“Fus kos hi.”

I remembered it now. One of those nights where the voices came, uninvited, in sleep or waking, I could never tell the difference. A command, sharp and absolute, echoing through me like it had always belonged there

I hadn’t known what it meant.

Not until now.

My finger slid under the word. Fus. Force.

At the time, I thought I was losing my mind.

Now, I wasn’t so sure.

I turned the page. Then another. Searching.

Kos.

There. Buried among verbs and fragments. The handwriting in this section grew mess, like the scribe had been afraid to write it cleanly.

Kos – to be.

And finally,

Hi – you.

I stared at the three words. My fingertips trembled slightly as I traced them out on the page. Then I whispered them to myself, one by one. As if naming them might make the fear real.

Fus… kos… hi.

Force… be… you.

No.

Force is yours.

My breath slowed. The silence around me thickened like fog.

That… that wasn’t a threat.

It wasn’t a curse.

It was a blessing.

Something or someone had spoken those words into my mind long before I understood them. A voice older than anything I’d ever known. Deeper than language.

And it had chosen me.

My skin prickled.

What had it seen in me?

What had it known?

And what did it want?

To be continued…

Chapter 59: Chapter 59

4E, 100

 

It was always dusk in Quagmire, but never the same dusk twice.

Tonight, the sky dripped rust and bruised lilac. The trees leaned at impossible angles, their shadows longer than their trunks. Time coiled in corners, snarling softly, untamed. This realm was never meant to hold peace and yet, nestled in the crook of a hollowed willow that bled slow silver, a child slept.

She was tiny. Still. Suspended in a cradle of dreamroot and old promises. Breathing steady beneath layers of woven sleep. There was no wind, but her breath stirred the dream-fog all the same.

A footfall scattered the silence.

Sai stepped through the haze with the casual arrogance of one who had once played dice with creation. But not here. Never here. Here, he walked like a man approaching a wound he had made long ago and only just remembered how to find.

“Luck,” Vaermina said, without looking up. “Or perhaps regret, today.”

“You let her dream too long.” Sai said, quietly.

Vaermina sat nearby on a swing made of hair-thin spiderglass. It creaked as it swayed. She didn’t look up from the thread she was braiding, shimmering, and faintly pulsing with breath.

“I let her rest,” she replied. “There’s a difference.”

Sai’s eyes, usually half-lidded and amused, sharpened. “It was meant to be a pause. Not an eternity.”

“You called it safety,” Vaermina said lightly. “Don’t change your prayer now.”

He stepped closer to the cradle, where the dream-fog thickened. The child didn’t stir. She hadn’t stirred in centuries.

“She’s beginning to hum beneath it,” he said. “She’s ready.”

Vaermina’s fingers stopped mid-braid.

“So you say.”

“I know,” he snapped. “The wheel turns again. The world is about to ask for her.”

Vaermina laughed, soft and bitter. “The world never asks. It takes.”

He turned on her. “Then let her wake and take something back.”

Vaermina tilted her head, regarding him like a puzzle she once solved and then forgot. “What are you truly afraid of, Luck? That she will sleep too long… or that she’ll wake and find him first?”

Sai’s face didn’t move. But the air did, sharp and slicing through the fog.

“You lost him,” she said, voice lower now. “You gave him nothing but riddles and distance.”

“He chose that path.” Sai growled.

Vaermina smiled again. “He chose the father who reached back.”

The realm groaned.

“I’m not here to speak of him,” Sai said. “The past is gone.”

“Is it?” she murmured.

Silence.

She stood, elegant and monstrous all at once and walked to the cradle. Her hand hovered above it, not touching.

“She still dreams of snow,” she said. “Of voices she’s never heard. And a name no one taught her.”

“Then she’s not as asleep as you hoped.” Sai said.

Vaermina glanced back at him. “Tell me something.”

He didn’t respond.

“If she wakes,” she asked, “what will you call her?”

He looked down at the sleeping girl. His mouth opened, then closed.

“I don’t know.” he said.

Vaermina smiled with real amusement this time, slow and terrible.

“Then you are not ready.”

The cradle pulsed. A thread of frost spidered across its rim.

And far, far away, in a different night altogether, someone who was once a boy and no longer entirely mortal paused mid-step, and felt something he couldn’t name shift behind his ribs.

Sai turned back to her, voice low and iron-flat.

“Wake her.”

Vaermina didn’t move.

“Ask the Divines,” she said sweetly. “You used to be their favorite.”

“I’m asking you.”

She smiled wider, teeth just a little too white. “Then find a way. If you want her so badly…” she stepped backward into the mist, her voice curling like smoke, “wake her yourself.”

And she was gone.

Only the swing creaked. Only the dream remained.

And the child, still breathing.

Still waiting.

 

To be continued…

Chapter 60: Chapter 60

I closed the book like it might burn me. Not out of reverence, but fear.

My fingers hovered over the cover for a moment too long. My skin still felt warm from the steam of the bath, but inside, something had turned cold. The kind of cold that didn’t belong to water or air. The kind that started in your bones when you realized the ground beneath you wasn’t solid after all.

Force is yours.

I didn’t want to hear it again, but I did. The words were there, behind my ribs, behind my teeth, behind everything. Whispered not in Tamrielic, not in any tongue I’d been taught, but in  that  language. That  voice.

It wasn’t madness.

It had never been madness.

I had been trying to claw those voices out of my mind for some time now, fighting them, fearing them, curling into myself whenever they came too close. But they were speaking a language. A real one. Ancient. Terrible.

Dovahzul.

The language of dragons.

The language of the dead mountain gods who bent the sky with their breath.

I pressed my hands to my temples, eyes shut, willing the room to stop spinning. But it wasn’t the room. It was  me.

They had been speaking to me. Not just speaking, but  commanding. Blessing.

What did they want from me?

Why me ?

My heart pounded like it was trying to escape. I curled into myself, legs drawn close, my chin resting against my knees like I was a child again. That part of me, the small part, the old part, wanted to scream. To sob. To forget. But forgetting wasn’t an option anymore. The moment I read those words, something inside me had shifted. It wasn’t just knowledge.

It was recognition.

Like something long asleep had opened one eye.

My lips parted. I could still feel the shape of the words there.  Fus… kos… hi…

I bit down on them.

“Don’t tell me you’re crying over a dictionary.”

The voice was amused. Dry.

I didn’t look up at Amon. I couldn’t. My body might have been still, but my mind was fraying at the seams.

He shifted in his cell, I heard the rustle of his coat, the familiar scrape of his boot against stone. “Did you get scared of it?” he continued, tone playfully mocking. “What was it? Big words? Or is there a particularly offensive preposition on page forty-three?”

Still, nothing from me.

My fingers slowly curled against the pages, crumpling the edge. I didn’t feel the pressure, just the trembling.

“…Niolenyl?”

The shift in his tone was subtle but instant, no longer entertained.

A beat passed. Then another.

“Nio,” he said again, softer this time. “What is it?”

I couldn’t speak. I didn’t  want  to speak. I wasn’t ready to say aloud that the voices hadn’t been delusion, that the language of dragons had been haunting me for weeks, curling like smoke through my veins. 

“I’ve heard it before.” I whispered, finally.

Silence.

Then— “Heard what?”

I didn’t reply. I couldn’t.

The words had always been faceless. I believed they were madness, echoes of trauma, residue from too many nights curled in blood and silence. But now, now they had shape. Language. Meaning.

I kept my knees tucked to my chest, cape draped over my shoulders doing little against the chill that had nothing to do with the air. The bars between us might as well have been glass, I could feel him still, just beyond it. Like heat from a fire I wouldn’t turn to face.

Then, finally, his voice again.

Low. Careful. Feigning casual.

“Maybe get some sleep?”

A pause.

“You’ve had a rough night.”

Another pause, then a faint shrug in his tone. “I’d say you’ve earned a nap.”

I exhaled, quiet and sharp. Not quite a laugh. Not quite anything. Just breath.

He was trying. In his own way. Threading humor through the silence like stitching through a wound, careless, sometimes, but better than letting it bleed.

Amon never did silence well. He filled it with smirks and shadows, with the sound of wine being poured or blades being drawn. But tonight, he let most of it stand.

Because he knew I wasn’t ready to fill it.

“You don’t have to tell me what it was,” he added after a moment. “Whatever it is that’s crawling under your skin. You will when you’re ready.”

Another rustle as he shifted again. Metal softly clinking. The creak of old leather and chain.

“But you should rest. The world’s not ending before sunrise.”

A beat.

“And if it does… well. Wouldn’t want you to face it sleep-deprived.”

I let my forehead press against my knees, the cold iron of my thoughts dulling just slightly at the warmth in his voice. It was a strange thing, to be soothed by someone like Amon, a creature carved from night, from teeth and blood and terrible choices.

A part of me wanted to speak. To whisper that I was terrified. That something was coming for me, or worse, coming  from  me.

But if I said it aloud, it would be real.

And right now, I wasn’t ready for it to be real.

So I stayed quiet.

All my life, I’d fought monsters I could see, blades, poisons, eyes in the dark. I knew how to survive those. I could cut them open. Burn them down. But this? This was something inside me. And I had no name for it. No weapon. No plan.

Only questions.

Was I being marked? Summoned? Cursed?

Was I going mad?

 

---

 

The next time I opened my eyes, the fire was lower. The torchlight had grown long and strange on the walls. A heavy bootstep echoed across the dungeon floor, deliberate, measured.

Then another. And another.

I blinked, still half-caught in whatever shallow sleep I’d managed. For a moment, I thought I was dreaming again of stone halls, of voices, of words I couldn’t escape.

But this was real.

Astrid’s voice cut through the shadows, smooth and sharp like a blade drawn just past the throat.

“Get up.”

Metal clinked. A cage door swung open.

I sat up fast, the cape falling from my shoulders. My eyes adjusted to the figures now stepping into the torchlight, Astrid, flanked by two of the brothers. Her black leathers caught the gold in the flame. Her face unreadable. Her gaze locked not on me, but on  Amon .

He hadn’t moved yet. He still sat in the same place, legs stretched out, hands resting loosely on his thighs. Watching.

Astrid nodded toward the door of his cell.

“Go see Gabriella,” she said flatly. “She’s got something for you.”

A contract.

Of course.

The wheel never stopped turning. Even now.

Amon didn’t move.

His eyes shifted to meet mine, and for a moment, I couldn’t quite place what I saw in them, not just defiance, not just disdain. Something heavier. A question wrapped in tension. A clenched jaw. As if he were searching for an answer in me. Should I go?

“I said—”

“I heard you.” he interrupted, voice low but steady. His gaze didn’t leave mine. Still waiting. Still asking. For what?

Permission? Reassurance? Forgiveness?

I didn’t speak. I only gave a faint nod, barely more than a breath.

Do as she says.

That was all he needed.

He rose from where he sat, slow and deliberate, and stepped toward the threshold of his cell.

“It would be better if I had—”

“Take him.” Astrid snapped, cutting him off before the sentence was finished. She didn’t look at him after that. 

The brothers stepped in, each seizing him by the arms like a prisoner and began dragging him toward the stairs.

He didn’t resist.

But just before he disappeared into the shadows above, he turned his head. His eyes found mine one last time.

I lowered my gaze.

Let them.

I knew what he was. I’d seen him rip vampires apart with his bare hands, teeth, flesh, bone. There was nothing fragile about Amon. Nothing that should ever be pulled or dragged.

And yet, he let them.

He bore it all.

Why?

As the footsteps faded up the stairs, Astrid stepped closer to my cell.

I could see the tip of her boots just beyond the bars, polished and sharp, and I could feel her gaze settle on me like heat from a low flame. Not rage. Something slower. Heavier.

“I remember saying no bath,” she said coolly. “But I suppose Fennori needs to be disciplined as well.”

Her voice wasn’t raised, but it cut clean all the same.

I lifted my eyes to meet hers.

There was no fury in them, not anymore. Just disappointment. Deep and still, seated in her gaze like a monarch on a cold, immovable throne. Her brown eyes didn’t burn, they judged.

Fen had known we would be caught.

She’d known the risk the moment she led me down the passage to the old bathhouse. She knew what Astrid would see the second she laid eyes on me, pale white hair, the coal dye washed clean. A cover broken. A disobedience exposed by a single glance.

And still, Fen had done it anyway.

And now I would carry the weight of it.

We both would.

“She still thinks you need protecting. That you’re something delicate under all that blood.”

I looked up slowly, fingers curling instinctively at my sides.

Astrid’s eyes stayed on me, unreadable, unblinking.

“She’s wrong.”

Another step. Her shadow brushed the edge of my cage.

“But you know that, don’t you?”

I stood then, taking slow steps toward the door. 

“You came down here to scold me for a bath?”

Her jaw twitched.

“I came to remind you,” she said, “who you belong to.”

The words struck harder than they should’ve.

Not because I feared them but because some part of me still  remembered  believing it. Still remembered when her voice had felt like purpose. Like safety. Like the only hand left holding me above the dark.

“I belong to the Brotherhood,” I said. “Not to you.”

She smiled then, but there was nothing soft in it. Nothing real.

“No, Niolenyl. You  are  the Brotherhood. You speak for us. You kill for us. You’re not just a blade, you’re  mine.  My Silencer. You don’t get to break formation and pretend it’s independence.”

I stepped closer to the bars.

“I didn’t pretend anything.”

“You defied orders,” she snapped. “You were told to kill clean. And instead, you left the Thalmor torn limb from limb.”

“They deserved worse.”

“You weren’t sent to make statements!” Her voice rose, not loud, but sharp and bitter. “I told you no bloodshed. But you didn’t listen to  me! ”

I stared at her, breath trembling now from the weight of it all. I swallowed hard, the ache in my throat more than exhaustion.

She kept going.

“And then you came back and talked back to me. In front of the family. The Speaker.  As if we were equals.”

“I wasn’t trying to shame you.”

“No,” she said. “You were trying to prove you’ve outgrown me.”

That landed like a slap.

I didn’t mean to say what came next, but it cracked loose from my ribs anyway.

“Maybe I have.”

It wasn’t rebellion. It was honesty.

Silence fell like stone.

Astrid didn’t move. She didn’t breathe. For a moment, I thought she’d strike me. Or laugh. But she just looked at me like something that had stopped obeying gravity.

Then she said, low and bitter,

“You’ll stay here until you remember what you are.”

I didn’t look away.

She turned, then paused at the edge of the dark.

“I’m not angry that you killed them,” she added without looking back. “I’m angry you did it like you’d already left us.”

And then she was gone.

Leaving only me behind.

Just the cold. And the question that wouldn’t stop echoing in my skull:

Have I?

 

To be continued…

 

Chapter 61: Chapter 61

 

It had been days since Astrid sentenced me to the dungeons, an unspoken decree masked as discipline, cloaked in the vague promise that I would remain here until I “remembered who I was.” But what she truly meant was clear: until I remembered to whom I belonged.

And I didn’t.

Or perhaps, on some level, I did. But it made no difference. Aside from the occasional offering of food and water slipped beneath the bars, there was no mercy in my captivity. No comfort in the shadows. Yet I refused to beg. I wouldn’t give her that. If she was waiting for a plea, she would wait forever.

I hadn’t touched the book since that first moment. It still lay where I had left it, cold and motionless on the stone floor, as if it had been waiting to be claimed and feared all at once. I couldn’t bring myself to reach for it again. I was afraid of what it might awaken. Afraid that the moment my fingers brushed its cover, the memories would surge forward, fierce and merciless!and I would remember too much.

And that terrified me more than forgetting ever had.

Fen came by each day, her steps muffled on the stone, her smile always present, if a little strained. Astrid, in all her twisted authority, had reduced her to stable duty, calling it discipline, though everyone knew it was just humiliation dressed in tradition. No contracts. No purpose. Just shoveling straw and saddling horses while others killed in the name of the Night Mother. Still, Fen never made me feel like any of it was my fault. She never looked at me with pity. Only that soft, persistent light in her eyes, as if she still saw someone worth showing kindness to.

She’d sit beside my door, humming or chatting about the happenings above, though there wasn’t much news to share. Lately, it seemed the only thing anyone talked about was me. My fall from grace. My silence. My punishment.

There had been no trial. No chance to speak. Just a quiet command, and then the sound of the lock sliding into place. Some whispered that I deserved it. Others murmured that it was excessive, cruel even. But none of them dared say a word to Astrid.

Amon came and went with his usual elusiveness, though “came” might be too generous a word. He’d appear in his cell one evening, and by morning, he’d be gone again, swept away to another contract like smoke slipping through fingers.

But this time, he was gone longer. Two days, maybe more, if I was still keeping track of time correctly down here.

Part of me wouldn’t have blamed him if he’d vanished entirely. If this place had finally driven him away.

When he would return, I would keep my silence, as always. I spoke to him only when absolutely necessary and I made sure nothing ever was. He tried, of course. To prod. To provoke. Sometimes with sharp-edged humor, sometimes with something that almost resembled concern. But I never gave him more than five words in reply. He hadn’t earned more than that.

He didn’t deserve to be my confidant, just because we shared the same stale air. Or because his voice, at times, softened. I could never know when he was being genuine, and that was the danger. Amon lied the way others breathed, smoothly, effortlessly, without shame or hesitation. He was intelligent. Persuasive.

Still, he didn’t press. Not anymore. He kept his distance, respectful and restrained in a way that surprised me. He didn’t invade my space. Didn’t try to push past the silence I wrapped around myself like armor.

And for now… that was enough.

Time had a cruel way of stretching when you were left alone. Each second hung heavy in the air, drawn out and sharpened by the silence.

A silence that didn’t simply exist, it listened. It watched. And when it breathed, it did so with teeth.

Above me, the iron groan of the dungeon door broke through the stillness.

I didn’t lift my head. But I listened.

Bootsteps. Measured. Heavy. That faint drag of leather on stone, betraying the worn-down heel of the left boot.

Amon descended the stone steps with his usual quiet arrogance, as if the weight of the world had never touched him. I didn’t need to look up to know the guards stepped aside. No one spoke.

Perhaps they knew, you don’t speak to a storm. You brace for its passing.

The door to his cell opened with a dull clank. Then, a breath of silence. Heavy. Pressurized.

He stepped in.

The door shut behind him, locking him in the dark with me like some cruel ritual we both endured. For a moment, there was only the faint rustle of his breath, steady and calm, like nothing could ever reach him.

Then he broke the silence.

“Poor bastard,” he muttered, almost to himself.

I didn’t answer.

“He cried,” he continued, quieter now. Contemplative. “Didn’t scream. Just sat there. Asked if I could send a message to his sister.”

I still didn’t look up. But my ears caught the soft creak of leather as he removed his gloves slowly, deliberately, one finger at a time.

“I told him I would, of course,” he went on. “Didn’t say the message would be written in blood.”

There was a heavy thump as something hit the floor, his chestplate, most likely. I stared at the straw scattered beside my cot, willing it to hold my attention.

But then I heard the scrape of fabric.

The wet pull of a shirt dragged over a broad back slick with sweat and something darker.

I didn’t want to look.

But I did.

And I forgot how to breathe.

His back was caught in the amber light of the torch, shoulders broad and cut from discipline, muscles shifting like poetry in motion. His skin was pale, unmarred where the fire touched it, like something carved, not born.

Until I saw them.

Scars.

Tiny. Countless. Scattered across his back in dense constellations, too many to count, too raw to forget.

The air thickened around me.

I remembered the sound of frost cutting flesh. Of the scream behind his teeth as the shards struck him.

I had done that.

I had driven them into him. A spell of wrath, desperation, or vengeance, I no longer knew. I had thought it left no mark. He never told me they scarred.

My head turned away too fast, and my breath caught mid-thought. I hated the sound of it. Hated that he’d made me forget to hide.

“Something wrong?” he asked, voice low, laced with amusement.

Bastard.

I swallowed the lump rising in my throat. Let the cold return to my voice. “Your shirt’s on the floor.”

He chuckled, deep and rich. “Would you like me to pick it up?”

“You could at least pretend to have shame.”

“I don’t have to pretend for you.”

I looked back down at the floor, fingers still twisted into the fraying edge of the straw mattress. It gave my hands something to do. Something to hold, while the rest of me tried not to come undone.

He sat at the edge of his cot, bare back to me, elbows resting on his knees. The torchlight traced the contours of his spine, and for a while, he said nothing.

Then, with unhurried precision, he reached for a cloth and began to wipe the blood from his leather bracers—red smears, dried at the edges, glinting faintly in the low light. He didn’t hurry. He never did. Every movement was fluid, deliberate, almost reverent.

“You know,” he said after a long pause, his tone different now, calm, but edged. “This whole thing… Aren’t you tired of it?”

I didn’t answer.

“Being her favorite,” he went on, methodically working at a stubborn stain along the stitching. “Then her weapon. Now her prisoner. Doesn’t the whiplash exhaust you?”

I clenched my jaw. “I didn’t ask for commentary.”

“It’s not commentary,” he replied without missing a beat, his eyes still on the armor piece he was scrubbing clean. “It’s a question.”

I didn’t look at him. “If you don’t like it here, Amon, you can leave. You’ve done it before.”

The silence that followed felt heavier than his footsteps. The kind that dragged the air down with it.

Then I heard the creak of leather as he stood, slow and measured. He crossed the floor with quiet steps, bloodied rag still in hand. I didn’t need to look to feel him near, close to the bars, close to me.

“You think I stay because I can’t leave?”

“I think you’re dramatic.” I muttered, not daring to lift my gaze.

He laughed softly, melodic and low, tilting his head back so the torchlight caught the steel rings in his ears. They glinted like ornaments on something dangerous.

“I’m just waiting.” he murmured, voice drawn out like a secret.

“For what?” I shot back. “To see when your torture will finally kill me?”

His eyes darkened, not with rage, but something quieter. He stepped even closer, until the memory of his past trespass, of how easily he’d appeared inside, made the hair on the back of my neck lift.

“Torture?” he echoed, tilting his head to the side, still holding the blood-stained cloth in one hand. The scent of iron clung to him like smoke, violence and leather, sweat and steel. “Is that what I’ve been doing to you?”

He let the question hang there between us, gaze fixed not on my eyes, but somewhere lower. Somewhere unspoken.

Then, with a slow grace that made my breath catch, he brought the cloth to his collarbone and dragged it across his skin—wiping away a smear of blood that had dried just above his heart.

“You wouldn’t be so bothered,” he murmured, “if you didn’t enjoy it a little.”

I stilled.

My grip on the straws tightened, but I didn’t speak. I didn’t move.

His eyes lifted, meeting mine across the dim space. Torchlight danced along the curve of his smirk—half shadow, half hunger.

“You’re always watching,” he added, almost gently. “Even when you think you’re not.”

My throat felt dry.

“I watch to make sure you’re not behind me with a dagger.” I said coldly, forcing steel into my voice.

Another low laugh escaped him, dark and pleased. “Of course you do.”

Then he leaned a little closer to the bars, the scent of blood still on his skin.

“And yet… here we are. You, watching me. Me, waiting for you.”

His voice dropped to something molten, dangerous.

“I wonder which of us is more tortured.”

My breath stayed trapped behind my teeth, tight and sharp in my chest. I refused to let it out, not while he was watching me like that. Like I was something he’d already peeled open, laid bare under his gaze, waiting to be devoured.

I told myself I wasn’t affected. That the heat crawling beneath my skin was only torchlight, that the quickening of my pulse meant nothing. But I could still feel it, him, coiling in the space between us, winding around my ribs like smoke that knew how to burn.

But this… this was different.

There was something heavier in the way he looked at me now. Like he wasn’t amused anymore. Like whatever game he’d been playing had suddenly turned serious and I hadn’t been told the new rules.

I hated him for that.

I hated myself more for wondering what he’d do next.

I wasn’t sure what scared me more—that he would cross the line.

Or that I wanted him to.

Then—crack.

The dungeon door above shot open with a sharp metallic groan that echoed like a scream down the stairwell.

I flinched, instinct pulling me inward as boots thundered down the steps.

“Open the goddamn door!” Nazir’s voice exploded into the dungeon, livid and unyielding.

The guard near the cells jolted, dropping his dice in alarm. “O-of course, Listener!” he stammered, scrambling with his keys. “These were the orders of the Speaker, I—I didn’t—”

“I don’t care if the Night Mother herself whispered it in your ear,” Nazir growled. “Open. Her. Door.”

Amon hadn’t moved. He just stood there as if nothing had happened, blood still on his skin, smirk still ghosting his mouth, but his eyes flicked once, sharp and unreadable, to me.

Like he was memorizing something.

Or like something had just been taken from him.

I shot to my feet the moment the cell door groaned open, straw scattering beneath me. My steps were swift, instinctive, drawn to the sound of Nazir’s voice like breath returning to lungs too long starved.

He met me halfway, his hands finding my shoulders with a careful steadiness that made something inside me tremble. His eyes roamed over me—not just checking for bruises or blood, but for something deeper. As if trying to see whether my time in the dungeons had left a mark beneath the skin. A bruise where no one else could see it.

“Are you alright?” he asked gently, though his voice was tight with anger barely contained.

I gave a small nod, lifting my chin to appear composed. I didn’t trust my voice just yet.

“I can’t believe she’s gone this far—”

“I’m fine, Nazir.” I cut in, forcing a smile that didn’t quite reach my eyes. But it was enough. His expression softened, jaw unclenching as he breathed out through his nose.

“Throwing you down here like you’re nothing—like you’re some pathetic little insect—”

“Ahem.” Amon’s voice rolled across the space, low and amused as he tilted his head. “I am still here, you know.”

Both Nazir and I turned our eyes toward him in unison, sharp and unamused. A single glance was all we spared him.

And yet, the weight of it lingered.

Nazir turned back to me, his voice quiet but firm. “Let’s get you out of here.”

He gave me a gentle nudge forward, one guiding hand between my shoulders as he led me toward the stairs. His touch was warm. Grounding. Protective in a way I hadn’t realized I missed.

But I couldn’t help it. I looked back.

Just once.

Over my shoulder, from the corner of my eye, I saw Amon watching us ascend. His shirt still discarded. Blood still faint on his skin. That half-smirk still curling at the edge of his mouth, like a secret left unsaid.

His eyes.

Cold. Certain.

And swearing to ruin.

The air upstairs felt heavier than the dungeons.

Dense, as if it had absorbed the silence from below and turned it into something thicker. Something that clung to my skin.

We walked through the halls without a word, but the sound of us carried. The soft tread of my boots. The firmer, more decisive step of Nazir beside me.

And the murmurs.

They began the moment we passed the first corner. Voices low and strained, hushed with purpose. Like a rumor breathing just beneath the surface.

I didn’t need to hear the words to know what they said.

 

“There she is.”

 

“Thrown in the dark like a rabid dog.”

 

“Why did he go down there?”

 

Nazir said nothing, but I could feel his jaw clenched tight beside me. His hand hovered at my back not quite touching, but present. He was ready to catch me if I stumbled. Or to push someone aside if they came too close.

Eyes followed me. Some avoided mine entirely. Others watched openly, curious or cold. I didn’t flinch. I wouldn’t give them the satisfaction.

I kept my spine straight, my steps steady, my expression unreadable.

Nazir didn’t stop until we reached the corridor I hadn’t seen in days. My door stood closed, untouched. For a brief, impossible second, I feared it might not open, that something inside had changed while I was gone and wouldn’t welcome me back.

But Nazir pushed it open.

The room was just as I’d left it. Still. Quiet. Mine.

He stepped inside with me, but only far enough to shut the door gently behind us.

“Sit.” he said, his voice finally softening.

I didn’t. Not yet. I stood there in the middle of the room, looking around like a stranger.

Nazir watched me for a moment longer before speaking again, quieter this time.

“She shouldn’t have done that to you.”

The silence returned, thick and familiar.

“Rest,” he murmured. “You don’t have to talk about it. Not now.”

He turned to go, hand on the door, but paused.

He turned to go, hand on the door, but paused, caught between leaving and lingering.

I broke the silence.

“About Fen…”

His hand stilled on the handle, but he didn’t turn.

“Already dealt with,” he said simply. “She is on a contract. I’m sure she’ll be glad to see you walking these halls again.”

The words eased something in my chest, just a little.

Fen had been caught in the crossfire of my punishment, made to smile through her own humiliation just to keep me company in the dark. She hadn’t said it, but I’d felt it. I’d felt guilty.

Now, maybe, I didn’t have to.

I nodded, mostly to myself.

“Thank you.” I murmured.

Nazir lingered a second longer, as if debating whether to say more, but he didn’t. He only dipped his head in quiet reassurance and slipped out the door, leaving me to the hush of my room.

It was strange, standing in this space again. Everything familiar, untouched, like it had been waiting for me to return. The bed was still made. My cloak draped over the chair.

I sat on the edge of the bed, elbows on my knees, staring at the grain in the wooden floor until the thoughts stopped spinning and the world, for the first time in days, stopped pulling me apart.

My hands rested in my lap, palms empty, fingers twitching slightly, as if they were meant to be holding something. Turning a page. Gripping a dagger. Drawing blood or breath or both.

And then I remembered.

The books.

Still in the dungeon, lying where I left them in the straw. One of them, the one I had meant to study, meant to understand, was the dictionary. The one that whispered in the language of the dragons. The one that looked back at me.

I had left it there.

Forgotten it completely in my rush to follow Nazir, to leave that place behind, to breathe again.

I exhaled now, slow. Shaky. But not panicked.

Perhaps that’s a good thing.

Perhaps it was better this way. To leave it down there in the dark, untouched. Unread. Unanswered. Let it rot with the straw and the blood and the cold.

If I didn’t open it again… if I didn’t chase the voices, the meanings, the half-memories that stirred whenever I heard that language—

—then maybe it would stop.

Maybe I could be normal again.

I closed my eyes.

Maybe I could forget what had happened. The weight of that voice behind my ribs. The way it sounded like truth wrapped in thunder. The tremble in my hands after I understood even a fraction of it.

Maybe the book could be forgotten, like a dream dissolving with the dawn.

Left behind.

Abandoned like a nightmare I didn’t want to carry into morning.

I drew my legs up onto the bed and curled to my side. The room smelled faintly of smoke and lavender. Outside the stone walls, footsteps passed, people whispered, life moved on.

And I tried to believe I could, too.

Just like that.

Forget the book.

Forget the voice.

Forget what it meant to understand it.

 

To be continued…

Chapter 62: Chapter 62

The war room smelled of heat and ash, but it wasn’t the brazier that made the air feel heavy.

It was the silence. The kind that presses into your lungs like a stone, thick and waiting. It didn’t buzz with tension. It listened. It watched. It waited to swallow the first word whole.

I stepped through the threshold, my boots brushing against the stone like I hadn’t been here in years instead of days. My armor was back on, tight, still slightly damp from the bath, clinging to my skin as if it, too, remembered the darkness. I didn’t feel clean. I felt dressed. Contained. Like a weapon forced back into its sheath before it had cooled.

Nazir walked ahead of me with the easy certainty of someone who knew he’d done what was right, or was prepared to defend it, tooth and nail, if anyone said otherwise. His silence wasn’t hesitant. It was bracing.

Astrid stood at the head of the war table like a statue carved in fury. Her arms crossed. Her jaw locked. Her shadow stretched long across the room, drawn by the flickering brazier behind her.

She didn’t look at me.

She looked at him.

“I didn’t give the order to release her,” she said, her voice flat and controlled, but sharp as a knife pressed just under the skin.

Nazir didn’t blink. “No. You gave the order to let her rot.”

“You think I don’t know what I ordered?”

“I think,” he said, taking a few slow steps toward her, “you thought a cage would fix what you couldn’t understand.”

Astrid’s mouth twitched, not into a smile, but something colder. Something like restraint barely holding back the need to draw blood. Her eyes turned to me, finally, and I felt the heat of them before I saw it.

It wasn’t disappointment.

It wasn’t confusion.

It was fury, concentrated, aged, sharpened like a blade kept for special occasions.

“You’ve been out of that cell for, what, an hour?” she asked, her tone as smooth as a dagger drawn in the dark. “And already you walk in here like nothing happened?”

“I’m walking like someone who’s alive,” I said quietly. “You should try it.”

Nazir’s head turned slightly toward me, not quite a warning, not quite approval, but Astrid didn’t even glance at him.

Her gaze stayed locked to mine.

“I gave you everything,” she said. “You were our pride. Our blade. The blade I pointed at the world when it needed to bleed.”

“I still am.” I replied.

“No.” Her voice sharpened. “You’re something else now. Something reckless.”

She stepped around the table, slow and measured, the firelight catching the trim of her black coat. “I sent you on a mission. You ignored my orders. Returned half-feral. And when I asked for answers, you stood there in front of me like a stranger. Like a rabid thing that couldn’t decide whether to bite or bow.”

I said nothing.

Because she wasn’t wrong.

But she wasn’t right, either.

Nazir spoke then, tone quiet but steady. “It’s done. You punished her. That part is over.”

“A few days in a cell isn’t punishment,” Astrid hissed. “It’s indulgence. She should be down there still, cold and crawling. But instead—” she turned on him now, “—you brought her out like nothing ever happened. Like she hadn’t spilled blood without a contract.”

“She doesn’t belong in a cage,” Nazir said, sharper now. “And you know it.”

“She doesn’t belong here at all,” Astrid said through her teeth. “Not anymore.”

Then, with a slow breath, she reached under a pile of documents near the war table and pulled out a worn, folded parchment. It was crumpled, sealed with wax, and singed at the edge like it had come too close to someone’s temper.

She walked over and threw it at Nazir. It struck the table’s edge and slid toward him.

“From Leona,” she said. “Yesterday morning.”

Nazir picked it up, eyes scanning. His brow furrowed. Then, without a word, he held it out to me.

My fingers closed over it.

And I read.

Dominion Embassy, Haafingar.

Formal reception interrupted by unidentified insurgents.

Casualties among Thalmor elite: severe.

Ambassador Elenwen confirmed dead.

Two survivors in critical care.

Stormcloak involvement suspected.

No traceable signs of Brotherhood activity.

 

It had worked.

Ondolemar had kept his promise.

He had buried my sins beneath their rebellion and lit the sky on fire so no one would see my shadow moving through the walls.

Clean, on paper.

But the words cut sharper than truth.

Astrid’s voice came like a blade to the throat.

“You want to explain this to me?” she asked.

I didn’t.

Because nothing I could say would matter.

“I told you,” I said finally, voice low. “He would make sure there were no witnesses.”

She laughed short, sharp, empty.

“Right. No witnesses. Just corpses stacked so high they blacked out the moon. And a Thalmor dignitary with diplomatic immunity dead in her own goddamn office. You made sure of that, didn’t you?”

Nazir looked at me now. Not in anger. Not even judgment.

Just disbelief.

“You killed them all?” he asked.

I didn’t answer.

Because I didn’t need to.

He let out a breath through his nose. Then went quiet.

Astrid circled the table now, her boots striking the stone like a drumbeat.

“I could’ve salvaged one death,” she said. “Two, even. I could’ve spun a story. Smoothed the edges. You know how this works, Niolenyl. We leave stains, not floods.”

She came to a stop in front of me, voice softer now, but colder than ever.

“But you didn’t just disobey me. You turned it into a message. A massacre. And now the whole world’s watching. The Dominion is sharpening their blades. The war just shifted. And we, we are walking on glass.”

“They blame the Stormcloaks,” I said quietly. “It worked.”

“For now,” she snapped. “But someone will ask the right question. Someone will see the pattern. The precision. The efficiency.”

She leaned in.

“You think Ulfric has assassins that strike like that? You think they leave no tracks, no blood trail, no survivors?”

My throat was dry. But my voice held.

“They already believe it.”

Astrid straightened, her expression unreadable now. More mask than face.

“You should’ve been executed for this.” she said.

Nazir shifted not a full movement, just enough to put his body half between us.

But I stepped forward first.

“If you want me dead, Astrid,” I said, “you don’t need a report.”

She stared at me.

And for a moment, just one, I saw her decide.

Her fingers twitched.

Then stilled.

She turned away.

Her voice, when it came, was low.

“Get out of my sight.”

She didn’t scream. She didn’t throw anything.

She didn’t need to.

She had already done what she came here to do.

She had cut me loose.

Not from the Family. Not from the Night Mother.

From her.

From whatever bond we had once shared, the one that made her choose me, train me, trust me.

It was broken now.

And I could feel it.

Nazir waited by the door.

I didn’t look back.

The parchment crinkled slightly in my grip as I passed through the threshold.

There was nothing left to say. Only the echo of the truth. And the price of being the blade.

After that day in the war room, I stopped being a blade.

I wasn’t exiled. That would have been simpler and cleaner. Final.

No, Astrid gave me something worse.

She gave me coin duty.

Not contracts. Not kills.

Coin.

I was sent to collect payments from completed assassinations, contracts carried out by others, rookies still wet with fear. I was tasked with retrieving satchels of gold and signed names.

No map.

Just a folded note and the weight of a silence that had stopped being sacred.

So I made my own camp.

A clearing east of Whiterun. Close enough to be useful. Far enough that no one would stumble across me by mistake. I gathered the stones, staked the tent, lit the fire, and did not speak for days.

This was what she wanted.

Not a reprimand. A reduction.

Her Silencer, crouched over a ledger by her own firelight, waiting for Brotherhood contacts like a glorified errand girl.

I told myself I didn’t care.

But I did.

I cared the moment I walked into a tavern and watched a contact flinch at the sight of me, like I was a creature too dark for daylight.

I cared when the poisoner from Windhelm handed me a pouch of coin without meeting my eyes, then thanked me for “coming all this way” like I was some courier in a traveling cloak, not the reason contracts got signed in blood to begin with.

I cared when my hands smelled more of parchment than steel.

It was late now. The fire was low, the stars veiled in heavy cloud. My tent leaned slightly to the right, the ground beneath uneven, but I didn’t fix it. Let it lean. Let it sink.

I sat still, knees pulled close, cloak drawn tight. I had long since stopped feeling the cold. The wind moved through the trees, brushing branches like a breath too soft to follow.

And then—

A sound.

Hooves.

Slow. Unhurried. Precise.

Not clumsy like a merchant. Not armored like a patrol.

Something… else.

Shadowmere stepped into view like a phantom conjured from my memory, red eyes glowing faint against the dark, breath steaming in the cold air. His coat shimmered black. His movement: silent.

And upon her back—

Serana.

She dismounted without ceremony, her cloak falling around her like ink in water.

She looked at the camp without expression.

“You’re hard to find,” she said softly. “But not impossible.”

I didn’t rise.

I didn’t flinch.

I only stared as the vampire walked forward, shadow trailing behind her like something alive.

She stopped near the fire.

Met my eyes.

And said as she tilted her head, “You look like someone who’s forgotten she was dangerous.”

 

To be continued…

Chapter 63: Chapter 63

My eyes found Serana’s, quiet, unguarded, and in that stillness, I felt something strange stir between us. A flicker of recognition, maybe even longing after isolation.

Then my gaze shifted to Shadowmere, standing tall on the edge of the clearing. Regal as ever. Her black coat caught the firelight like ink spilling through a dream.

I rose slowly, brushing the dirt from my palms.

“What are you doing here?”

Serana moved closer, letting the firelight catch the sharp lines of her face. She said nothing at first, only glanced around the camp with her usual blank expression, as if taking inventory of my solitude.

“I could ask you the same.” she said at last, her voice quiet, a shrug rolling off her shoulders like the comment didn’t matter. She sank down beside the flames, not for warmth, but out of something that almost resembled patience.

“Field work,” I muttered, folding my arms across my chest. “How did you even find me?”

She chuckled, soft, low, brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “Well…” she said, and laughed again, this time with a hint of amusement. “Truthfully, I was looking for him. But I figured where you are… he wouldn’t be far.”

My brow tightened. Him?

Before I could speak, she turned toward the shadows beyond the firelight and raised her voice, only slightly:

“Come on,” she called. “You’ve followed her long enough. Out.”

For a moment, nothing moved. The fire crackled, spitting embers into the dark, and all I heard was the wind curling through the trees.

Then, a faint rustle. A shift, like something breathing in the dark. A footstep, deliberate but soft. Gravel ground beneath boots.

And then, from the black edge of the trees, two mismatched eyes appeared, catching the light like cursed jewels. Amon stepped forward, his expression carved from frustration, his gaze fixed not on me, but on her.

He looked like he’d been standing there forever.

How long had he been trailing me?

Hours? Days?

I glared at him, my brows narrowing.

“Really?”

Amon didn’t so much as glance in my direction. His boots crunched softly over the earth as he approached the fire, expression unreadable, carved from something colder than stone.

“Why did you come?”

Serana tilted her head toward him, her mouth curling into a mock pout as she stood.

“Not happy to see me?”

His voice came low, tight with irritation.

“Not even slightly.”

She rolled her eyes in exaggerated disbelief.

“Oh? Is it because I interrupted your brooding-in-the-shadows act? Very dramatic, by the way.”

Amon didn’t answer. He simply stared at her, his gaze hard and unblinking with the kind of restraint that made the air feel heavier.

Serana huffed, her voice shifting tone. “Fine. I came with news.”

She looked between us, as if expecting more curiosity than we gave.

“Isran found someone. A priest, or whatever you want to call him, someone who can read the scroll.”

The scroll. Her scroll.

Still, neither of us reacted. Not with words. Not yet.

She went on anyway, her tone lighter than the subject deserved.

“The fool’s gone blind, can you believe it?” she laughed, soft and strange. Like it unsettled her more than she let on. “Said the scroll spoke of a prophecy. One that could end everything. Or prevent it.”

A beat.

“But we need more. We don’t know enough yet.”

Amon’s voice cut through her words.

“We?” His eyes narrowed. “You’re working with the Dawnguard now?”

Serana met his suspicion with a pointed stare, her arms folding across her chest in turn.

“That’s where you left me, isn’t it?” Her voice softened, a hint of something wounded beneath the defiance. “And it’s better than crawling back to my father. You know how he is.”

The whole exchange between them felt like a conversation in another tongue, one I had no desire to learn.

Her father. I knew only fragments: that she was royalty of a kind, a vampire of noble blood, cloaked in the kind of power that made mortals tremble. If her father was anything like her or worse, then he must have been a lord among monsters.

And Amon? Centuries old, just like her. Maybe more. There was a world buried in their words, one I had never walked and had no wish to tread.

I turned on my heel and made for the tent. The shadows inside suddenly felt preferable to the weight of their shared past.

“You’re on your own, I’m afraid.” Amon’s voice drifted low and final.

“You won’t help me?” Serana’s tone shifted, catching me mid-step. It softened to something that didn’t quite beg, but was close. “I need to find my mother. She must know something about the scroll, about the prophecy. I can’t do this alone.”

A pause.

“Sorry.” Amon’s reply was clipped, like he was cutting something off at the root.

My hand touched the flap of the tent but then I froze.

“Really?” Serana exhaled, her voice hollow with disbelief. “You’re sorry?”

When I turned, her face was alight with something I hadn’t expected: grief. Her amber eyes shimmered, fury buried beneath a sheen of unshed tears. She wasn’t just hurt. She seemed… betrayed.

“You owe me,” she hissed, stepping forward. “And you know it.”

She shoved him. Open-palmed. And Amon stumbled, not far, just a step, but enough for my breath to catch. I had never seen him stagger from another’s touch before.

“Years,” she spat, her voice rising, trembling. “You sat in that cursed court. Watched my father destroy everyone he ever loved. One by one.”

She shoved him again, smaller this time, almost shaking.

“And you ran, Amon. Like a coward. When we needed you most.”

I stood there, frozen in the firelight, watching as the image of him, this ever-watchful, ever-collected shadow, cracked under the weight of something older than any of us.

Amon. Sitting in a throne room. Wearing court colors. Watching a kingdom rot from within.

I couldn’t picture it.

I didn’t want to.

And yet — I couldn’t look away.

Something in me shifted as I watched them, not quite understanding, but unable to turn away.

Perhaps it was pity. Or perhaps it was the way Serana, always so sharp-tongued and sure-footed, now looked small in her grief. Her fists were pressed against Amon’s chest, trembling slightly, as though they were the only things anchoring her.

For a heartbeat, I thought he might wrap his arms around her. That he might soften.

But Amon only stared down at her. His gaze was cold. Icy, even.

“I didn’t run,” he murmured. The words were low, but steady. “I helped Valerica through all of it. And you know that.”

Serana looked up into his eyes, searching, or weighing. Measuring. She could read him, I realized. Knew him. Had known him, long before I ever saw his face.

Years, she had said. Years of court. Of survival. Of shared silence and shared enemies.

Something stung beneath my ribs.

A quiet, bitter ache.

Was it… envy?

She knew his history. His shadows. His shame.

I only knew the mask he wore.

“We need to find her,” Serana said, softer now.

Amon’s eyes flicked sideways. To me.

He saw me watching, I knew he saw the questions gathering behind my stillness. He stepped back, and her hands slipped from his chest like falling leaves.

“I suggest you let this go,” he said, the softness gone, replaced by dry finality. “Disappear. While you still can.”

Serana’s head snapped up, her voice sharp and breaking all at once. “And go where?” She took a step toward him. Her hands open and pleading.

“The world I knew is dust. Every place I once trusted has turned to ruin. Everything is—” her voice cracked, fragile in the firelight, “gone.”

And for the first time, I understood her.

Not as a vampire. Not as a royal.

But as a daughter left behind by time. A daughter cornered with nowhere left to run.

Maybe that’s why I flinched when her eyes turned to me, wet and furious.

“Who do you think sent them?” she asked, voice colder, pointed like a blade. “The vampires who dug me up?” Then she turned back to Amon, her anger sharpening into betrayal. “You dragged me out of that tomb. You know what that meant.”

Her breath hitched. “You confirmed what I feared. That he would never let this go. Never let me go.”

I didn’t want to sympathize.

But the more she spoke and the more her grief cracked open and spilled into the air between us, the more I recognized pieces of myself in her words.

The dread of being buried by those who claimed to own you. The ache of waking in a world that had moved on without you. The fury of watching everything you knew, everything you loved, turn to dust, as if your absence had never mattered.

Her father’s reach. My captors’.

The shadows were different, but the silence was the same.

And I didn’t blame her, not for clinging to what remained. Even if that fragment was Amon.

She held onto him like I had once held onto memory, bitter and inevitable. The only proof that something before this life had existed.

My voice left me before I had the chance to think better of it.

“You should help her.”

Amon turned toward me, his expression tightening as his brows drew together. He didn’t speak but I felt the shift in him. The tension of being addressed, seen.

I tilted my head slightly, holding his gaze.

“It sounds like you owe her that much.”

Amon took a step back, slow and deliberate, as though retreating not from Serana’s pain, but from the weight of it.

When he finally spoke, his voice was glacial.

“I have other priorities.”

The chill in those words hit harder than any silence. I felt my jaw tighten, not just in disbelief, but in something close to outrage.

Other priorities?

After everything Serana had spilled at his feet, all her grief, her fear and her plea, he answered her with ice.

I crossed my arms, the motion sharp, protective.

“And what are those?” I asked, my voice low. “Other than following me like a shadow?”

He turned to me then, and the shift was immediate, infuriating.

His eyes softened. A smile, faint and knowing, curved at the edge of his mouth.

“Well,” he said, as though the question amused him, “only that. Nothing more.”

That warmth. That glint of mischief. It wasn’t meant for Serana, it was meant for me.

And I hated that I felt it.

My arms stayed crossed, but something inside me cracked sharp, like ice underfoot. His smirk lingered in the space between us, infuriatingly calm. Like none of this mattered.

Like Serana didn’t matter.

I stepped forward, slow but deliberate, the fire throwing gold across the snow at my feet.

“What is that supposed to mean?”

My voice wasn’t loud, but it was cold. Cut with disbelief.

“That you follow me around for sport? For fun?”

Amon’s brows lifted, faint amusement flashing across his face like he was enjoying this. That alone made my blood rise.

“You dismiss her like it’s nothing, like she’s nothing, and then act like I’m meant to find that charming?”

Still, he said nothing. But his gaze stayed on mine, unreadable now. But I wasn’t finished.

I took another step. The fire caught the silver of my armor, the breath in my lungs growing tighter.

“She’s asking you for help. Begging you. And you just…” I exhaled sharply, struggling to contain the heat behind my words, “you smile. Like none of it touches you. Like you’re just watching.”

I shook my head. Anger wasn’t enough to name it, not the frustration, the exhaustion, the helplessness we all seemed to carry but he refused to admit.

And then I said it.

“If you’re going to keep following me, haunting my every step, then say it.” My voice broke through the stillness, harsh and true. “Say what the fuck you want from me. Or walk into the damn woods and don’t come back.”

The air around us crackled, not with magic, but something older. Rawer.

And this time, I didn’t flinch.

The silence between us thickened, taut as a drawn bowstring. The fire cast shifting shadows across his face, and whatever amusement had lingered there was long gone.

Amon stepped closer. Just enough to draw the tension tighter.

His voice, when it came, was low and unreadable, like a wire pulled too far.

“I want to know…” he murmured, gaze steady, “why you’re not like the others.”

That was all he gave me.

No clarification. No name. Just a quiet, unraveling truth.

I didn’t know what he meant, not fully. But the look in his eyes made me feel as if I’d thrown him off a cliff and he was still calculating how far he had to fall.

Before I could respond, Serana gave a low, incredulous whistle and muttered,

“By Molag Bal’s cracked spine…” She shook her head slowly, eyes wide with mock amazement. “She roasted you alive and now your little immortal ego can’t handle the heat. That’s why you’re spiraling.”

Amon didn’t even look at her.

Which made her grin wider.

“It’s fine,” she added with a shrug. “Happens to the best of us. You’ll heal. Or combust. Either way, fun to watch.”

I said nothing but I didn’t look away either.

Serana let her smirk linger for just a breath longer, but when she turned back to me, her tone had shifted.

“I still need help,” she said quietly. “I have to find my mother. She’s the only one who might understand how to stop what’s coming.”

I didn’t answer right away.

Not because I doubted her, but because something inside me twisted, something that had been coiling for days.

Astrid’s coin duties. The silent glares. The unspoken punishment that turned me into a messenger girl, a background shadow, after everything I had done. After everything I had survived.

Running errands for the Brotherhood like a stray dog that needed to be reminded of its leash.

I looked at Serana, bruised with memories, maybe as lost as I was, and for once, someone was asking for help because they needed it. Not because they were testing how far I’d crawl.

“I’ll help you.” I said.

The words felt like the first breath after surfacing from cold water.

Amon turned sharply, his voice cutting in like a blade. “Absolutely not.”

I blinked. “Excuse me?”

He stepped closer. Not threatening, but firm.

“It’s not safe. You get involved in this, you become a target. It’s not worth it.”

I stared at him, this vampire who had followed me through fire and blood, and yet still thought he could choose where I walked.

“I decide what’s worth it.” Then, coolly:

“So unless you’re planning to chain me to a tree, back off.”

His jaw flexed. Behind him, Serana raised both brows and muttered under her breath,

“And she roasted you again.”

Amon closed his eyes for a moment. As if counting to ten. Or twenty.

And I smiled, just slightly.

Amon didn’t move, but his gaze narrowed on Serana, sharp and suspicious.

“I don’t believe for a moment that Isran just let you walk out of Fort Dawnguard on your own.”

Serana rolled her eyes with a dramatic sigh.“He didn’t.” She lifted a hand and gestured vaguely northward. “Two Dawnguard soldiers are camping a little ways from here. They’re supposed to keep an eye on me.”

Amon raised a brow. “Supposed to?”

“Please,” she snorted. “They wouldn’t last two seconds in the Castle. I need someone who actually knows how to survive.”

She turned back to me then, her tone shifting to business. “We’ll meet at the jetty. That’s where the boat to the castle is.”

I gave a curt nod.

“I’ll be there.”

Amon scoffed quietly behind me.

I turned toward him, arms crossed, one brow raised. “Oh. Now you want to be involved?”

His lips pressed into a thin line, but his silence was answer enough.

Serana smirked again.

“Careful,” she teased as she backed into the shadows, “I don’t think you can survive another round.”

And then she was gone, swallowed by the trees, leaving only the echo of her voice behind.

Silence settled over the clearing, broken only by the faint crackle of the fire and the wind slipping through the branches above. I stood there for a moment, uncertain. Not just about the priest, or the scroll, or the coming journey, but about the fear I had seen flash in Serana’s eyes.

Whatever it was, it wasn’t small.

My gaze drifted to Amon.

He wasn’t watching me.

He wasn’t watching anything.

He stood still, shoulders taut, gaze fixed somewhere beyond the trees, lost in thought. Troubled. For the first time since I’d met him… unmoored.

I stepped closer, my voice quieter than before.

“Care to tell me what her father’s really after?”

A beat passed. He didn’t move. Didn’t blink.

Then, slowly, he turned his head toward me and when he spoke, it was with a kind of stillness that made the fire feel suddenly too far away.

“An endless night.”

 

To be continued…

 

Chapter 64: Chapter 64

The fire was little more than a ring of embers by the time I began folding my bedroll, but its last heat clung stubbornly to the air, like the words Amon had left me with.

An endless night.

It echoed in my head with the weight of something ancient. Heavy. Final.

I didn’t ask what he meant. Of course I didn’t.

I had stood there, arms crossed, spine straight, pretending I was unshaken. But I hadn’t slept. Not truly. Not since that moment. The phrase curled in my skull like a serpent, winding itself tighter the more I tried to dismiss it.

Endless.

It was such a dramatic word. The kind people like him used, cryptic, ominous, meant to intimidate. Or maybe it wasn’t just a word. Maybe it was a promise.

Or a curse.

My hands trembled slightly as I fastened the buckles on my pack. I wasn’t cold. I wasn’t tired. I was afraid, though I’d sooner eat my own blades than admit it out loud. Because if I feared the thing he wouldn’t name, then I had already lost ground.

And I had lost enough already.

Behind me, Amon moved without a sound. As always. Leather whispering. Metal glinting. He had nothing left to pack, yet he moved anyway, walking, rearranging, pretending to be occupied.

Or maybe pretending not to look at me.

I hated that I could feel his eyes even when they weren’t on me. Like a second sun orbiting too close to burn.

I pulled my cloak over my shoulders, turning from him.

“It’s a few hours to dawn,” I said coolly. “Let’s get moving before you’re cinders.”

He glanced up at that, lips twitching with something close to a smile. Not amusement. Just recognition. Like he could hear the unease buried under my words but knew better than to name it.

Let him keep his riddles. I had my own.

The ride was quiet at first. The air sharp with cold, the trees thinning as the scent of salt began to creep into the wind. Amon rode ahead of me, his silhouette carved against the last edge of night. He hadn’t spoken since we’d broken camp. 

And I had said nothing either.

Because I didn’t know what I would say.

How had I walked into this, riding toward something I didn’t understand, with a man I understood even less.

The wind howled through the thinning trees, cold and insistent. The scent of salt lingered ahead, coastal air, sharp and bracing. I could feel Amon’s eyes on me, even when I didn’t look his way. And then, like nothing was unraveling beneath our silence, he spoke.

“You’ve always been called Nio?”

The question was light, offhand, as if we were two old friends out for a casual ride. I rolled my eyes. “Yeah. Were you always this much of a nuisance, or did you perfect it with age?”

He smirked, utterly unbothered. “I like to think I’ve refined it.”

A gust of wind cut between us, and for a moment, I let the quiet settle again. But not for long.

“How old were you,” he asked, still far too casually, “when you joined up with the Thalmor?”

I turned sharply toward him, my glare immediate and sharp. “I didn’t join them,” I said, my voice cold. “I was taken.”

He lifted both hands in a mock surrender. “All right. Just trying to understand.”

“You don’t need to understand,” I muttered. “You just like pulling at things to see what breaks.”

He shrugged slightly, unrepentant. “But you’re still talking to me. That has to mean something.”

“It means I haven’t figured out how to shut you up yet.”

His laugh was low, quiet, like I’d said something sweet instead of venomous. “You fascinate me.”

I nudged Shadowmere forward, a small burst of distance stretching between us. “Fascinate you, or just confuse you beyond repair?”

“Both,” he said without hesitation. “And I think you like that.”

I cast him a withering look, but the corners of my mouth twitched before I could stop them. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet,” he said, softer now, “here we are. And I’m not leaving.”

His words settled over me like another cloak, heavy, unwanted, but undeniably warm.

I should’ve let the silence hold. I didn’t.

“I had the chance to get rid of you once.”

His gaze flicked toward me, unreadable. “But you didn’t. And that’s the part I can’t stop thinking about.”

“It was a mistake.” I said flatly.

“Fair.” His tone stayed calm. Steady. “Mistakes sometimes take us exactly where we’re meant to go.”

I cut him a look. “Don’t go poetic on me. You’re still a liar. Still a monster.”

He tilted his head, that infuriating smirk playing at his lips again. “And you? Aren’t you just as ruthless?”

I held his gaze. No sarcasm. No smile. Just an unflinching reflection of something I didn’t want to admit.

“Maybe I am.” I said quietly.

The world around us hushed, the trees, the wind, even the sea itself seemed to pause.

His smirk faded.

And in its place: something quieter. Sadder. Real.

“Then maybe,” he murmured, “we deserve each other.”

I didn’t answer. Didn’t even scoff.

Maybe I didn’t want to deserve anyone. Maybe I couldn’t. But there was something in the way he said it. No venom. No charm. Just truth.

And I hated that I listened.

I wasn’t ready to forgive him. But the silence between us didn’t push him away.

The trees thinned at last, giving way to gray rock and the churn of waves. The scent of salt grew stronger as we rode closer to the shoreline. There, just beyond the bend in the cliffside, the jetty emerged.

Serana stood near the end of it, her cloak flaring in the wind like the wing of a raven. Beside her, two Dawnguard soldiers lingered, both armored, both armed, and both… oddly still.

I slowed Shadowmere as we approached. Something about the way the men stood caught my eye. Too quiet. Too stiff. Their shoulders squared, jaws slack, eyes faintly glazed with something almost… docile.

They didn’t look like soldiers prepared for battle.

They looked like they were waiting to be told what to feel.

Serana turned as she saw us, her lips curling into a smirk like we were late to a party she’d long since grown bored of.

“There you are,” she called. “And just before dawn, too. How romantic.”

I slid off Shadowmere’s saddle, watching the men out of the corner of my eye. One of them blinked slowly, lips parting like he’d forgotten where he was. The other shifted, but it wasn’t tension in his movement, it was aimlessness.

“Your guards,” I said under my breath, just loud enough for her to hear. “They seem… off.”

Serana glanced at them and rolled her eyes. “Oh, don’t mind them.” She said it like it was nothing, like it was weather. “Isran insisted I bring help, so I found a few wide-eyed volunteers. Can’t say I expect them to last more than five minutes in that place, but—well.” She smiled, lazy and pleased. “We work with what we have.”

I looked back at the men. They were watching her now, rapt, empty, like moths drawn not to flame, but to something colder. Familiar.

Like they were… enchanted. 

The word stuck in my throat, and for a moment, something twisted in my gut as I stepped closer to the jetty. I didn’t say a word. Neither did Amon. But I felt him watching me again.

And this time, I didn’t meet his gaze.

“Come on, boys,” Serana said, clapping once as she settled into the boat, her legs stretched and crossed like a queen on her throne. “Row on.”

I slid in beside her, cloak brushing the edge of the bench, and watched the Dawnguard men obey. No hesitation. No question. Each took an oar, movements mechanical, expressions vacant. Like they were born for this moment—and nothing else.

They rowed like their lives weren’t their own.

And maybe they weren’t.

And I sat there, wrapped in my cloak, trying not to shiver at the sight of it.

“So,” I said at last, turning toward Serana. “What exactly are we walking into?”

She gave me a sidelong glance, her fingers tapping lazily on the side of the boat. “Castle Volkihar,” she said, her voice smooth. “My father’s home. A rotting fortress tucked behind a frozen channel. It’s quiet. Isolated. Everything a paranoid old vampire lord could want.”

“And he lives there?”

“He reigns there,” she corrected. “Rules over whatever flock of sycophants and schemers he hasn’t drained yet.”

I frowned. “So we knock on the front door and hope he welcomes you home?”

Serana smirked. “Not exactly. There’s a side entrance. Old and hidden. He won’t expect me to use it. He’ll expect me to beg.”

“And you’re not going to?”

“Not in this lifetime.”

A beat passed before Amon’s voice broke through, low and flat. “This is what your stubbornness got us into.”

I didn’t turn to look at him. I didn’t have to. His presence always pressed too close, like heat against my spine.

“Bal forbid you take a moment to think,” he muttered. “No—you had to prove something. Had to throw yourself into the deep end. And now we’re being ferried straight into a nest of vampires who’d rip your throat out just to hear how you scream.”

I turned my head slowly, meeting his eyes with ice. “And yet here you are. Rowing with me.”

“I’m not rowing,” he muttered. “The thralls are.”

Serana snorted. “You two are exhausting.”

“Not half as exhausting as this suicide mission.” Amon shot back.

“Oh, relax,” Serana said airily. “We’re not dying today. Probably.”

I looked toward the distant cliff where a castle spire barely peeked through the mist.

“Probably.” I echoed under my breath.

Thralls.

They weren’t really here. Their bodies were, but their minds? Gone.

So this was what it meant to lose yourself.

Not to grief. Not to fear.

A will that wasn’t your own.

I watched one of them blink slowly, like a machine resetting. The other stared straight ahead, muscles straining, not a flicker of doubt or exhaustion in his face.

They weren’t tired. They weren’t thinking.

A flicker of unease curled in my gut, sharp and familiar. Vampiric persuasion. The kind that rewired thought. That pulled at will, twisted the soul beneath the surface without leaving a mark.

I’d read about it. Heard the whispers. But watching it in real time—

My throat tightened.

For just a breath, I wondered what it would feel like.

To have someone reach in and shift something.

To speak, and suddenly you’re nodding. Smiling. Leaning in closer, when you should’ve run.

Amon’s presence pressed on me like a second shadow, and I felt that flicker twist deeper.

”Amon is not like that.” 

But what if—

No.

I forced the thought down. Crushed it.

Whatever magic he had, whatever tricks vampires used, I wasn’t that weak.

The boat scraped against something solid, and I jerked forward slightly as it thudded against the shore.

We’d arrived.

The chill hit me first, wet and sharp, curling in from the sea like claws, sinking straight to the bone. I stood slowly, cloak dragging against the damp wood as I stepped off the boat and onto the narrow spit of shore.

Mist clung to the rocks like rot, thick and heavy. The scent of salt was sharp, but beneath it lingered something more putrid, like damp stone and old blood. The kind that never fully washed away.

I lifted my eyes to the castle.

It rose from the cliffs like a wound carved into the sky.

A sprawl of black stone and jagged spires, twisted and sharp like broken fangs. Its windows were narrow slits that leaked no light. The tallest tower pierced the clouds, its peak shrouded in a halo of storm fog. The walls were slick with frost and shadow, as if the very stone refused to thaw.

It didn’t look like a castle.

It looked like a tomb that refused to stay closed.

Serana stepped beside me, arms folded, her face unreadable.

“Home sweet castle.” she muttered, with a smile that didn’t reach her eyes.

Amon said nothing. I didn’t look back, but I could feel him, his silence stretched long and taut like a bowstring. Waiting.

We started walking.

The path was narrow, half-swallowed by brambles and ice, winding along the cliff’s edge. The castle loomed closer with every step, its silhouette growing more monstrous, more impossible. I tried not to look up too often as it made the world feel smaller. It made me feel smaller.

We climbed in silence, boots crunching over frostbitten stone as the cliffside path narrowed to little more than a ledge. The castle loomed closer, vast and jagged, casting its shadow like a claw across the sea.

I glanced toward Serana. “What exactly are we looking for?”

“The courtyard,” she answered without turning. “There’s an entrance buried beneath it. Forgotten by most. My mother used it to hide… things. Secrets my father didn’t know about. Or pretended not to.”

I raised a brow. “And you think she left something behind?”

“I know she did.”

I didn’t press her further. I didn’t need to.

There was steel in her voice, and something else under it, something bitter. This wasn’t just a search. It was a reckoning.

Amon followed behind us, quiet as always, but I felt him watching. Every step. Every breath. He hadn’t said a word since we’d left the boat, hadn’t made a single comment. Which, for him, was unusual.

The path ended in a crumbling arch half-choked with ice and overgrown thorns. Serana crouched, brushing aside a patch of moss to reveal old stones carved with sigils, faded now, but still visible beneath the grime.

“Help me with this.” she said, and I knelt beside her, fingers cold against the rough stone as we cleared it together.

Behind us, one of the Dawnguard thralls shifted his stance, a small, unnatural movement, like a puppet being tugged the wrong way. I didn’t look up.

Let them keep rowing in their heads.

After a moment, the sigil clicked under Serana’s hand, and the rock groaned low and heavy as a section of the wall creaked inward, revealing a dark, narrow tunnel that led straight into the heart of the castle.

She exhaled, straightening. “There it is.”

A gust of cold air breathed out from the tunnel, thick with the scent of damp stone and something older. Forgotten. I stood there, motionless, the threshold yawning like a mouth before me. I wasn’t afraid of the dark, not really. But this was different.

This was her darkness.

“How long has it been since you last came here?” I asked, my voice low.

“Too long.” she said.

Then she stepped inside, not waiting for us to follow.

I went next.

And behind me, I heard Amon’s boots scrape once against the stone then fall into step, just close enough to remind me he was there.

Just close enough to remind me this wasn’t only Serana’s family we were walking into.

It was a graveyard of monsters.

And we were trespassing.

To be continued…

Chapter 65: Chapter 65

 

The tunnel swallowed us whole.

Cold stone pressed close on either side, the air stale and unmoving, as if the castle itself had forgotten this passage existed. Water dripped from the ceiling at odd intervals, irregular, like a heartbeat that had long since bled out.

I moved forward slowly, boots crunching over old gravel and broken roots. The light behind us dimmed to nothing, and we walked in shadows thick enough to choke on. Serana took the lead, torch held high. Her silhouette flickered against the walls, tall, poised, unflinching.

Amon was behind me. Always behind me. His steps silent. His breath a ghost at my neck.

“This way curves toward the old courtyard,” Serana said quietly, her voice echoing off the damp walls. “If the gate hasn’t collapsed, we can bypass most of the castle and head straight to her study.”

Her study.

She hadn’t said her mother’s name once. Just her. Like she couldn’t bring herself to call her mother aloud.

I kept walking.

The passage twisted tighter, forcing us into single file. We passed rusted sconces, cobweb-laced corners, skeletal remains of long-dead servants, hunched where they’d collapsed, their backs against the stone as if they had simply given up.

“Why didn’t your father seal this off?” I asked.

Serana didn’t look back. “He tried. But he never knew about this tunnel. My mother had it built before she disappeared. It was her escape, not mine.”

A gust of foul air swept through the corridor, damp and sweet, like rotting fruit. I covered my nose. Ahead, a sliver of light broke through a crack in the stones.

Serana pushed forward, and with a shove, the half-rotted gate gave way to a burst of color.

Color?

My eyes adjusted slowly then widened.

The passage opened into what must have once been a garden. An open-air courtyard, flooded with vines and half-dead shrubs, long overtaken by nature.

We stepped out into overgrowth and silence.

The courtyard stretched wide beneath a broken sky, its walls half-choked by ivy, its once-grand stonework cracked and sunken beneath years of rot. Vines curled over shattered statues. Light filtered down through fractured glass in the ceiling above, casting a sickly green glow across the moss-covered ground.

It was… beautiful, in a way. A grave of something once noble. Once cared for.

Serana didn’t speak at first. She just stood there, looking around like she wasn’t sure she’d really come home.

“This used to be her sanctuary,” she said at last, voice distant. “When I was young, she spent hours here. Tending to the plants. Adjusting the dials. She used to say this place kept the rest of the castle at bay. Like the rot couldn’t touch her here.”

I looked around. The rot had touched everything.

I stepped onto the moss-slick stones, boots sinking slightly into dirt where the flagstones had cracked.

It felt abandoned. Like something had fled, and something worse had taken its place.

Behind me, Amon remained silent. But I felt it. His posture had changed.

“What happened to it?” I asked quietly.

“She left,” Serana said. “And no one else cared.”

She moved forward, slow at first, her hand brushing along a crumbling wall as if expecting it to remember her. I followed, eyes scanning the stone until they landed on a strange, circular platform nestled where the fountain should’ve been.

A moondial.

Or what remained of one.

The arc of stone was inlaid with pale metal rings, etched with lunar phases, waning, waxing, new, full, but several crests were missing, their sockets empty and dark. The gaps broke the alignment, leaving the dial fractured, unresponsive.

Serana crouched by the edge, running her fingers over the dust-caked symbols. “She always said the dial hid the way to her study. Said it would only open under the right moonlight, when everything was in its place.”

She turned to me, then to Amon, who stood off to the side, arms folded, eyes narrowed but quiet. “We need to find the missing pieces. The crests.”

“How many?” I asked.

“Three.” She rose. “They’d still be here. She’d have hidden them nearby, but not far.”

She turned her head slightly, just enough to glance back at the two Dawnguard soldiers standing idle like statues near the wall. “You,” she said, with no warmth. “Search the perimeter. Carefully. Look near the statues, in the flower beds, under the benches. My mother was dramatic. She liked hiding things in plain sight.”

Neither man hesitated. Neither spoke.

They moved immediately, almost gracefully, as if her words had triggered a command sealed into their bones. One veered toward the northern edge of the courtyard, the other toward a half-collapsed gazebo wreathed in dead vines. Not a word. Not a flicker of protest. Only obedience.

I watched them for a long breath. Then looked back at her.

“They really are yours.” I said softly.

She didn’t answer right away.

“They’re Isran’s,” she said eventually. “I just… borrowed them. And left my mark.”

“Do they feel it?” I asked. “Know that they’ve been—”

“No,” she cut in, sharp. “They’re not suffering. Don’t start mourning them.”

I looked away, but the unease stayed with me.

Amon hadn’t moved. Still silent. Still watching. Like the ruined garden was whispering something only he could hear.

As Serana began searching near a statue half-swallowed by vines, I wandered toward the broken garden wall. A stone bench lay overturned beside a dead rosebush, and beside it, something glinted faintly beneath the leaves.

I knelt and pulled it free.

A moon crest.

Silver and cold, shaped like a full moon, edges dulled by time.

“Found one.” I said, and Serana looked over, a flicker of surprise crossing her face, followed by something almost like gratitude.

She didn’t say it. But she nodded once, then turned back to the moondial.

I shoved the moon crest I’d found into my cloak pocket and turned toward a nearby alcove where an old trellis lay collapsed in a tangle of wood and rust. Something silver winked from beneath it. I knelt, cleared the debris, and pulled free the second piece—a half-moon, faintly warm to the touch.

“Two.” I said aloud.

Serana looked up, her expression unreadable.

A moment later, the soldier near the gazebo straightened, holding something small in his hand.

“The last one,” Serana said, walking toward him. She took the crescent piece without a word of thanks. He simply stood there, staring past her like a man underwater.

Then she returned to the moondial.

Each crest clicked into place with a soft metallic sound. The rings realigned with quiet finality, and for a moment, the air itself seemed to shift. A low, groaning hum vibrated through the stones beneath our feet.

And then the moondial split open.

A hidden stairwell unfolded, stone sliding aside in a smooth spiral, revealing a narrow descent carved deep into the earth.

Serana looked down into it, then back at me.

“She never wanted anyone else to follow,” she said. “But she knew someone would.”

I drew my cloak tighter.

“And now we do.”

Without another word, she descended into the dark.

The stairwell coiled downward, narrow and slick with frost, like the castle had grown roots beneath its own bones. The deeper we went, the more the air thickened, old blood and wet stone curling in every breath. No torches lit the way. Only the echo of our footsteps, and the sense that something in the dark was listening.

“This wing was abandoned long ago,” Serana whispered. “My father sealed it off after my mother left. Said it was cursed.”

“What a relief.” I muttered, tightening my grip on the dagger at my hip.

Behind me, one of the Dawnguard shifted uneasily. The other was silent, eyes vacant.

A low groan echoed from somewhere ahead. Not human. Not alive.

The stair opened into a crypt chamber, arched ceilings, shattered pews, dust motes drifting like ash. For a moment, I thought it was empty.

Then the gargoyle moved.

Stone cracked.

Wings spread.

And it lunged.

“Down!” I shouted, diving aside as the creature’s claws raked the floor where I’d just stood.

The Dawnguard fired first, silver bolts flashing, thudding into the thing’s torso. It roared but didn’t fall.

Amon was already there.

He moved like a shadow given form, silent, brutal and fast. He didn’t draw a weapon. He didn’t need to. His hand sank into the creature’s throat, claws tearing through stoneflesh like paper. Then his teeth, those fangs I never let myself look at too long, buried into its neck.

The gargoyle shrieked once. Then collapsed.

I didn’t watch the way he fed. I couldn’t. I turned instead, just in time to see another one drop from the ceiling.

“Serana!”

“I see it.”

She raised her hand, eyes glowing faintly violet. With a sharp gesture, a skeletal figure burst from the crumbling tiles at her feet, armed with rusted blades and blind obedience. Her other hand flung a pulse of necrotic magic toward the charging beast.

The gargoyle reeled, screeching, and Serana’s skeleton struck—one, two, three times, buying us precious seconds.

A shriek tore through the chamber.

Not gargoyle.

Vampires.

From the shadows they came, feral, hissing, their eyes glassy with hunger. Not the elegant kind who stalk ballrooms. These were leftovers. Mistakes.

One lunged at me.

I let it get close.

Then drove my silver dagger into its side.

It screamed, smoke rising from the wound as I twisted the blade. My sword followed, clean through its throat. It dropped at my feet, twitching.

A second rushed me from behind, but it didn’t reach.

Amon was there, shoulder colliding with its ribs, driving it into a pillar with bone-cracking force. Blood smeared his chin. His breathing was ragged, fast.

He looked at me, wild and grinning, fangs bared. “You always this graceful with a blade, or am I making you nervous?”

I scowled, parried another strike. “You flatter yourself.”

Another vampire vaulted from the balcony above.

We turned at the same time.

Back to back.

His arm brushed mine, slick with blood and warmth that didn’t belong to either of us.

I didn’t flinch.

I moved with him.

He reached up and dragged the attacker from midair with a snarl, tearing through the vampire’s throat with claws alone. I met the next one with a slash of silver that split skin from shoulder to hip.

We moved as one, strike, dodge, pivot. A rhythm neither of us spoke aloud but somehow knew.

He grabbed a vampire, claws sinking into its stomach. Tore upward. It shrieked and split open, spraying blackened blood.

I ducked and sliced the legs out from under the next one.

“Nice form,” he said behind me, voice dark with amusement. “You’ve improved.”

“Thanks. I’ve been picturing your face on every target.”

“Makes me feel special.”

We pivoted again, my sword carving through a ribcage, his hand cracking a skull like glass. I didn’t have to look to know where he was.

He didn’t speak again until our backs touched once more, breath brushing my ear.

“You feel it too,” he murmured.

“Feel what?”

“Us.”

He moved away after that, vanishing into the next wave like smoke.

But I felt it.

His grin in the dark.

His blood on my skin.

And the echo of something I couldn’t name tightening in my chest.

I leaned against the cold wall, breathing harder than I wanted to admit. My hands were steady, but only just. Blood, some of it mine, most of it not, slicked my fingers and spattered across my boots. The silence that followed was deafening.

Amon stood a few paces away, shoulders rising and falling in slow, measured rhythm. He didn’t look at me. Not this time. But I could feel him. I always could.

The Dawnguard moved like ghosts now, checking weapons, wiping blades, too numb to speak. Serana knelt near a shattered urn, sifting through debris for anything that resembled her mother’s presence, but her motions were automatic, hollow.

No one said a word.

The corridor behind us reeked of death. The one ahead reeked of something worse.

Still, my mind wouldn’t settle.

Not on the bodies. Not on the blood. Not even on the battle.

But on him.

The way we moved. The way we fit in the fight, like we were meant to fall into rhythm. Like he knew every inch of me before I struck, and I knew just how far he’d go before I needed to.

I hated that, for the first time in a long time, I didn’t feel alone in the violence.

A part of me wanted to lean into that heat, to forget what he was. To let the shadow he cast fall over me.

But another part?

The louder part?

Wanted to run.

Because if I started letting myself feel anything for the monster who bled beside me—

I wasn’t sure I’d know how to stop.

The stone beneath my hand was wet with condensation or sweat, I didn’t check which. I just stared at the next set of doors, still closed, and forced my breath to even out.

Keep moving.

The doors groaned open with a reluctant, grinding shriek.

Beyond them, the air changed, heavier, wetter, steeped in the stench of rot and damp fur. The hallway stretched narrow and uneven, carved straight through the bedrock, its ceiling bowed with age. Iron cages lined the walls, half-collapsed, their bars twisted like something had tried to claw its way out.

Serana muttered, “The kennels.”

I paused. “You kept dogs down here?”

“Not dogs.” Her voice was colder now. “My father bred death hounds. For sport. For punishment.”

A snarl echoed from the dark.

I lifted my sword. The Dawnguard men raised their crossbows. Amon inhaled slowly, a sound too close to a growl.

Then the first hound lunged from the left passage, black-skinned and gnarled, teeth like stone, eyes glowing a dim red.

It hit one of the empty cages hard, metal crashing as it rebounded, then launched at us.

The bolt from the nearest Dawnguard found its mark, straight between the hound’s ribs, but it didn’t fall. Just kept coming, snarling like something that had forgotten it could die.

I stepped forward to meet it. My blade arced down, catching its shoulder. It howled, twisting away, but not before its jaws snapped an inch from my arm.

“Down, mutt.” Amon snarled, then caught the beast mid-lunge.

His hands didn’t just strike, they crushed, claws sinking deep, twisting. He pinned the hound beneath his knee and broke its spine with a crack so loud the others froze mid-charge.

And then they came.

Two more hounds from the shadows. Behind them, three feral vampires, half-starved, half-mad, crawling across the ceiling like spiders before dropping into the corridor with shrill shrieks.

“Don’t let them surround us!” Serana shouted.

Magic flared in her hands. Her skeletal minion reappeared, a new one this time, this one armored in fragments of bone. It leapt to intercept one of the vampires just as a hound barreled into the Dawnguard soldier beside me.

The man went down hard, but his partner shot clean through the beast’s skull before it could finish the job.

The corridor turned into chaos.

I ducked under a vampire’s claws, slammed the hilt of my dagger into its jaw, then rolled forward and sliced clean through its ankle. It hissed and tumbled, only for Amon to leap past me, one hand catching the creature by the throat, the other driving it back against the wall with enough force to crater stone.

It shrieked. He didn’t flinch.

His eyes were lit now, bright, unnatural. A predator unmasked.

“Too slow,” he murmured to the dying thing. “Try again in the next life.”

I was behind him, spinning to meet another hound. It lunged and I —misstepped.

Its weight hit me full force, slamming me into the wall.

Breath gone.

Dagger lost.

It snarled in my face, saliva burning hot against my cheek.

Then something cold swept past me like a gust of winter.

Amon yanked the creature off me and flung it halfway down the corridor. It skidded into a cage with a crack of bone and metal.

I caught my breath, pushed myself upright. “I had it.”

His smirk was all fang. “You’re welcome.”

“Don’t make me stab you next.”

“Only if you mean it this time.”

Another vampire screeched and launched toward me but this time, I was ready.

I caught it mid-swing, driving my silver blade through its chest. It writhed, steam rising from the wound. I twisted the sword free just as Serana sent a spike of ice into its throat.

We stood over its body, panting.

Serana exhaled, lowering her hand. “That should be the last of this pack.”

The Dawnguard regrouped, bloodied but alive. One of them leaned against the wall, panting hard, face pale. “What… what were those things?”

“Unwanted pets,” Serana said grimly. “They’re what happens when vampires start breeding loyalty instead of earning it.”

Amon wiped his hands on his cloak. The blood smeared, darker than it should’ve been. “And they say I’m the monster.”

I glanced at him. Still riding the edge. Still walking that line between ally and threat.

But he had saved me.

Again.

I didn’t thank him. And he didn’t ask.

The hall beyond the kennels was narrower, colder.

The air didn’t just smell of blood anymore. It reeked of something older. Something wrong. Like the scent that rises from a sealed tomb when the lock finally breaks, dust, soul magic, and sorrow thick enough to swallow.

We moved slowly now.

The Dawnguard had drawn their weapons again, though their steps were uncertain. Even as thralls they walked with a faint jerk in their limbs, as if something farther ahead was pulling against them.

She was quiet.

Too quiet.

Her eyes were on the walls, where the stones had begun to change, no longer simple rock, but carved now, smooth and etched with faded runes. The marks looked burned in, not chiseled. Some glowed faintly, like veins under skin.

“This is the boundary,” she said at last. “The castle’s bones end here. From this point on, everything was my mother’s.”

“What is it?” I asked, slowing beside her.

She looked forward, not at me. “A study. A sanctum. A prison. Take your pick.”

Amon stepped closer to the wall, dragging his fingers over a set of symbols near the archway. They pulsed once beneath his touch, then dulled.

“She warded it with soul energy,” he muttered. “I can taste it.”

“You can taste magic?” I asked dryly.

He smiled without humor. “Only the kind that bites back.”

The path ahead dipped once, then opened into a short antechamber, a ceiling of low black stone, floor littered with shattered glass vials and dried alchemical stains. Shelves lined the walls, half-collapsed under the weight of old tomes and forgotten experiments.

And there, at the end of the chamber, stood the glow.

Pure magic, shaped into a surface like still water, flickering with violet light. A portal.

Or nearly.

A shimmering barrier hummed in its center, thin, sharp, and utterly impassable. I could feel it before I stepped close. Cold in a way no weather could be. Like standing on the threshold of something that didn’t want to be seen.

Serana didn’t speak. She just stared.

“I thought she was hiding,” she said quietly. “But this…”

Her fingers hovered just above the barrier, where the light flickered in response. Her voice faltered. “What is this?”

Amon stepped past her.

He didn’t hesitate. Just stared straight into the pulse and muttered, “It’s a gate.”

Then, as if the name had always lived in his mouth:

“To the Soul Cairn.”

Silence fell.

Serana’s head snapped toward him.

“What?” she asked, too sharp. “What did you say?”

Amon didn’t answer.

She stepped closer, tension bleeding into her frame. “You said that like you knew it. Like you’ve been here before.”

“I’ve seen its edge,” he replied, low. “Long ago.”

Her jaw tightened. “You said you helped her. That you gave her a way out. Did you mean… this?”

His silence was louder than any answer.

“You helped her escape?” Serana’s voice cracked, fury and disbelief tangled together. “From him? From me? You knew this was here, and you never said a word?”

“She asked me not to,” Amon said at last. Calm. Quiet. Almost regretful. “I kept her secret. Just as I kept yours.”

Serana’s mouth opened, then closed. The light from the portal painted her pale features in ghostlight.

“You helped her disappear,” she said. “You let her go, and let me believe she—”

“I protected her,” he said. “From Harkon. From everyone.”

She laughed. Bitter and brittle. “And now you follow her daughter around like a dog waiting for scraps.”

Amon’s eyes darkened.

“Careful.” he said.

I felt it then, the storm between them, years and secrets and ancient betrayals pressing in, louder than the hum of the portal.

I took a step back from both of them.

“Enough,” I said, voice low. “I don’t care who opened the gate. I care how we get through it.”

Serana turned to me, her fury fading, replaced by something tighter. Something old. She looked at Amon, not like an ally, but like a wound that hadn’t scarred right.

“You know more than you let on,” she said coldly. “You’ve been dancing around this place like it’s familiar. So stop playing cryptic god and tell us how to lift the damn barrier.”

Amon didn’t flinch. He stood still, arms folded, the portal’s glow painting sharp lines across his jaw.

“You want my help now?” he asked softly.

“I want the truth.”

He exhaled through his nose, slow, controlled, but there was tension in his posture, like even he wasn’t sure what would happen if he spoke.

Then, finally:

“This barrier was designed to reject the living,” he said. “It’s not a lock, it’s a wall built from intent. Valerica infused it with soul energy, layered with necrotic binding runes, and rooted it in Oblivion itself. No mortal soul can pass through it unchanged.”

“So what,” I asked, staring at the flickering wall, “we just die and hope for the best?”

“I see now,” Serana nodded softly, her lips curving into something too amused for the moment. “Shall I do the honors then, Amon? I think she would die rather than let you near her neck.”

There was a giggle in her voice now, light, but cold beneath it. The kind of laughter you throw like a knife.

Amon’s head snapped toward her.

“No.”

She blinked. “Excuse me?”

He stepped forward, eyes locked on hers. “She’s not turning. Not even partially.”

Serana narrowed her eyes.  “Then do enlighten us, savior,” she said, folding her arms. “What’s your alternative? Or are you just planning to carry her over the threshold like a bride and hope the realm doesn’t notice?”

“There’s another way,” he said, voice tight. “The soul trap. I’ll handle it.”

Serana’s laugh was short and sharp. “You’ll what?”

“I’ll hold the vessel,” Amon said. “I’ve done it before. I can protect what’s hers until she returns.”

My heart hitched. The words came too fast. Too real.

I cut in before either of them could dig deeper.

“And what happens if you fail?” I asked, my voice tight. “If my soul doesn’t come back the same? Or doesn’t come back at all?”

Amon looked at me, truly looked. No grin. No taunt. Just something old and worn around the edges.

“I won’t fail.”

Serana stepped between us. “You expect her to trust you with that?”

“She’s trusted me with worse.”

I hated that it was true.

But the thought of becoming undead, of giving up even a piece of what still tethered me to who I was before, was worse.

Much worse.

He stepped closer, close enough that I could feel the heat of him unnatural and heavy, like standing too close to a storm.

Then he raised a hand.

Slow.

Deliberate.

His fingers moved toward my face, and instinctively, I flinched.

Not much. Just a breath of motion.

But he paused.

Not all the way. Just enough to let me stop him.

I didn’t.

So he touched me.

Fingertips brushing my cheek, light as ash. Cold at first, then warm.

“You’ve already survived more than you should have,” he said, voice rough with something close to reverence. “You’re strong. You don’t need fangs to cross that gate.”

His thumb barely grazed the edge of my jaw.

“You just need someone to hold the line while you’re gone.”

I couldn’t breathe.

Because I wanted to pull away.

Serana scoffed quietly behind us, but said nothing.

Amon’s hand lingered for one more heartbeat, then he let it fall, like it cost him something to lift it at all.

I turned to the portal.

The barrier pulsed again, slow, rhythmic. Like a heartbeat that wasn’t mine.

This was the cost.

One way or another, I had to bleed.

To be continued…

Chapter 66: Chapter 66

4 E, 191

 

Every one of us stood in a perfect crescent beneath the vaulted ceiling of Clamcora’s lowest training hall, twelve children in clean robes and cold silence.

Fourth year, most of us. Some younger, though no one acted like it. There was no youth in Clamcora. Just ranks, reports, and long hallways that echoed with footsteps too polished to run.

The walls here were white-veined stone, cut to resemble Altmeri marble, though we all knew it wasn’t. Everything in Clamcora mimicked something purer. Higher. As if imitation could become truth through repetition. Even us.

Magister Larnielle stood at the center, his hands clasped behind his back, golden robes falling in fluid, deliberate folds around his ankles. His hair was too perfect, his face too smooth. He looked as if he’d been carved from alabaster and given a voice simply to condescend.

And when he finally spoke, it was with that effortless Altmeri elegance, as though every word had already been ratified centuries ago.

“Soul magic,” he began, his voice a low echo across the chamber, “is not taught for cruelty. It is taught for order.”

He paused to let the weight of that settle.

“It is a discipline of inevitability. You do not learn it to feel. You learn it to master what must be taken. Mercy has no place in mastery.”

A servant emerged from the shadows, wheeling in a long iron rack. Cages clattered softly atop it, the sound almost delicate in the hush.

The animals were still at first. Some too still. Others shifted subtly, ears flicking or chests rising in ragged breath.

They were small things. Fragile things. Hares with patchy fur. A fox with milky eyes. A squirrel missing one paw. A sparrow with clipped wings.

A dove.

Ash-grey with a streak of ivory across its breast. Its beak trembled as it looked up at me through the bars, but it made no sound. None of them did. They had learned better.

We were assigned at random. But the cruelty was never really hidden. Every Bosmer child in that room knew what all of them meant.

We were Pact-bound, even if our hands no longer remembered the shape of prayer. All animals were sacred to us. Sacred, not in metaphor, but in blood oath. In bone and root and breath.

And here we were.

About to cast a spell that would steal their souls.

A boy near the end of the line—Tiralin—lifted his hand slightly, a foolish twitch of instinct. I saw him hesitate, but it was too late.

Magister Larnielle turned, not irritated, but curious.

“Yes?”

Tiralin’s voice was barely more than breath.

“What… happens to the soul? When it’s trapped.”

A silence followed. The kind that pressed against your chest, waiting to see who would breathe first.

The magister tilted his head slowly, then took a few steps in Tiralin’s direction, folding his arms like a scholar preparing to dissect a mistake.

“It is suspended,” he said at last. “Frozen in the instant of death. Stripped of identity, severed from memory. It becomes… obedient. Inert. And therefore useful.”

He paused beside Tiralin, his tone softening like he was indulging a child.

“You ask because you want to know what becomes of the creature. But what you should ask is: what becomes of you, if you never learn to command what must die?”

Tiralin lowered his eyes.

Satisfied, Larnielle turned from him and made his way back to the center.

“You were chosen,” he continued, “not because your customs were compatible. But because they are not. Consider this an unlearning. A shedding of weakness disguised as reverence.”

A beat.

“Now, begin.”

We raised our hands in silence.

I felt the magicka begin to hum along my skin, cold and steady. I’d practiced Soul Trap a dozen times. It came easily now. I could already feel the arcane threads coalescing in my palm, reaching toward the waiting gem beside me.

All I had to do was cast.

But my hand didn’t move.

The dove stared up at me from behind the bars. It blinked once, then twice, wings twitching as it shifted its weight. It didn’t struggle. It didn’t cower.

It simply waited.

I stood there, magicka fading from my hand.

I couldn’t do it.

Not to this creature. Not for this reason.

Around me, violet light burst through the air, threads of magic binding to fur, to feathers, to limbs. The others were already casting. Most had already drawn their weapons. Light shimmered with each death. One soul gem after another began to glow softly, pulsing like stolen heartbeats.

Mine remained dark.

The dove fluttered now, its panic rising. It tried to fly, slamming into the roof of the cage with a soft, dull thud. Its wings beat against the bars, feathers catching in the gaps.

And still, I stood frozen.

Then I heard him move.

Larnielle’s steps were silent, but the air shifted with him. I only noticed a gleam of gold from the edge of my vision, his ring.

His hand struck hard and fast, the edge of the ring carving a sharp line across my cheekbone. My head snapped sideways, and the world tilted violently, just for a moment. Light exploded behind my eyes. I tasted copper. My lip split open, and something inside me folded in on itself.

I staggered, breath caught mid-throat, catching myself on one knee as the gem beside me glowed faintly with stolen light from the others.

He didn’t even raise his voice.

“Sentiment,” he said, as if diagnosing an illness, “is a flaw I will not correct twice.”

He turned away, already done with me.

“Those who hesitate fail. And those who fail,” he said, “are forgotten.”

The room returned to silence. No one moved. No one looked at me.

The dove struck the cage again, feathers flying loose, beak catching the bars until it began to bleed. It would destroy itself before it ever surrendered.

And then—

A single arrow.

It tore through the cage like lightning, silent, swift and absolute. Straight through the chest.

The dove collapsed.

And only then did I realize, Elamoril had already been holding his bow.

Had he seen it coming?

The gem beside the cage flared to life, vivid violet, perfectly sealed. Still warm.

Elamoril didn’t speak. He didn’t look at me.

He just lowered the bow and stepped back into line.

Magister Larnielle glanced at him once.

“Efficient.” he murmured.

Then turned to the next.

The lesson continued.

No one spoke.

I stood in place, half-bleeding, the skin of my cheek hot and throbbing, my lip stinging with every breath.

I looked at the body in the cage. At the stillness that followed the fight. At the pale wings folded like paper.

And then at the gem.

It pulsed softly. Quietly. Unnaturally warm.

I hadn’t taken the soul.

But it was still gone.

And for the rest of the lesson, as the others moved on to the next spell and the next kill, I said nothing.

But the thought came anyway.

Would I have done it, if he hadn’t?

I never answered myself.

Because deep down, I already knew—

This wasn’t instruction.

It was erasure.

 

To be continued…

Chapter 67: Chapter 67

 

I should have turned back.

Even now, the portal shimmered before me like a wound in the world, pulsing softly, daring me to come closer and still, I stayed rooted.

And I hated that I hadn’t turned around the moment I saw it. I hated that I’d followed Serana and Amon down here, descended into crypts with blood on my hands and stubbornness in my chest only to stop now. Here. On the edge of something I didn’t understand.

I let the question rot in my mind like poison, Do I really want to go in there?

No.

No, I didn’t.

I could stay. I could lie. I could claim I didn’t trust the portal. That something felt wrong. That I was thinking tactically. Perhaps I could feign ignorance. Say I misunderstood. That I didn’t know what it would take.

Bal forbid you take a moment to think. Amon had said earlier, voice like frost. Had to throw yourself into the deep end.

I clenched my fists so tightly my nails bit into my skin.

I didn’t have to do this. There was no blood price, no duty owed, no target. I could walk away, leave the portal untouched, refuse the cost. Would Serana understand? Amon would, but he would know. And he would remember. And he would smile.

That was enough to keep me here.

I had been many things in my life, a daughter, a weapon, a ghost with too many names. But a coward? Never. Not once. Not even when I should have been.

I had walked through fire. I had bled for gods I didn’t believe in. I had held death in my hands and laughed in its face.

So why was this the thing that made my knees want to buckle?

Because it wasn’t just a spell. It wasn’t just a portion of my soul. It was surrender. It was giving something I couldn’t get back, not to a god, not to an enemy, but to him.

Amon, who stood across from me now in silence, watching. Patient.

I turned my face slightly, jaw clenched, and stared at the portal again. The air rippled, thin as veil silk, yet impossibly heavy. I imagined walking through it, imagined leaving a piece of myself behind. What would it feel like? What would I lose?

Would it hurt? Would I still be… me?

I swallowed hard. My tongue felt thick in my mouth. The words clung to the back of my throat like thorns.

But I forced them out.

“I’ll do it.”

The words hung in the stale crypt air, barely more than a whisper, yet louder than a scream.

Amon moved like he had been waiting, as always, and now the moment had come.

He stepped closer, his boots silent on the worn floor. I didn’t look at him. I couldn’t. I just stared past him, toward the portal, and tried not to think of what I was giving up.

“You’re sure?” he asked softly, stopping just a breath too close.

His voice was quieter than before, lacking that usual edge of mockery. Almost… reverent. As if he knew exactly what he was about to take from me and didn’t intend to pretend it was nothing.

I still didn’t look at him. “Would it matter if I wasn’t?”

“It would.” he said.

I turned my head then, just enough to meet his eyes. Red and blue. Always watching. Always unblinking.

“Do it before I change my mind.” I said.

A muscle in his jaw ticked. For a heartbeat, he looked like he might say something else. But then he reached for me.

I didn’t move as he raised a hand, gloved fingers brushing the side of my throat, then pausing at the buckle of my armor’s collar. His eyes flicked down, then up again.

“I need to touch-“

“I know.” I interjected, yearning for it to be done as quick as possible.

His hand worked quickly, unfastening the clasp at my neck. One loop, then another. I felt the cold air seep through the opening as the leather parted, exposing the pale skin of my chest just above the sternum.

I told myself the chill was what made me shiver.

Then his glove came off.

He slipped it into his belt, eyes never leaving mine, before lifting his bare hand and placing it flat over the spot he’d just revealed, the center of my chest, just above where my heart beat like a drum in a war camp.

His skin was cold. Not corpse-cold. Just… cool, like moonlight on river water. And yet, it burned where it touched.

“You might feel a pull,” he murmured, voice low. “Like something reaching inside you.”

“Charming.”

“You’ll hate it.”

I didn’t reply. I already hated him.

His hand splayed against me, fingers slightly spread, the heel of his palm pressing down with more weight than necessary. I hated how aware I was of it. How present every inch of that touch became, as if my nerves had sharpened to needle-points beneath his skin.

Then the magic began.

It wasn’t like other spells. There was no crackle of energy, no surge of flame or frost. Just a slow, sinking heat as if something invisible had reached into me and was pulling. Not cruelly. Not even forcefully. But firmly.

My breath caught. I clenched my jaw.

I didn’t cry out. I didn’t flinch.

But I felt it.

The magic laced around my spine like wire. It coiled through my chest, brushing places I didn’t know could feel pain or something like it. My knees weakened slightly, but I held my ground.

Amon’s eyes didn’t leave mine. His expression had gone still. Focused. Intense. Almost… hungry.

“You’re doing well,” he said, his voice a rasp now. “Almost done.”

“Don’t talk.”

His lips twitched, a ghost of something between amusement and approval.

I felt it then, the moment it left me. Like a thread being tugged from the core of myself, pulled through his palm and into the void.

And then it was gone.

The magic stopped. His hand lingered.

I slapped it away.

“Don’t ever touch me like that again.” I said, voice low, trembling.

Amon didn’t move. Not at first. Then, slowly, the corner of his mouth pulled into that maddening smirk, the one that always made me want to hit him.

“Say it like that,” he murmured, “and I might think you want me to.”

My hand twitched near my blade.

Amon noticed. Of course he did.

But instead of flinching, he reached into his coat with that same insufferable calm and drew out a small, glimmering stone — no larger than a coin, black as the void between stars. It pulsed faintly in his fingers. Faint, but alive.

A soul gem.

Not just any.

Mine.

He rolled it once across his knuckles like a coin trick, the flick of his wrist effortless.

“Give me that.” I said, stepping forward.

And nearly staggered.

The world shifted. Just slightly. The edges of it frayed at the corners of my vision, stone walls wavering like heat off coals, air too thick, too close. My legs felt strange beneath me, too light and too heavy all at once.

I clenched my jaw, straightened.

But the sensation didn’t pass.

It felt like something inside me was missing, like a thread that held me together had been gently snipped.

That was the cost, it seemed.

Amon tilted his head, watching me with eyes that saw far too much.

“I’ll keep it safe,” he said softly, slipping the gem back into the pouch at his belt. “It’ll be better this way.”

“No.”

“It will be safer with me.”

“I don’t care. Give it—”

“Trust me.”

That stopped me colder than the spell had.

I stared at him, breath uneven, not from fear, but from fury. From the weight of that word.

Trust me.

I wanted to laugh. Or scream. Or both.

But before I could say a thing, Serana groaned loudly.

“Oh for the love of Bal, can we go now?”

She stomped toward the portal, cloak flaring behind her. “I didn’t drag you both through a cursed garden and half a castle for emotional sparring. Let’s move.”

I took one more look at Amon, at the pouch on his hip where the gem rested.

He didn’t smile this time. He just held my gaze, quiet.

And I turned from him.

Because if I kept looking, I might’ve killed him.

Or worse — believed him.

Serana didn’t wait for an answer. Her boots echoed across the stone as she approached the threshold, then paused. Without looking back, she gestured sharply to the two Dawnguard soldiers standing behind her, faces still blank.

“Guard the door,” she said, her voice sharp and flat as steel. “If anything tries to follow us in…”

A beat. Her head turned slightly, just enough for her amber eyes to flick toward them.

“…kill it. Or die trying.”

The soldiers didn’t blink. Just nodded.

She stepped into the portal’s glow, shadows swallowing her.

I stayed where I was.

Still standing. Still breathing. But… lighter. Not in a way that freed me. In a way that unmoored me. Like I’d cut loose something vital, and now my body didn’t quite know how to hold itself upright.

A part of me expected Amon to make a comment. Something smug. Another jab.

But he didn’t.

Instead, he stepped closer, just once, carefully and his voice came low, barely above a breath.

“You’ll feel it for a while,” he said. “The emptiness. The weight where something used to be.”

I didn’t answer. I didn’t trust my voice.

His gaze searched mine, and there was no humor in it this time. Just something quieter. Something… still.

“But it won’t break you,” he said. “You’re not so easy to hollow out.”

I blinked.

Something in my chest twisted, sharp, unsure.

Amon took a step back, as if he hadn’t said anything at all.

Then he extended his hand toward the portal. “After you.”

I didn’t take it.

But I walked forward, slow and stiff, and stepped into the void with my shoulders squared, head high and a hole in my soul that echoed with every breath.

Crossing the threshold felt like stepping into a scream without sound.

The portal didn’t burn or tear. It pulled like sinking into icy water that had no surface. For a split second, I couldn’t feel my limbs. Couldn’t feel me.

Then I was through.

My boots struck stone, not the stone I had known above, not the cracked marble and crypt-floor cold of Volkihar. This stone was… dry. Dust-choked. Dead.

I staggered. The world was wrong here.

Everything was tinted in shades of grey and violet, like night had drowned the sun and left nothing behind but rot and ruin. The air didn’t move. It pressed. It hung in the lungs like ash and regret, thick enough to taste, thin enough to choke on.

Above me, the sky was not a sky at all.

It pulsed.

No stars. No sun. No moons. Just jagged cracks of light far above, glowing like the ribs of some buried god, broken open to bleed their glow into this realm.

The wind howled in silence. But there was no wind.

I stood at the top of a wide stairwell, carved from stone that seemed to rise and decay all at once. It twisted downward, flanked by towering pillars of black bone-like rock. Everything was ruined. Everything was waiting.

Behind me, I heard another step, Amon, emerging from the portal. His presence pressed behind my shoulder like heat that didn’t belong here.

Each step down the stairs echoed like a bell struck underwater. My legs felt heavy, and the dizziness hadn’t fully faded.

And yet… I kept going.

At the base of the stairs, Serana stood still, arms crossed, eyes scanning the wasteland like she was trying to absorb all of it at once. Her expression wasn’t fear. It was something quieter. Heavier.

“So,” I said, my voice rough in the air that didn’t carry echoes, “this is it.”

Serana nodded slowly. “It’s worse than I imagined.”

The sky above us pulsed with that unnatural violet glow, as if the stars had drowned and left only bruises behind. In the distance, souls drifted aimlessly, fading blue outlines of what they once were, some whispering, others screaming in silence.

“I thought I was prepared,” Serana murmured. “She told me stories. Said the Soul Cairn was cold, endless, and cruel… but this—” She shook her head. “This is a graveyard that forgot it was supposed to die.”

We stood in silence for a moment, the three of us gazing out at the rotting vastness of the Soul Cairn.

“How do we even begin to find her?” I asked, mostly to myself.

Serana’s jaw tensed.

Amon tilted his head, eyes fixed on the horizon like it held a secret only he could see.

And that’s when Serana turned, sharp, sudden.

“Maybe you know,” she snapped at him, voice cutting through the still air like a blade. “You helped her get here, didn’t you?”

Amon’s eyes slid to her. Not startled. Just still. “I opened a door. She walked through it.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

“And I answered anyway.”

Serana stepped forward, her face fierce under the pulsing sky. “You are all riddles aren’t you?Riddles and half-truths. My mother trusted you. I still don’t know why.”

Amon didn’t flinch. “Because she understood the cost of power.”

“More like she understood desperation.”

“Same thing.”

The silence that followed was colder than the air.

I said nothing, couldn’t. Not when the echo of the soul trap still throbbed in my chest like something unfinished. But I was watching him now. Closely.

Because she was right.

Serana shook her head, bitter. “If you know something, say it now. Because I’m not dragging her through this place blind. Not when she’s already given up part of herself to be here.”

Amon’s eyes flicked to me.

And for once… he didn’t say anything.

The tension still hung between them, sharp as broken glass. Serana’s shoulders were rigid, her breath tight. Amon had gone still again, that kind of stillness that wasn’t calm, just leashed.

I stepped between them, not looking at either.

“We’re wasting time.”

My voice came out rough, but steady.

I stared at the horizon, those jagged ruins in the distance, the crawling haze of violet light over the skeletal land.

“There’s three of us,” I said. “The Cairn is massive. If we split up, we cover more ground.”

“No.” Amon said instantly.

I turned my head, slow, jaw tight. “It’s practical.”

“It’s stupid.”

I rolled my eyes. “Afraid to be alone?”

He didn’t flinch. “I’m not the one with a soul like a cracked mirror. You shouldn’t stray far.”

My hand twitched.

I narrowed my eyes. “You don’t get to give orders.”

“I’m not giving orders,” he said, stepping closer, “I’m stopping you from walking into a realm of soul-draining gods with half your soul and no backup.”

I bristled. “I’ve walked into worse.”

“Not like this.”

His gaze locked with mine, and for a moment, everything else disappeared, Serana, the Cairn, even the ache in my chest. Just his face, close, unreadable, stubborn in a way that sounded too much like fear when it came from him.

Serana muttered something under her breath and turned away, clearly done with the conversation.

I didn’t.

“Why do you care?” I asked, voice flat.

He held my eyes. “Because I remember what I was like before I lost my soul.”

A beat. The first hint of real truth slipped into his voice like a fracture.

“And you’re already stronger than I ever was.”

Then he stepped back, just enough to break the thread between us.

“Three of us. One direction. Let’s move.”

“Let’s head that way,” Serana said. “If I were my mother, I’d find something dark and defensible.”

“Of course,” I muttered. “A family trait.”

We hadn’t walked far.

Maybe a few hundred paces. Maybe a mile. It was impossible to tell in this place, where distance bent and sky stayed fixed in eternal dusk.

The ground cracked beneath our boots in long, jagged lines, and the air grew colder with every step.

Then we saw him.

A soul drifted toward us, pale blue and half-faded, but still shaped. A man. Or what was left of one. His eyes were hollow, mouth parted in something that once might’ve been a smile, or grief that had forgotten how to weep.

He stopped a few feet ahead, flickering faintly in the gloom.

“Wait,” he rasped. “Please—wait.”

Serana slowed, groaning under her breath. “Here we go.”

The spirit hovered, wringing phantom hands. “Have you… have you seen her? My Lethara. She wore red. She had a laugh like windchimes. She said she’d find me. I waited.”

I swallowed. “No. I’m sorry.”

He didn’t seem to hear. Or maybe didn’t want to.

“She always said I’d forget first,” he said quietly. “But I remember her. I remember her every day. I can’t forget her name. I won’t.”

Serana crossed her arms. “We don’t have time for this.”

The soul looked up, pleading. “If you find her, if she’s here, will you give her this?”

He held out something small and translucent, hovering between his palms, a broken ring, cracked down the center, its gem faded to mist. But even now, it pulsed faintly, like it carried something of him still.

“She’ll know,” he whispered. “She’ll remember.”

I stepped forward before anyone else could move.

“I’ll take it.” I said, gently reaching out.

The moment my fingers touched the ring, cold shot up my arm, not painful, but sorrowful, like the air after a funeral. The ring settled in my hand. Weightless and empty. And yet it hurt.

Serana rolled her eyes and kept walking.

The soul nodded, already starting to drift back into the haze. “Thank you,” he murmured. “Thank you, thank you…”

And then he was gone.

I kept the ring in my palm as we walked, fingers curled around it like it might warm me. It didn’t. But I didn’t let go.

The soul’s words echoed, faint and frayed.

She’ll remember.

I doubted memory meant much here.

Still, I slipped the ring into the inner lining of leather, close to the chest, where even the Cairn’s chill couldn’t touch it.

We moved quietly through the gray, broken world, navigating crumbling arches and shattered towers, each one darker than the last. Serana led, sharp-eyed and focused. Amon drifted at my side, as if keeping pace with the way I stumbled every fifth step without meaning to.

I hated the way my legs still felt wrong. Hated the faint hollowness in my ribs, the slow pulse behind my eyes like something had gone missing and kept echoing its absence.

We passed a gate made of twisted bone. Beyond it, something shifted.

A structure loomed ahead, a ruin shaped like a half-collapsed chapel, its arches jagged like teeth. Pillars surrounded it in a wide circle. The air buzzed.

Serana slowed. “That’s… not like the rest.”

I narrowed my eyes. There was a figure at its center.

Not blue.

Still.

A massive, armored thing, black metal fused with something unnatural, its helm crowned with antlers or bones. It stood with a massive weapon planted before it, unmoving. Watching.

“What is that?” I asked.

Amon’s voice came low, sharp. “A Keeper.”

Serana turned, brow furrowed. “You know it?”

“I’ve heard of them. Servants of the Ideal Masters. They guard something. No one knows what.”

“Perfect,” Serana muttered. “Let’s ask it, shall we?”

The moment Serana stepped forward, the Keeper moved.

No warning. No roar. Just a sudden surge, a tower of metal and death, hurling itself toward us with impossible speed.

The ground cracked.

“Move!” Amon’s voice cut through everything.

He was in front of me before I could blink.

No weapon.

Just his hands.

He met the Keeper head-on, slammed into it with a force that rattled my teeth. His bare hands struck the blackened armor, claws tearing across the plating with a screech like steel screaming.

The Keeper staggered.

Amon did not stop.

He moved like a storm given flesh, vicious, fast, and silent. No fancy footwork, no spells. Just raw, animal power. He climbed up the thing’s side like a shadow, sunk his fangs into the exposed seam between helm and shoulder.

There was a crunch.

The Keeper reeled with a soundless shriek, swinging its weapon wildly.

Amon dropped back, blood and something darker staining his mouth.

Serana was already casting, lightning arcing between her palms, her eyes glowing with wrath.

“I don’t care what you are,” she hissed. “Get out of my way.”

She flung the spell, and the Keeper spasmed, armor glowing under the impact.

I stumbled back, chest heaving. Frost flared at my fingertips, but the magic came slower now, like it had to climb through the hollow space inside me to reach the surface.

Another swing, the Keeper’s blade came down like a falling tower.

I froze.

Too slow.

Too slow.

But before it landed, something slammed into me from the side.

Amon.

He knocked me flat to the ground, teeth bared, arm curled around my head to shield it as the impact hit behind us with an earth-splitting crash.

Dust rained down. The shock made my ears ring.

He didn’t look at me. Just stood again with a growl, low, dangerous and launched himself back into the fight.

I tried to rise. My limbs felt heavy. My chest ached like something had been scooped out of it, like I was only mostly here, only mostly alive.

The Soul Cairn wanted me like this.

Weak.

But I wasn’t dead yet.

I forced my palm to the ground. Pushed myself upright, knees trembling, vision swimming.

The Keeper loomed above, reeling slightly under Serana’s barrage. Amon was circling, fast, low, teeth bared and soaked in black ichor. His claws raked across the thing’s spine as he darted past like a beast unleashed.

I dragged a breath into my lungs and raised my hands.

The magic came slow.

Sluggish.

Like water frozen in a river, struggling to move again.

But I pulled harder.

I called to it, not gently, not with grace. I ripped it up from inside me.

Frost bloomed across my skin, up my arms, clinging to the edges of my fingers like claws of rime. The air chilled instantly, heavy with the scent of winter and ruin.

The Keeper turned toward me, eyes glowing.

“Come on,” I whispered. “Look at me.”

And it did.

The frost erupted.

Not as a gentle mist but a blast of jagged, solid ice, raw and roaring. It hit the Keeper square in the midsection, encasing its lower body in thick crystal. Cracks spidered out across its armor, slowing its movement to a crawl.

It tried to lift its weapon.

The ice held.

Serana didn’t miss the opening, lightning crashed into its chest, again and again.

Amon leapt for its exposed throat, and this time, his claws tore through.

The Keeper buckled.

And fell.

Silence returned, thick, ringing, broken only by my ragged breathing.

I dropped to my knees, frost still clinging to my arms. My vision swam again, but this time… I didn’t fall.

Serana flicked her hand, dismissing the last of her lightning. “Well,” she said, brushing ash from her sleeve. “That was fun.”

I barely heard her.

The ground tilted beneath me in slow waves. My arms shook from the spell, my knees pressed into cracked stone, the frost still clinging to my skin like it didn’t want to let go. My lungs burned with every breath.

And then I felt him.

Amon dropped beside me in a rush, not elegant, not composed. Just there.

“Let me look at you.” he said, breath uneven, voice far too soft.

His hand cupped my shoulder, fingers careful despite the clawed tips. The other hovered by my arm, brushing off shards of lingering ice. His eyes scanned me like he expected to find something torn open.

And then, slowly, he reached for my face.

I flinched from instinct.

His fingers, cold and bare, touched my cheek like I was made of something fragile. His thumb grazed just under my eye, where sweat and frost had melted into a trail down my skin.

“You’re trembling.” he murmured.

“I’m cold.”

“You’re drained.” His gaze locked on mine, mismatched, piercing. “You shouldn’t have forced that much power.”

I forced a breath through my teeth. “It worked, didn’t it?”

A hint of something flickered across his face. Not a smirk. Not pride.

Something quieter. Pained.

“It shouldn’t have to cost you so much.” he said.

The world was dead around us, souls drifting, ruin humming in the distance, the stench of decay in the air and here he was, kneeling in the ash, holding my face like I was the last real thing in this place.

“I’m fine.” I whispered.

His hand lingered a second longer.

Then, slowly, he pulled back just enough to break the contact. But his eyes didn’t leave mine.

He didn’t say anything more.

Just reached down again, this time to help me up.

His fingers brushed mine and they wrapped around my hand. There was a softness to the way he lifted me, as if he thought I might shatter from more than exhaustion.

And for a breath, just one, I let him hold me like that.

My chest ached. My skin burned where he’d touched it. My thoughts were too loud, too full, too fast.

I didn’t pull away.

Not until I remembered why I should.

I slipped my hand from his the moment I had my footing. Said nothing.

Neither did he.

The silence between us was too full, too loaded.

And then—

“Are you two finished?” Serana snapped, marching up from behind, eyes rolling so hard it was a miracle they stayed in her skull. “We just killed a deathless monstrosity! This place is more dangerous than we thought.”

I didn’t look at her. I didn’t look at him either.

“Let’s keep moving.” I muttered, brushing frost from my coat.

Serana turned without another word and began walking, her boots crunching over the dead earth, already hunting the next ruin in the endless dark.

Amon followed, quiet as a shadow.

I came last.

I tried to keep pace.

But my body disagreed.

Each step felt heavier than the last. My legs dragged. The ache in my bones had sunk deeper, duller, like the Soul Cairn was feeding on my effort, savoring every motion I forced myself to make.

I bit down on it. Didn’t complain.

But Serana noticed.

I saw it in the way she slowed. How she glanced back once and then looked away quickly, as if ashamed of the impulse.

Then, without a word, she fell back beside me.

Her hand brushed mine briefly to get my attention.

“Stop for a second.” she said.

I did, blinking. “What—?”

“Hold still.”

Before I could argue, her palm hovered over my shoulder, and a soft golden pulse lit the space between us.

Warmth.

Not just in the skin, but in the joints, in the brittle ache between my ribs. It wasn’t a full restoration. It wasn’t enough to make me new again. But it dulled the gnawing ache in my bones, just enough to breathe easier.

The frost on my fingers faded. My spine straightened a little.

I looked at her.

She didn’t meet my gaze.

“You’ll burn out before we get to her if you keep going like that,” she muttered, already walking again. “So don’t make me regret wasting magicka.”

I blinked. Swallowed.

“…Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it.”

But behind the sarcasm, I caught it, that flicker of understanding in her voice. Maybe pity. Maybe something harder to name.

I followed her without another word.

We walked.

And walked.

Time stretched thin in the Soul Cairn, hours or minutes, it was impossible to tell. The sky never changed. The ground never shifted. Just black stone, gray dust, and that endless, pulsing violet glow that made it feel like we were trapped inside a dying star.

The silence was unbearable.

The souls, the flickering wraiths, drifted past us like memories too faded to mourn. Some whispered to themselves. Others screamed. Most simply wandered, endlessly, like we were just shadows in their dream.

Amon remained silent, watchful.

Serana pushed forward, her jaw set, eyes searching every spire and ruin like her rage could summon her mother from stone.

And I… slowed.

Not out of pain this time. Not weakness. Just… doubt.

It started as a whisper. Then grew into a thought I couldn’t shake.

We’ve passed this tower already. That cracked arch, I saw it before. That bone pile. That twisted gate.

We were walking in circles.

“Amon,” I said quietly. “This… this isn’t right.”

He didn’t answer.

I stopped.

Serana spun on her heel, breath sharp. “Why are you stopping?”

“We’ve been here before,” I said. “I swear we have. That wall, look at it. It’s the same one we passed half an hour ago.”

“Impossible.” she snapped.

“Is it?” My voice was hoarse. “We don’t know how time or space even works here. It could all be shifting around us.”

Serana’s hands curled into fists. She looked around, really looked, and for a moment, I saw it.

The panic.

The helplessness.

And then she screamed.

A raw, furious sound that broke the stillness like a blade.

“Where are you?”

Her voice echoed into the dead air, bouncing off nothing, disappearing like it had never been.

“Where are you?” she shouted again, fists clenched, hair whipping around her face as the wind kicked up from nowhere. “Damn you, mother, answer me!”

The sky didn’t change.

The souls didn’t stop.

Only the silence came back, heavier than before.

Amon didn’t move. He watched her scream without a flicker of expression.

There was nothing to say.

We were alone.

Still walking.

Still searching.

And every step felt like the ground was laughing beneath us.

Then—

“You’re looking for her.” a voice said.

Soft. Feminine. Behind us.

We turned at once, blades and spells on edge.

But there she stood.

A soul.

Feminine in shape, faint blue glow trailing like mist around her wrists and throat. Her face was blurred, indistinct like a painting someone had tried to scrub clean. But her posture was proud. Regal. Not broken like the others.

She tilted her head slightly, studying us. When she spoke, her voice was dream-thin but clear.

“She’s still here. The one you seek. She’s clever. Not clever enough.”

Serana stepped forward. “What do you mean? Where is she?”

The soul blinked slowly, as if processing the question through layers of dust.

“Trapped,” she said. “Between the wards. She made a cage with light and salt. But they know. They’re watching her through the seams.”

I stepped beside Serana. “Where?”

A long pause.

Then the soul raised a hand and pointed — not in a direction, exactly, but upward, toward a cluster of jagged towers in the far distance, where the glow was denser. Where the air shimmered faintly.

“She sleeps beneath the hollow sky. In the place where wind doesn’t blow.”

The soul lowered her arm. “But be quick. The others stir. They don’t like trespassers.”

Amon narrowed his eyes. “You’re not like the rest.”

The soul didn’t answer.

She simply faded, slowly like fog peeling back from a window.

Gone.

I looked to the horizon where she’d pointed.

Even from here… the towers seemed darker. Heavier. And I could feel it now, that faint tug. Like a string wound around my ribs pulling me forward.

Serana’s voice came rough. “She’s there. I know it.”

And for the first time since we arrived, she didn’t walk ahead alone.

She waited.

We stood in silence a moment longer, staring into the distance where the soul had pointed.

It felt right. That tug in the chest. That shift in the air.

But then Amon spoke, voice low and sharp as ever.

“So we’re taking directions from wandering spirits now?” he said. “That’s the plan?”

Serana turned to him, bristling. “She knew something.”

“We don’t know we can trust her.”

“You think she was lying?”

“I think this place eats minds,” he replied. “And if it doesn’t eat them, it twists them. You don’t know how long she’s been here. Or what made her different.”

“She was clear.”

“No,” he said, eyes narrowing. “She was deliberate. There’s a difference.”

The words hung in the air like frost.

I exhaled slowly, the ache behind my ribs flaring again.

“She knew about the wards,” I said. “That wasn’t vague. That wasn’t a guess.”

Amon didn’t reply right away. His jaw tightened. His gaze turned toward the far-off spires again, slow and unreadable.

Finally, he spoke, voice quieter. “If it’s a trap, I’ll break it open myself.”

Serana huffed. “Glad to know you’re feeling helpful.”

He looked at me instead of her. “Just don’t let your hope get you killed.”

And then he walked.

I watched his back for a moment, then followed.

Serana fell into step beside me. She didn’t speak, but the look in her eyes said enough.

For now, we had a direction.

And a deadline.

We moved toward the towers.

The closer we came, the quieter the world became. Like the air itself was listening. Judging.

Even the drifting souls began to thin. The blue wisps turned away, veering wide as if repelled by something they couldn’t name. None came near.

The ground changed too.

Gone were the broken pathways and loose stone. Here, the floor of the Cairn grew smooth, carved.

Lines etched into the ground formed overlapping circles, spirals within spirals, so faint they were easy to miss. But magic hummed through them, subtle and sharp. I could feel it in my boots, in my bones. Like a chord drawn taut, humming just below hearing.

I stepped carefully. Even my breath came lighter now, as if anything louder than a whisper might break something that was not meant to be touched.

Ahead, the towers loomed, clustered close together like teeth grown too tightly in a jaw. They weren’t ruined, not like the others. They were intact.

Intact, and sealed.

Wards shimmered faintly across the space between them, thin sheets of magic, nearly invisible, only revealed by the way light refused to move near them. Where the wards were strongest, the air warped, sharp angles where there should be curves, shadows that bent away.

A structure sat at the center, low, circular, like a buried sanctum.

Serana slowed to a stop.

Her breath caught.

“This is it.”

The ache in my chest had settled into something colder now, not pain, but gravity. Like my bones had caught on something just beneath the skin of the world.

Amon remained back a few steps, arms folded, eyes scanning everything.

“She built this,” he muttered. “Layered wards. She wanted to keep something out.”

Serana’s voice was quiet. “She was keeping them out.”

The air here was wrong.

We approached the circle slowly, feet silent against the etched stone, the air tight with tension. The wards didn’t pulse.

They simply watched.

And beyond them, standing in the center of the seal, was a woman.

Tall. Still. Her form cloaked in layered robes of gray and deep violet, stiff as ancient parchment. Her hair was long, pale, her features striking even through the haze, sharp, defined, and cold as the stone beneath our feet.

But her eyes…

They widened.

“Mother?” Serana’s voice broke the silence like a snapped string. She stepped forward, her face open, desperate. “Mother!”

The woman took a half-step back.

“Maker…” she breathed. Her voice was older than her body. Tired. Hoarse from silence.

“It can’t be. Serana?”

A flicker of magic quivered across the ward, not an attack, not a trap. Just recognition.

Serana nodded, breathless. “Is it really you? I can’t believe it!”

She moved closer, both hands raised as if she might press through the shimmering veil. “How do we get inside? We have to talk.”

Valerica’s expression shifted, sharp, guarded, and already searching the shadows behind her daughter. “Serana? What are you doing here?” Her voice darkened. “Where’s your father?”

Serana hesitated just for a moment. Then: “He doesn’t know we’re here. I don’t have time to explain.”

Valerica’s mouth tightened. The fine lines around her eyes deepened with something that looked like pain.

“I must have failed,” she whispered.

“Harkon’s found a way to decipher the prophecy, hasn’t he.”

Serana opened her mouth—

But Amon stepped forward, voice like frost breaking stone.

“No. You’ve got it wrong.”

Valerica turned her gaze toward him, eyes narrowing—

And then her entire body froze.

Her breath caught. The wards pulsed faintly, reacting to the shift in her magic.

“Amon?” Her voice cracked like old parchment.

He inclined his head slightly, gaze unreadable.

“I see the years haven’t dulled your dramatics.” he said.

Valerica took a step closer to the edge of the ward, the magic flaring faintly between them.

“You said you would never return to this place. Not unless—”

Her eyes flicked to Serana.

Something changed in her face. Shock melting into dread.

“We’re not here to finish Harkon’s work,” Amon said. “We’re here to end it.”

Valerica’s gaze lingered on him for a long moment. The silence stretched.

Then, quieter: “If you’re involved again… it’s worse than I feared.”

Valerica’s gaze slid past Amon, and finally settled on me.

Her eyes narrowed. Something flickered in her expression. She straightened, her entire bearing sharpening like a blade being drawn.

“Wait a moment…” she said slowly, voice gaining edge. “You’ve brought a stranger here?”

Her tone cracked like lightning across the wards. “Have you lost your mind?”

Serana stepped forward, voice tight. “No, you don’t—”

Valerica raised a hand, silencing her without even looking.

Her gaze didn’t move from me. “You. Come forward.”

The wards shimmered slightly between us, reacting to the change in tension. The air grew colder.

“I would speak with you.”

Amon said nothing. His eyes were on me now, but his face gave nothing away.

Serana looked between us all, jaw tense. “Mother, she helped me. She’s—”

But Valerica didn’t blink.

She didn’t ask again.

She was looking straight at me and the weight of her magic pressed into my skin like frost.

She had questions.

And I had nowhere to hide.

I stepped forward.

The air between the wards shimmered faintly, thin, invisible threads of magic brushing against my skin like cold breath. I didn’t flinch, but my hand drifted instinctively to the ache in my chest. The soul wound still pulsed there, faint and deep.

Valerica’s eyes followed the motion.

Her voice came sharp. “So how has it come to pass that a stranger, one I’ve never seen, never sensed, walks beside my daughter inside this cursed place?”

Valerica didn’t give Serana a chance to speak when she opened her mouth. “It pains me to think you’d travel with Serana under the illusion of friendship or protection, while planning to turn her over to those who seek to control her.”

I met her gaze evenly. “This isn’t a ruse. I’m not her enemy.”

“Strange, then, that I can’t sense even a fraction of your soul,” Valerica said coldly. “And that you’ve come here with him—” her eyes flicked to Amon, “—bringing Serana into the hands of monsters.”

I stayed still. “I’ve fought beside her.”

Valerica’s mouth tightened. “Coming from someone cloaked in void-magic, walking half-hollowed through a realm of death, forgive me if I find your intentions unclear. Serana has sacrificed everything to prevent Harkon from completing the prophecy. I would have expected her to explain that to you.”

“I saved her,” I said, sharper now. “From being locked in a box and left to rot while you ran from your war.”

Valerica’s expression turned to ice. “You think you’ve saved her?”

She stepped closer to the barrier. The wards rippled, humming faintly.

“I find your choice of words… interesting, considering Serana is in far greater danger now than she ever was following my plan.”

Her eyes, bright and burning, locked on her daughter.

“You and Amon brought her here, and none of this was meant to happen. If Harkon is stirring, then you’ve placed her directly in his path.”

The words echoed colder than the wards.

And suddenly, I wasn’t standing in the Soul Cairn anymore. I was back in every shadowed hallway of my life, listening to someone say I shouldn’t have been there.

Valerica didn’t see me. Not really. She saw what I carried, the damage, the magic, the scent of monsters and death stitched into my skin. She saw a puzzle that didn’t fit into her careful plan.

And maybe she was right.

I wasn’t a protector. I wasn’t a hero. I hadn’t saved Serana out of nobility. No. It was just a mission.

But now I stood here, hollowed out, my soul carved thin like old bark, my hands still echoing from frost and death, and I didn’t even know who I was defending anymore.

Her? Myself?

Or no one at all.

Valerica’s eyes were still on Serana, full of judgment.

And I stood in the middle of it, cold down to my bones, unsure if I was meant to speak… or vanish.

Amon stepped forward, his voice low, but absolute.

“We didn’t come here to argue,” he said. “We came because the prophecy is in motion.”

Valerica’s gaze flicked to him again, sharper now. Wary.

“The Elder Scrolls,” he continued, “you hid them, scattered the pieces of the puzzle. But Harkon’s not chasing just fragments anymore. He’s after something whole. Something alive.”

Valerica’s expression turned cold.

“You think I’d have the audacity,” she said slowly, “to place my own daughter in that tomb for the protection of her Elder Scroll alone?”

Her voice sharpened, rising just slightly.

“No. The scrolls are merely a means to an end.”

She turned fully to Serana now. Her voice dropped, but the weight of it deepened.

“The key to the Tyranny of the Sun is Serana herself.”

The air shifted.

Even the ward pulsed, as if responding to the truth of it.

Valerica looked back at Amon, her gaze slicing clean.

“And you already knew that.”

Amon didn’t deny it.

He didn’t need to.

I looked at him, not out of shock, but out of something harder to name.

Serana stared at her mother, eyes wide, not in disbelief, but fury.

“You knew?” she said, voice trembling with rage. “All this time, you knew I was the key?”

Valerica didn’t answer.

“You sealed me away. You left me in that tomb. And you told me it was to protect the scroll.”

“It was to protect you.” Valerica snapped back.

“Don’t twist it now,” Serana shot back. “You never told me what I was. You never warned me!”

“I didn’t want you to carry that burden—”

“And yet here we are!” Serana’s voice cracked. “You kept me in the dark and now you want to act like it was mercy?”

The wards hummed faintly, flickering as Serana’s magic rose without her even casting. She was shaking from rage, from betrayal, from everything that had led her here.

And I…

I took a slow breath and stepped slightly between them.

“Okay,” I said. “You’re both right, both wrong.”

I turned to Valerica.

“But someone needs to tell me what Tyranny of the Sun actually is.”

Even the air seemed to pause.

Valerica’s eyes found mine, cool, assessing. Then she exhaled, slow and sharp.

“A prophecy,” she said. “One written in shadow and blood. The Elder Scroll speaks of it, a time when vampires would no longer fear the sun. When its light would be extinguished. Permanently.”

My stomach dropped.

“Destroyed?”

“No,” she said. “Blotted out. Forever. No dawn. No warmth. Just eternal dusk.”

An endless night.

“And Serana…” I glanced at her. “Is how he gets there?”

Valerica nodded once.

“She carries the blood. His blood. Pure. The final piece in a ritual meant to remake the world.”

She’s a royal.

I turned my head slowly toward Amon. He was watching me. Not smug. Not gloating.

Just… still.

Because he knew I’d figured it out.

He’d known from the start.

And said nothing.

My heart thudded once slow, hard, hollow. From the weight of what wasn’t said.

Serana’s voice came sharp, cutting through the thick silence.

“What ritual?” she demanded. “What does it do?”

Valerica hesitated, for just a second. But the truth was already spilling forward.

“When I fled Castle Volkihar, with the help of Amon,” she said, her voice tight with old memory, “I fled with two Elder Scrolls.”

Serana’s brows drew together. “Two?”

Valerica nodded. “The scroll I presume you found speaks of Auri-El… and his arcane weapon. Auri-El’s Bow.”

She glanced at Amon briefly. He gave nothing in return.

Valerica went on. “The second scroll is older. Harder to interpret. But its meaning was clear enough.”

Her eyes found Serana again.

“It declares: ‘The blood of Coldharbour’s Daughter will blind the eye of the Dragon.’”

Serana blinked. “What does that mean?”

“It means,” Valerica said quietly, “that your father intends to use your blood in a profane rite to corrupt Auri-El’s Bow. With it, he believes he can extinguish the sun itself. Forever.”

My breath caught.

Blind the eye of the Dragon.

Not a dragon.

The sun.

And Serana—

She took a half-step back, the truth slamming into her like a wall.

Valerica’s voice gentled just slightly. “You are the Daughter of Coldharbour, Serana. The prophecy was never about the scrolls alone. It was always about you.”

The silence held for too long.

Serana looked stunned, her fury hollowed into something quieter, darker. She wasn’t speaking.

So I did.

My voice came out hoarse. “Are you saying Harkon means to kill her?”

Valerica didn’t blink.

“If Harkon obtained Auri-El’s Bow,” she said, “and Serana’s blood was used to taint the weapon…”

She paused.

“The Tyranny of the Sun would be complete.”

She looked at Serana not with apology.

Just grief.

“In his eyes,” she said, “she’d be dying for the good of all vampires.”

A sharp silence followed, jagged, breathless.

Serana turned away, her shoulders stiff, her face unreadable.

Amon exhaled once, softly. “And he wouldn’t hesitate.”

Valerica’s jaw tightened. “He never has.”

I took a step closer to the ward, staring Valerica down through the shimmer of her magic.

“You said Harkon’s plan can still be stopped,” I said, my voice low. “Then how?”

My fists curled at my sides.

“We kill him?”

The words left my mouth before I could question them.

Simple. Final.

But Valerica didn’t flinch.

Instead, her mouth twisted in something cold.

Contempt.

“If you believe that,” she said, “then you’re a bigger fool than I originally suspected.”

Her tone was sharp, old, and full of pain wrapped in disdain.

“Don’t you think I weighed that option before I enacted my plans? Before I sealed away my daughter and vanished from the world?”

Serana stood stiffly, her hands clenched at her sides.

Her voice came low at first.

“So that’s it.”

“I wasn’t a daughter. I wasn’t even a key. I was just blood in a bottle.”

Her jaw twitched. “He would’ve done it. Just like that. Smiled through it, probably. Said it was necessary. Said it was noble.”

She didn’t look at anyone.

And somehow, I found myself stepping closer to her.

I didn’t reach for her. Didn’t try to speak.

But I stood at her side. Close enough for her to feel it. Not pity. Not comfort.

Just presence.

Just, I understand.

Because I did.

Because I’d been broken apart and used in the name of things I didn’t choose. Because I’d been told I was sacred and treated like a sacrifice.

Because no one ever asked if I wanted to be anything at all.

Serana didn’t look at me.

But she didn’t step away either.

The silence sat heavy between us, thick with truths none of us had wanted to say.

But I was done being quiet.

“We won’t let that happen.”

My voice wasn’t loud. It didn’t need to be.

Serana looked at me like she hadn’t realized how much she needed someone to say it.

She turned toward her mother, eyes burning.

“And you? You knew. You knew, and you buried me. You didn’t even give me a choice.”

Valerica flinched — barely. But it was enough.

“Daughter, I-“

“No,” Serana cut in, sharp. “You tried to contain me. Just like him.”

A long, painful silence followed

Valerica stared at her daughter, not with anger anymore, but with something deeper. Something old. Worn. Grief softened at the edges by guilt.

“I’m sorry, Serana.”

Her voice was low, but steady.

“I didn’t see it. Not truly. I thought I was doing what was best… but I see now that I hurt you. And I never meant to.”

Serana didn’t speak. She just stood there, breathing hard, like she didn’t quite believe what she’d heard.

Valerica took a small step forward, and the wards pulsed,  not threateningly, just alive.

“You’re right,” she said. “You deserve to choose for yourself.”

Another pause.

“And if this… woman is the one you’ve chosen to trust—” her eyes flicked briefly to me, sharp but no longer cruel, “—then I will honor that.”

Something in me flinched.

Not outwardly, I didn’t move, didn’t breathe. But something deep, buried, shifted like stone cracking under frost.

Honor that.

Trust.

Mother.

I wasn’t supposed to feel anything. And yet…

Behind Valerica’s voice, I heard another, softer, older. A lullaby. A whisper in a forest before it burned.

My mother’s hands brushing my hair back. My mother’s voice, shaky but proud. My mother’s face as it paled.

When she let me go.

With Thalmor.

To silence. To steel. To the hands that shaped me into something sharp and cold and obedient. Because I was useful.

I hadn’t thought of her in years.

I didn’t want to now.

But Valerica’s voice, that quiet, aching regret, cracked something I had buried so deep I forgot it still bled.

Serana was lucky.

I hated the thought. I hated myself for it. But she was.

She had a mother who regretted what she’d done. Who apologized.

Mine never did.

Not that I would ever forgive her.

The air was still humming with ward-magic when Amon finally broke the silence.

“Do you still have the scroll?”

Valerica nodded, composed once more. “Yes. I’ve kept it secured here ever since I was imprisoned.”

Her gaze shifted to the barrier behind her, then back to us.

“Fortunately, you’re in a position to breach the magical seal that surrounds these ruins.”

Serana stepped forward. “What do we need to do?”

Valerica’s voice returned to the sharp clarity of a scholar reciting facts, though grief still clung to the edges.

“You need to locate the tallest of the rocky spires that surround this sanctum. At their bases, the barrier draws its energy, siphoned from the souls imprisoned here.”

I stiffened.

Valerica continued, matter-of-fact. “Three of the Ideal Masters’ servants, Keepers, tend to the energy at each point. Destroy them, and the barrier should collapse.”

Amon gave a single nod.

“We’ve already killed one,” he said. “Two remain.”

He turned to me.

And I knew exactly what was coming.

“You need to rest,” he said, quiet but firm. “Stay here. Let Serana and I handle the last two.”

I stared at him.

He wasn’t condescending. He wasn’t even smug.

He was just wrong.

“No.”

His brow twitched. “You’ve barely recovered from the first fight. You’re not—”

“No.” I stepped forward. “I’m not waiting while the two of you run off to face what’s mine too.”

Amon’s expression shifted. “This isn’t pride, Niolenyl. You have to wait here.”

“Say that to me one more time,” I gave him a sharp smile, brittle as frost. “and I swear, Keeper or not, I’ll show you exactly what I gave up to come here.”

Serana said nothing, just watched us both, quietly approving.

Amon let out a slow breath through his nose, gaze sharp, but he didn’t argue again.

He knew better.

We turned to leave, the barrier still pulsing behind Valerica, the path stretching out ahead into the endless violet haze.

Serana walked first, wordless but focused. I followed without hesitation, the frost at my core finally beginning to settle into purpose again.

Amon stepped behind me.

Then—

“Amon.”

Valerica’s voice stopped him cold.

He turned back slightly, his silhouette framed by the shimmer of the ward, but didn’t speak.

Her eyes found his, old, sharp, and full of everything she hadn’t said before.

“Keep her safe,” she said quietly. “As you always did.”

The air went still.

Amon’s face didn’t change.

But I felt something in him lock tight, a tension, old and buried, snapping back into place like a blade being sheathed.

He gave a small, solemn nod. Nothing more.

And then he turned.

Serana walked ahead, shoulders taut, saying nothing. Amon was just behind her.

And I kept thinking about what Valerica had said.

As you always did.

My eyes narrowed.

Why would he?

Why would he want to stop the Tyranny of the Sun?

He was a vampire, a different kind, but still one. The prophecy was designed for the likes of him. Eternal night. No more hiding. No more weakness. A world remade in shadow and blood.

He could’ve thrived under Harkon’s rule.

Instead… he helped Valerica flee. Helped Serana escape. Helped me walk into this cursed plane with a shard of soul rattling inside my chest.

Why?

It didn’t make sense.

Unless he wanted something Harkon didn’t.

Unless he had been fighting this from the inside longer than any of us realized.

But why?

Why would a monster like Amon care what happened to the world once the sun was gone?

Why would he help the woman who sealed her daughter away?

Why help Serana at all?

A chill skittered down my spine, and for once, it wasn’t from the Soul Cairn.

I didn’t have answers.

But the more I watched him walk ahead, silent and steady, the more I realized, I wasn’t ready for them.

I wasn’t ready to face the fact that Amon might not be the monster I thought he was.

Not entirely.

And nothing in this place scared me more than hope.

 

To be continued…

Chapter 68: Chapter 68

 

The Soul Cairn stretched endlessly ahead, shrouded in its quiet, colorless dread. The three of us walked side by side, though none of us truly matched pace. My boots dragged. Serana’s glided. Amon’s barely touched the ground at all.

No one spoke for a long while.

But tension bloomed like a thunderhead.

I could feel it before I saw it, Serana’s mood twisting, jaw tightening, the graceful sway of her walk turning rigid. Then—

“You knew.” Her voice cracked the silence like glass.

Amon didn’t stop.

Serana halted, forcing both of us to pause with her.

“You knew what this place was,” she hissed. “You knew what my mother was hiding. You knew the prophecy and my role in it. Didn’t you?”

Amon finally turned to her, slowly, like someone indulging a child. “I knew pieces. I knew enough.”

Serana stepped forward, teeth bared, not the pretty smile of seduction, but the flash of an elder vampire on the edge of fury. “You smug bastard. You let me stumble through all this like a blind fool while you—what? Waited for it all to come to you?”

Amon’s gaze darkened, though his posture remained relaxed. “I’ve lived long enough to know when to play my cards. And I don’t owe you explanations.”

“You owe me answers,” she snapped. “If you were conspiring with my mother behind my back—”

“I wasn’t conspiring,” he said coolly. “I was planning. She wanted freedom and your safety. And you…” His eyes flicked to her with a mocking tilt. “You wanted purpose.”

Serana moved so fast even I barely saw it, one second still, the next, inches from him, a hand to his collar.

“You think I need purpose from you?”

Amon didn’t flinch. “I think you needed someone to believe you were more than your father’s pet project. And I let you believe that.”

Silence roared in my ears. This wasn’t a spat. It was war, centuries-old, wrapped in skin.

Serana’s voice, when it returned, was quieter. “You’re playing with all of us. Her included.” She nodded toward me without looking. “Do you think she won’t notice eventually?”

I blinked. Serana’s fingers curled into Amon’s shirt.

I took a sharp step forward. “Enough. Both of you.”

They turned. Serana’s eyes locked on mine like arrows and then something ugly moved behind them.

“Of course,” she said with a bitter laugh. “There it is. You defending him. Why am I not surprised?”

“I’m not defending anyone,” I snapped, jaw clenched. “I just—this isn’t the time—”

“Isn’t it?” Serana’s voice dropped, too calm now. “Or is it just inconvenient for you to see what he is?”

She took a step closer. Her voice wasn’t loud, but it struck like a blade.

“Do you believe all your feelings are your own?”

My stomach turned cold.

“What do you mean?” I asked, quiet.

Serana tilted her head, pity lacing her expression. “You really don’t know.”

“Don’t look at me like that,” I said to Serana, suddenly angry. “What are you even implying?”

“Come on,” she said, venom in her smile. “You think a vampire like him walks beside you this long, cares this much, without dipping into his charm? You think you’re just that special? He’s been bending your thoughts since the moment you met him. The only question is how deep it goes.”

My mouth went dry.

For a moment, no one spoke.

I could hear the wind howling through broken towers far in the distance, the echo of souls wailing in unseen corners of the realm. 

Serana turned and walked off without waiting, the heel of her boot cracking a skull-shaped soul gem underfoot. It popped like glass.

Amon remained still, eyes on me. “It’s not like that.”

I didn’t move.

“You know it’s not like that,” he said again, quieter this time. “You’d feel it.”

Would I?

Would I really?

I searched his face for something, a flicker of guilt, or a lie, or the old teasing curl of his lip. But all I found was calm. Too calm.

The kind of calm that doesn’t need to lie because it already knows the answer.

The Dawnguard soldiers had looked at Serana like she was the sun. Slack-jawed. Glassy-eyed. Utterly gone.

My skin crawled.

Could that have been me?

No.

No. No.

My hands clenched at my sides, blood rushing in my ears like a tide. I couldn’t tell if I was angry at Serana for saying it, at Amon for maybe doing it, or at myself for not knowing sooner.

“Nio-” he said gently.

I stepped back.

He’d never ordered. Never commanded.

No. Not directly.

But…

There had been moments. Too many.

When he stepped too close, always just close enough to feel the pull. That unnatural magnetism. Like my body leaned toward him before I did.

Amon’s lips parted, something like hurt flickering across his features but he didn’t move toward me. Didn’t protest again.

Because if he had done it, then why speak now? And if he hadn’t… then why did he look so damn guilty?

I turned before he could say anything else and walked after Serana, heart thudding.

I’d always told myself I was in control. I had stopped him. I had resisted.

Hadn’t I?

I touched my lips without thinking.

What had I said? What had I felt when he brushed my cheek and whispered things I couldn’t remember clearly now?

Was it magic? Or was it real?

Even as I doubted him, doubted myself, I still wanted to turn around. I still wanted him to look at me.

To make it not true.

But I didn’t.

I just walked.

And with every step he stayed behind me in silence, my mind kept slipping like a boot catching on something soft and rotten beneath the ash.

Into memories, into the tension between certainty and doubt. Into the moments where I thought I had chosen. Where I thought I was sure.

Like when he offered his hand at the Sanctuary, at the feast still echoing with laughter and blood. He extended it without pressure, palm open, waiting. And I had taken it.

I remembered the brush of his fingers. The quiet sway of our steps through a hall of killers. The way the world shrank to just us as we danced.

I remembered feeling seen, like I wasn’t a blade, or a title, or a threat.

Just a woman.

Just me.

I shook my head, as if that could scatter the memories. But they only rushed in louder and clearer. Much crueler.

As if dislodging one had let them all spill loose, every touch, every look, every unspoken thing between us.

And now?

I didn’t know what had been mine… And what had been his.

The Keeper loomed ahead like a nightmare carved in bone, tall, armored, face obscured by a hollow helm, wielding a blade that crackled with soulfire. The moment it saw us, it shrieked, a sound like glass pulling me back to reality.

But Serana didn’t wait.

She surged forward, a flash of crimson light bursting from her palms, her cloak whipping behind her like wings of shadow.

She was already in the air.

The Keeper raised its sword, but her magic struck first, an eruption of red and black that sent it reeling. She landed hard, stalking forward with murder in her eyes and a snarl in her throat.

I could see it.

This wasn’t strategy.

This was rage given form.

Amon cursed under his breath beside me. “She’s not thinking.”

“She doesn’t want to think,” I said, watching her magic flare again, this time blasting the Keeper back into a crumbling wall of soulstone. “She’s done thinking.”

And I could understand.

Because what do you do when your entire life was written by other people? When your fate was decided before you ever had a voice?

You burn it.

You tear it down.

You scream.

Serana’s scream echoed as she lunged, claws now, her hands transformed in the blur of her power. Her fangs glinted, her eyes glowing like twin moons of blood. The Keeper slashed at her chest, she caught its arm mid-swing and twisted.

Bone cracked.

The scream that followed wasn’t hers.

She slammed it down, climbed on top of it, and unleashed a pulse of blood magic that shook the stones beneath our feet.

The Keeper retaliated, throwing her off, she skidded across the stone, rolled, and came up laughing.

A cruel, shattered sound.

“You think you get to control me too?” she screamed. “You think you can take me apart like everyone else?”

She wasn’t talking to the Keeper anymore.

Not really.

She was talking to her father.

To her mother. To Amon.

Maybe even to me.

The Keeper swung again brutally and Serana ducked under it with vampire speed, her claws dragging a streak of red across its armor. But her movements were faltering now.

She wasn’t holding anything back.

And it was starting to show.

Her magic cracked against the bones of the thing, but it barely staggered this time. The Keeper lifted its sword overhead, two hands gripping it like a guillotine, and brought it down toward her.

“Serana!” I shouted.

I didn’t think.

Didn’t aim.

I raised my hand and cast a burst of frost, sharp and sudden, lashing out in a white arc. It struck the Keeper’s arm mid-swing, and ice bloomed from the impact like frost across a window.

The sword slowed.

Not stopped, just slowed.

Enough.

Serana spun with a snarl, her eyes flashing toward me in recognition.

She surged up, faster than anything should be able to move. Her hands became flame and blood, her body a blur of crimson speed. She slammed both palms into the Keeper’s chest and detonated a spell through its ribcage.

The blast tore through the air like a scream, a shockwave of bone, magic, and force slamming outward in a single, violent breath.

I didn’t have time to brace.

The force hit me square in the chest and flung me backwards, weightless, breathless, the world spinning in a blur of ash and ruin.

But I didn’t hit the ground.

Arms caught me.

Strong and familiar.

Amon turned with me in the air, one arm cradling my back, the other rising to shield us both. The remnants of the explosion struck him instead, shards of bone ricocheting off his magic as he held me tight against his chest, unmoving.

I felt the impact in his body, the way he flinched, the subtle grunt of pain through his teeth but he didn’t let go.

Didn’t move until the sound settled, and silence returned to the Soul Cairn like a lid on a tomb.

Slowly, he looked down at me.

His face was close, eyes searching mine, red and blue burning soft.

“Nio,” he breathed. “Are you hurt?”

I blinked up at him, heart pounding.

No.

Yes.

I didn’t know.

Because the pain wasn’t in my body.

It was in the way he held me like he meant it.

In the way it felt so real.

If this isn’t real… Then what the fuck is?

I shoved him away.

Hard.

He let me go.

I stumbled a step back, caught my breath, and turned from him without looking again.

Serana.

She was on her knees at the center of the crater, her hands pressed into the scorched stone. Her body trembled with the aftershock, shoulders hunched, breath ragged.

Magic still shimmered faintly over her skin, threads of crimson light stitching together wounds that hadn’t been there a moment ago. Her sleeves were torn, revealing gashes already closing, the flesh knitting too fast to be natural.

But her face—

Her face was hollow.

Just empty.

I dropped beside her, slowly, carefully, my hands brushing the dust as I knelt.

She didn’t look at me.

Didn’t speak.

But her breathing hitched, once, as if the silence itself was the last thing holding her together.

So I said nothing.

I just stayed.

Close enough to be felt.

Far enough not to touch.

Serana’s breath slowly steadied, her claws retracting into trembling fingers.

She still didn’t look at me.

But her voice came rough, hoarse, barely above a whisper—

“We need to get to the last one.”

Her words weren’t a command.

They were a lifeline.

A direction to keep moving. To keep being.

I nodded, quick and breathless. “Yes,” I said. “We will.”

She finally looked at me with something barely holding together. Something… desperate.

I wanted to reach for her. I didn’t.

We rose in silence, side by side.

Behind us, I heard Amon’s footsteps crunch softly against the fractured bone and ash.

But I didn’t look back.

None of us said another word.

We walked on.

Toward the last Keeper.

Toward the end of something.

Maybe the beginning of something worse.

The ground still trembled from what Serana had done, the bones of the Soul Cairn humming like they hadn’t settled yet. The air was colder now, tighter in the chest. Even the sky, ever unmoving and gray, seemed darker.

Then the spirits began to run.

Not drift. Not wander.

Run.

Ghostly shapes, wolves, elk, horses, burst through the gloom, bolting past us with wild eyes and silent hooves. Their forms flickered like dying stars, fleeing away from the direction we were headed.

I stopped.

Serana’s shoulders stiffened. Amon stopped beside me, scanning the distance.

Then I looked up.

High above, just beyond the cracked towers, a single dove flew.

Small. Out of place.

It beat its wings hard against the weight of this realm, carving its path through the sky.

And then—

Shadow.

A darkness swallowed it whole, not with teeth, but with sheer size. Wings, vast and rotted, stretched across the heavens like tattered sails. The sky moved.

No.

It unfolded.

A dragon emerged, skeletal, immense, death given form. Its wings didn’t flap but groaned. Its eyes glowed the same sickly light as the Soul Cairn itself, as if it had been staring at us all along.

It opened its mouth and a sensation of a roar vibrated in my ribs, ancient and hollow.

Serana whispered, “What the—”

Amon’s voice cut her off.

“You woke him.”

We all stared as the beast turned in the air.

He emerged from the clouds like a storm shaped into wings, his body dragging the scent of death and forgotten things. Soulfire leaked from his jaws as he hovered above us, impossibly vast. And then— He spoke.

Not in words I knew.

But in something older. Too big for the throat, too final for mere sound.

“Zu’u fen kos mindoraan… Zeymah. Krif hi… aan ni med.”

The words crashed through me.

I didn’t understand them. Not one.

But they felt true.

They settled in my blood like iron in water, sharp and bitter. Something in me wanted to answer. Something in me remembered.

Dragon’s glowing eyes locked onto me.

Me.

Another string of syllables fell from his jaws, low and thunderous, 

“Dovahmaar.”

I stood frozen.

Amon shifted beside me, not in defense, but recognition.

And then, suddenly, it’s voice changed.

Not its sound, still that rasp of ancient smoke and ruin, but its tongue.

“Strange,” the dragon murmured, the words thick with accent but clear. “They still send children with the blood of the sky… but no wind in their lungs.”

I blinked.

“What—?”

My breath caught.

But Serana moved.

“Enough.” she snapped, her voice like a whip. “We don’t have time for riddles.”

She raised her hands, and the magic was already there, furious and red, lighting the ashen ground in a flash.

“Serana, wait—” I said.

But she didn’t.

She hurled a blast of bloodfire straight at the dragon’s chest.

It struck with the force of urgency. She wasn’t hunting a fight.

She was clearing the path.

Dragon recoiled, more surprised than wounded. His wings snapped back, tail lashing through the air like a whip of bone.

He didn’t roar.

He answered.

“Toor… Bahlaan.”

The dragon’s words hung heavy in the air like ash that didn’t fall.

Serana’s magic still shimmered across the field, echoing in the dust, but the beast was no longer hovering.

It was diving.

Straight at us.

I raised my hand to cast, too slow, too uncertain…

And then—

An arm grabbed me.

I was yanked sideways, pulled down behind the jagged remains of a toppled stone pillar. My knees scraped bone and gravel. Breath knocked out of me.

I started to snap, but Amon was already covering me with his body as soulfire erupted overhead, streaking the air with white-hot death.

We waited still, breathless, as the blast passed over.

Then silence.

Only then did he lift his head, eyes scanning the sky.

I shoved his shoulder. “What is this?”

His gaze didn’t move. “Durnehviir.”

Another beat. Then he looked at me.

“The dragon protector of this realm.”

My blood ran cold.

“Protector?” I hissed. “That thing?”

Amon nodded once. “Bound by oath. Twisted by time. He watches. Defends. From the living… from the dead.”

“And from us?”

“Especially us.”

I twisted beneath his arm, eyes darting out past the broken pillar — searching.

“Serana,” I whispered.

Where—

There.

Through the haze and firelight, I saw her, already moving, already ignoring the chaos above her. She hadn’t stopped.

Shoulders squared. Head high. Her stride steady despite the scars still healing across her arms.

The wind shifted again hot and dry, though no fire touched the ground. Just Durnehviir’s wings beating against the fabric of this realm, each stroke like a warning bell.

Still behind the broken pillar, I looked up.

He was circling now. Not attacking.

Watching.

Waiting.

I pressed my back against the stone, throat dry.

“How do we even fight this thing?” I asked, barely louder than a breath.

Amon didn’t answer immediately.

His gaze stayed fixed on the dragon overhead. Eyes narrowed. Jaw tight.

“You don’t.”

I turned toward him.

“You survive it,” he said. “Long enough to get through. Long enough to make it choose… to leave you be.”

“That’s not a plan.”

“It’s the only one that works.”

I stared at him, then past him, out into the open where the ash still swirled, and Serana walked.

She hadn’t stopped.

Even after the flames.

She was still going.

“Nio,” Amon warned.

But I was already stepping into the open.

“I didn’t survive this long just to duck behind a rock.”

Not while she’s walking into its teeth.

Durnehviir’s shadow swept low again. His wings stretched wide, talons curling. He was descending, not to burn her.

To take her.

I threw up my hand and cast on reflex, a barrage of ice spikes launching upward in bursts of white light.

They flew hard and fast. But not high enough.

Durnehviir’s body shifted effortlessly between them, a gliding mass of bone and spirit, too swift for my spells. The spikes shattered against the air or fell back uselessly to the ground.

Too far.

Too fast.

Panic clawed at my ribs.

And then, without thinking, I opened my hands wider.

I didn’t reach for another spell.

I pulled.

Pulled the cold from the air. From the bones beneath my feet. From myself.

Frost began to gather in my palms, pulled from the heavy air, from the marrow in my bones. I shaped it without thought, without plan, a crude curve of shimmering ice, a bow formed from instinct and prayer.

A matching arrow took form in my other hand, jagged, unfinished, humming with tension.

The wind screamed.

So did my thoughts.

I’d never been good with a bow.

I barely practiced. Never trusted my aim.

But right then, I didn’t need skill.

I needed will.

But all could hear, was him.

“Take a breath, and let go.”

 

To be continued…

 

 

 

 

Chapter 69: Chapter 69

4E, 194,

 

“Take a breath, and let go.”

He had said it before.

Long before the frost gathered in my hands. Long before the wind screamed. Before the blood.

I was fourteen, he was older.

And we stood in the cold training hall of Clamcora, its walls silent and watchful, lined with swords that had tasted more blood than most of us ever would.

Elamoril’s hand rested at my elbow, his other at the small of my back, steady, warm. Like I wouldn’t fall if he was there.

His breath tickled my ear as he leaned in. “You’re thinking too much. Just feel it. Just breathe.”

I tried. I really did.

But it was hard to breathe when he was this close. When his scent, pine, leather and salt all coiled around me. When his hair, that unruly red, caught the candlelight like embers. When I could see the green of his eyes even in the shadows, so bright it felt unfair.

I loved him then.

Not in a way I understood. Not in the way that demanded to be spoken. But in the way you love the first person who ever made you feel seen .

I pulled the string.

The arrow veered wide, clattering off stone like it was mocking me.

I lowered the bow and groaned. “I’m never going to be good at this.”

He laughed, not at me. Just soft, fond amusement. “Not with that attitude.”

“You said to breathe.”

He smirked. “And did you?”

“No.”

“Then we’re learning.”

His hair curled behind his ears, disheveled from sparring. A loose strand stuck to his cheek with sweat.

He didn’t brush it away.

I wanted to. Gods, I wanted to.

“I’m cursed. There’s no other explanation.”

Elamoril huffed another soft laugh. “Clearly.”

I turned toward him, narrowing my eyes. “You’re supposed to be supportive.”

“I am. This is me being supportive.”

“ Calling me cursed ?”

“You said it first.”

He shrugged, smiling in that maddening, lopsided way he always did when he knew he was winning. “I’m just saying, you might be the only Bosmer in history with negative aim.”

“I will throw something at you.”

“I dare you.”

I spun and threw the arrow at him, tip-first but barely arcing. He caught it easily, spinning it once around his fingers with an irritating flourish.

“Still a bit left,” he said, holding it up. “See? You didn’t completely miss.”

“Give it back.”

“I’m helping.”

“You’re mocking.”

“I’m helping and mocking,” he said with a grin. “Multitasking.”

I took a long, slow step toward him.

He didn’t flinch.

He just smiled wider.

That stupid face. That stupid, freckled, beautiful face.

I lunged.

He yelped and leapt backward, nearly tripping over the edge of the bench. I chased him to the corner of the training room, half-laughing, half-murderous, and for a second we were just—

Kids again.

No Thalmor. No training schedules. No bruises blooming under armor or lectures about loyalty.

Just me. And him.

The boy with fire in his hair and forests in his eyes.

We crashed into the bench together, breathless. I landed hard on the cold stone, arms folded across my knees. He sat beside me, stretching out his legs like this was just another lazy afternoon in the sun.

“I hate this.” I muttered after a while.

“I know.” he said.

“I’m never going to be good at it.”

“You don’t have to be.”

I looked over, frowning. “That’s easy for you to say. You’re good at everything.”

He shrugged. “No. I just don’t care if I fail.”

That made me snort. “That’s the same thing.”

He turned toward me then, and his voice dropped, not low, just quiet .

“It’s not. It’s just… when you grow up knowing what you’re good for, you stop caring about the rest. I know I can shoot. But that doesn’t mean I understand the things you do.”

“Like what?” I asked.

He hesitated.

Then, softly, “Like how you survive this place without fading.”

I looked at him.

And for a second, I saw something I’d never noticed in him before, not strength, not charm, but fear. That thin, quiet fear we all carried, buried under bravado.

Maybe we were all just trying not to vanish.

He gave me the arrow back.

I took it without a word.

That was the day I decided I would keep every memory of him like it was sacred.

Because I knew, somehow, even then—

He wouldn’t always be there to remind me how to breathe.

 

To be continued…

Chapter 70: Chapter 70

Notes:

Dearest readers,

I started writing The Silencer exactly one year ago.

Back then, I thought it would be one book a dark, self-contained story about a girl who lost everything and clawed her way back from the shadows.

This was my first attempt at creating something from the heart. And along the way, I learned that writers evolve just as much as the stories they tell.

I always planned the shape of this story, the arcs, the turns, the truths buried deep. But I’ll admit, it was rookie of me to think it could all fit into one book.

Because the truth is, one book and one title would never have done it justice.

This story needed room to breathe. And it deserves to be told the way it’s meant to be, without rushing the endings it has earned.

The Silencer will be only Book I of Woven — a dark fantasy trilogy set in the world of Skyrim. Book II, and III is already in motion.

I don’t know if everyone who began this journey will stay, but I hope you will.

I’m scared. But I’m excited.

Thank you for being here. For reading. For feeling.

You’ve made this story real. 🤍

 

I missed.

Of course I did.

The arrow flew through the mist, cold magic crackling along its shaft, and hit Durnehviir, but not where it needed to. Not his eye. Just above it.

The ice exploded across his face, making him flinch mid-flight, head jerking toward me. His wings dragged once against the air as he righted himself.

Then his gaze locked on mine.

And I knew I was going to die.

I saw it in him.

Not just a death, but all of them.

Burning. Devoured. Torn to pieces.

I fumbled for another arrow, tried to summon another spell but the magic dragged in my blood like frost in my lungs.

Durnehviir turned toward me fully, wings stretching into a glide so silent it felt holy.

The frost still coated one eye, but the other was open, watching me. Distant. Inevitable.

And then—

Amon stepped in front of me.

His shoulder brushed mine, arm raised not as a shield, but as if to push back the sky itself.

He didn’t draw a weapon. Didn’t flinch.

He only lifted his hand, calm and deliberate, and spoke:

“Nid, Durnehviir.”

The dragon faltered in the air.

Wings beat once. Slowed.

Then he hovered, directly above us, a shadow spread against the gray.

And spoke.

“Wo kos los daar… ahrk hin vahlok?”

I didn’t understand the words.

But the sound of them… They felt carved from mountains. Too old to belong here.

Amon’s voice answered without hesitation:

“Hi mindoraan.”

Silence, again.

Then the dragon began to circle. Wide and slow, like a storm deciding where to land.

I stared at Amon.

At his jaw, set with something too cold to be called anger. At his eyes no longer hollow, no longer soft.

He looked ancient.

How did he know this language? How could he speak to a dragon like he was its equal?

Durnehviir’s voice rolled down again, darker now,

“Zu’u mindoraan hi… yol do Fahdon do Tiid.”

Amon didn’t even blink.

He lowered his hand and answered:

“Nid bo. Pah zeymah los muzin. Do hi?”

A growl trembled through the ground.

But Durnehviir turned, slowly, deliberately, and began to rise.

I let my bow fall. My arms were shaking.

The dragon’s voice echoed once more,

“Zu’u fen kos ni sahlo.”

Amon raised an eyebrow. I saw the smile tug at his mouth, not amused, not cruel.

Just… sure.

And then he said—

“Hi fen. Aldin meyz do suleyk vulon.”

The dragon’s wings beat harder, rougher.

He was angry.

Amon had said something. Something that pushed too far.

But he didn’t stop.

His voice dropped again, almost quiet enough to be missed:

“Bax… lost hi mey wah krii?”

The dragon did not reply.

Did not respond.

But he didn’t rise, either. He lingered.

Wings wide, body taut in the air like a drawn bow. Just… watching.

And for a moment, nothing moved.

Not the mist. Not the wind. Not me.

It felt like something ancient had cracked open between them, something older than magic, older than words.

Like I wasn’t just watching a dragon weigh his odds.

I was watching two powers decide what kind of world we would walk out into when this moment passed.

And it almost didn’t.

Durnehviir hovered there, a monument of death and ruin.

And then, he turned.

Wings rising once more, he climbed into the dead sky, one beat at a time, until the gray swallowed him whole.

My arms were still heavy from the bow. My lungs still tight with breath I hadn’t remembered to take. But none of that mattered.

I was staring at him.

And I couldn’t look away.

He stood so still. Like the moment had never touched him. Like Durnehviir’s roar, his fury, his retreat, all of it, had been just wind.

I opened my mouth. Closed it again.

He had spoken in the dragon’s tongue fluently. Like he’d been born to it. Like he could command it. No hesitation. He had looked up at a creature of death and ruin and called it down with nothing but words.

And the dragon had listened.

The question churned in my head, but I didn’t dare say it aloud:

Who the fuck are you?

Was this the same man I had fought beside? Tolerated? Trusted, even?

No.

No, this wasn’t the same. This was something else.

I kept staring, trying to find him in the shape of that stillness, the sharp line of his jaw, the cold tilt of his mouth, the calm in his hands.

But all I saw now was shadow.

And just as the silence was about to crack—

“Okay,” a voice snapped behind us, “what was that?”

I flinched. Just a little.

Serana.

She strode forward, eyes narrowed, her usual elegance warped by disbelief. “You talked to him? Are you insane? What did you even say?”

Her voice grounded the air again, suddenly too loud, too real. The weight of what had just happened didn’t fall away, it shattered.

Serana’s voice still hung in the air, sharp and stunned.

Amon didn’t even glance at her.

He turned away from the empty sky as if the dragon hadn’t just happened, as if nothing had happened, and started walking.

“Come on,” he said, voice flat. “We need to get to the last Keeper.”

That was it.

My throat felt dry. I didn’t move.

Serana frowned. “Seriously? That’s it? ‘Let’s go’?”

Amon didn’t stop.

He just lifted a hand, dismissive, casual. “He won’t bother us again.”

I used to know him. I really thought I did. Or maybe I just wanted to believe I could.

Now? I wasn’t even sure what I’d followed into this place.

The last Keeper didn’t move.

It just waited, a skeletal silhouette wrapped in flickering soul-fire, standing near the broken edge of a ruined platform. The Soul Cairn stretched endlessly behind it, dark and still. But the silence didn’t last.

Serana moved first.

Without a word or warning.

She was a flash of frost and necromancy, her cloak of magic already swirling as she vanished and reappeared in the same breath. Amon followed like a current behind her, not chasing, but mirroring. Matching.

One moment he was beside me.

The next —

he was already in motion.

Together, they struck like twin blades of lightning. Terrifying and elegant.

I stood frozen at the edge, waiting for the moment to act but it never came. There was no opening. No need. The Keeper didn’t stand a chance.

Serana’s magic twisted upward in a column of light, and Amon moved through the gap like it had always been waiting for him. When he turned, she turned. When she raised her hand, he was already stepping through the arc of her spell, untouched.

Their shadows overlapped. Their timing was absolute.

Even their breaths, I noticed it, absurdly, rose and fell in sync.

In. Out. Strike. Turn. Silence.

Like they were extensions of each other.

The Keeper tried to swing its weapon once.

Just once.

And Serana shattered its stance while Amon reached inside its chest and tore the soul from it like smoke through glass.

I hadn’t even loosed an arrow.

I just stood there. Useless. A third shadow without a purpose.

My fingers curled tighter around the bowstring, and I forced myself to relax them, but the tension was already lodged behind my ribs.

I should’ve helped. I should’ve been something in that moment. But there had been no moment.

Not for me.

I felt like a child.

And not just because of the fight but the way they moved together. Trusted each other. As if they shared something I’d never been invited into. Something that didn’t need to be spoken aloud to exist.

And… it was beautiful.

Terrifying. But beautiful.

And somewhere in the pit of me, something twisted. 

The Keeper was gone, its essence already devoured by the air. Serana dusted her hands off with a satisfied flick of her fingers and turned away, expression unreadable. Amon hadn’t even broken a sweat. He simply walked back toward me, each step unhurried, as if the battle had cost him nothing.

He stopped in front of me. Eyes cool. Voice low.

“Are you thirsty?”

I blinked. “What?”

“Hungry?”

I frowned. Thought about it. But—

“No,” I said. “Not really.”

And it was the truth. I couldn’t remember the last time I ate. Or drank. Or needed anything. Here, in this place… I just kept moving. Like the need had burned out of me somewhere along the way.

He watched me for a second too long. Then, without a word, he reached into the folds of his coat and pulled out a small vial, murky purple liquid swirling inside.

“Drink.” he said.

I raised an eyebrow. “I just said I’m not—”

“You must,” he interrupted, tone sharper now. “And you will.”

I hesitated, staring at the bottle.

“I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not.” His eyes flicked down my frame, not lecherous but clinical. “You’ve been fading for hours. Your soul’s not fully whole. This place won’t let you feel the damage until it’s already done.”

I stiffened, lips parting to argue—

But he was already uncorking the vial and holding it out.

His voice softened, just barely,

“Please,” he said. “Drink.”

Not a question. Not quite a command.

Just… a wall I couldn’t push through.

So I took it. Swallowed the potion in two gulps. Cold bloomed behind my ribs as it settled.

Only then did I realize how dry my throat had been. How heavy my limbs felt. How… not fine I truly was.

Amon watched me the whole time. And when I handed the bottle back, our fingers brushed, he let them stay there, just a second too long.

Just long enough to make sure the potion had taken hold. Long enough for me to feel the pulse in my hand steady out and realize that it had been slipping.

He didn’t say anything.

Didn’t give me a smile or a lecture or one of those tired, arrogant remarks he usually had ready.

He just stood there like a wall I hadn’t asked for but was suddenly leaning against.

And I hated that I felt safer.

I hated it.

And yet—

For one breath. One quiet heartbeat—

I didn’t mind being told what to do.

Not by him.

Not when he said it like that. Not when he looked at me like I was still here, even when I wasn’t sure I was.

I pulled my hand back.

“Thank you,” I murmured, before I could stop myself.

He didn’t answer.

I let my hand fall to my side, still feeling the ghost of the glass between my fingers.

Amon didn’t look at me again. Instead, he turned, gaze scanning the distant fog, as if something invisible had shifted in the air.

Then he spoke, tone back to business. Sharp.

“The wards should be down by now,” he said, glancing over at Serana. “Let’s head back.”

Serana appeared from the edge of the ruins a moment later, boots silent on the cracked stone. Her eyes flicked between us, me standing still, Amon already moving, and her brows lifted slightly.

She didn’t say anything for a breath.

Then, as she reached my side, she muttered, “You look like you saw something you weren’t ready for.”

I didn’t answer. Instead, I started walking. Fell in step beside her without meaning to. Amon was already ahead, his coat catching the faint light as he moved like he’d never stopped.

Serana didn’t speak again.

But I felt her glance sideways once, curious.

And then we kept moving, deeper into the Cairn, where Valerica waited and more answers I wasn’t sure I wanted.

The mist thinned as we approached the tower.

Not by much, but enough to see the glow.

The final ward, once a jagged web of magic across the gateway, had faded into nothing. The air shimmered with the remnants of the last sigil unraveling.

Valerica was already there.

She stood at the edge of the courtyard, her back straight, hands at her sides.

No more barriers. No more layers of ruin or distance between them.

Just her.

And Serana.

She stepped forward, didn’t look back at me. Or at Amon. She just walked toward her mother like she’d never stopped doing it.

And Valerica met her halfway.

Neither of them spoke. Not at first.

But then Valerica’s breath caught, sharp and audible in the dead quiet of the Soul Cairn and her arms wrapped around Serana in a fierce, trembling pull.

Serana didn’t resist. She folded into her like something unspoken had finally unclenched in her spine.

I turned away. Pretended to scan the horizon. Pretended the knot in my throat didn’t exist.

But it did.

It pulsed just behind my ribs, that slow, cold ache that never really left me. The kind that only flared when I saw things I couldn’t remember, but still somehow missed.

Like the way Valerica held her daughter now.

Like a mother who had waited centuries to make something right.

Like a mother who never stopped reaching.

And it hit me, too suddenly, too sharp—

I never had that.

Not once.

Not when the Thalmor came.

Not when I was dragged away from the forest with hands over my mouth.

Not when I screamed.

Not when I begged.

She let me go.

My mother’s face, I couldn’t remember it. Not clearly. Only the outline of her shadow by the fire, only the hum of a voice with no shape left in it. No scent. No warmth.

Was she afraid?

Was she crying?

Did she whisper goodbye?

Or did she just hand me over?

I’ve asked myself that question for years in the dark, between missions, with blood on my hands and sleep just out of reach.

I never had an answer.

I still don’t.

But now, watching Serana melt into the curve of her mother’s arms, I realized I had something worse.

I had silence.

The tightness in my throat wasn’t fear, or grief, or rage. It was all of them, tangled and rising like something I couldn’t swallow.

I clenched my jaw.

Don’t fall apart. Not in front of them.

Then—

“That’s enough.”

Amon’s voice landed like stone dropped in a still pond.

Serana stiffened slightly in her mother’s arms. Valerica drew back, expression darkening.

But he kept going, stepping forward like he hadn’t just shattered something warm.

“You had your moment.”

The words should’ve sounded cruel. Cold.

But somehow, they didn’t.

Because I felt it. The way his voice shifted just a fraction when he said it.

He wasn’t just ending their moment.

He was pulling me out of mine before I slipped too far.

Valerica’s gaze cut toward him, unimpressed. “You’re a charmer, as always.”

He turned to her, “Do you still have the scroll?”

A beat of silence.

Then, with visible reluctance, Valerica nodded and summoned it to her hand. Gold casing. Soft hum. Heavy as a promise.

She didn’t give it to him.

She stepped past him and placed it into my hands instead.

Her fingers were cold. Her eyes colder.

“Keep it safe,” she said. “And try not to let him talk you into anything reckless.”

I nodded, my voice caught somewhere behind my teeth.

The scroll was heavy in my hands, humming faintly like it could feel the weight of what came next.

Valerica had already stepped back, as if the moment was over. As if she’d given what she came to give.

But Serana wasn’t done.

She followed her mother across the courtyard, voice strained.

“Wait—you’re not coming with us?”

Valerica paused mid-step.

When she turned, her face was unreadable. Eyes steady. Voice calm.

“No,” she said. “Not while your father still breathes.”

Serana’s mouth parted slightly, disbelief washing over her. “You’re serious.”

Valerica stepped closer, “If I leave this place, he’ll find me,” she said. “And if he finds me, he’ll use me. You know what that means, Serana.”

“No.” Serana said, her voice rising. “I just got you back. You think I care what he’ll do? We’re stronger now. We can—“

Valerica shook her head. “Not yet.”

“You’re just going to stay here?” Serana’s voice cracked. “After all this, you’d still rather hide?”

Her mother stepped forward. And then gently, she reached out, brushed a strand of Serana’s hair behind her ear. Her fingers lingered there, light against her cheek. Her other hand lifted, cupping her daughter’s face like it was something breakable.

Her voice softened, low and aching. “I’ll be waiting. Just a little longer.”

Serana blinked fast, but the tears were there, glassing over her eyes.

“I can’t lose you again.”

“You won’t,” Valerica whispered, brushing her thumb over Serana’s cheekbone. “We’ll see each other again. When this is over.”

“But when will that be?” Serana’s voice cracked. “Do you even know what’s coming?”

Valerica’s expression didn’t change, but her voice softened — only just.

“I know enough to trust you’ll face it.”

They stayed like that for one breath. Two.

A daughter fighting to hold on. A mother already letting go.

Then Serana stepped back. Her eyes were rimmed red, but she didn’t wipe them. She just turned.

Didn’t speak but she looked like she had to fight every step not to look back.

And Valerica… she didn’t watch her leave.

She just stood still, face lifted slightly, like if she opened her eyes again, it might all vanish.

Amon said nothing.

Neither did I.

There was nothing left to say.

Serana walked ahead of us with her face set, her hands tight at her sides like holding herself together took every muscle in her body.

I followed. Still holding the scroll, still carrying the weight of things I hadn’t earned. Still feeling the echo of something I had no name for, grief, envy, something cold and shapeless curling in my chest.

And then, beside me, Amon’s voice came low. Just loud enough to be mine.

“Hard to watch.”

A few steps later, he added, softer this time, like a thought said aloud:

“Holding on is easy. It’s letting go that ruins people.”

That stopped something in my chest.

Because he wasn’t wrong. And I hated him for saying it.

And I didn’t.

So I just kept walking. Scroll in hand. Heart pulled tight. Eyes fixed forward.

And Amon stayed beside me, silent again but close.

The mist grew thicker again, swallowing the edges of the path. Serana stayed ahead of us, shoulders rigid, steps clipped. I couldn’t blame her. We were all carrying something now and none of us were talking about it.

But then,

A faint light bloomed just ahead. Hovering above the ground like a lantern caught in fog.

I stopped first.

The others followed my gaze.

The light drifted toward us, soft and pulsing like breath trapped in mist.

It was her. The soul again. The woman we’d seen before, only now her form was clearer. Still not whole, still flickering at the edges, but more real than before. She looked at us not like a ghost, but like someone waking up from a long sleep.

“You found her,” she said quietly, her voice not quite echoing, but suspended in the air like it belonged to the realm itself.

Serana stepped forward, wary but curious. “Who are you?”

The spirit turned her head slowly, a faint smile shaping across what remained of her face. “Lethara.”

I felt the name settle deep in my chest.

The ring. The one we’d been given by the soul who never stopped waiting. I reached into my coat without thinking, fingers brushing the cool metal. It felt heavier now. 

I stepped forward and held it out. “He gave me this. He wanted it returned to you.”

She looked down at it like she’d forgotten what it was to be seen. Her hand lifted, more suggestion than flesh and she took it from my palm.

Her form shuddered once, almost like breath.

“He remembered,” she whispered, staring at the ring like it was the only solid thing left in the world. “All this time… he remembered.”

And then she looked up and locked eyes with me.

“You lost your love too,” she said softly. “Didn’t you?”

Something in my chest twisted. The tight, breathless ache I’d learned to carry like armor. But in that moment, it cracked and I couldn’t stop what slipped through.

I thought of him.

Of the way I still saw him in dreams. Still turned corners expecting a ghost. Still heard his name in silence, even when no one spoke it.

My throat tightened, but I didn’t nod. I didn’t blink. I just stood there, exposed under her gaze.

“You’ve been looking for something ever since,” she continued. “Trying to fill it. That sharp, hollow place inside you that keeps echoing.”

Her voice dropped, gentler now. “But it doesn’t fill. Not really. Not with time. Not even with death.”

She wasn’t speaking like a ghost anymore.

She was speaking like someone who had felt it.

Like someone who still did.

She brought the ring to her chest and pressed it there, where a heart might’ve once been. Her expression softened.

Her form shimmered faintly, dissolving at the edges.

As she began to fade, she looked at me one last time.

“Some of us carry the absence longer than we ever carried the love.”

Then she was gone.

I kept my eyes on the place where she’d been, where her voice still rang. Words that shouldn’t have hit so hard, and yet carved something open in me.

It was true. That I lost him.

And I’d kept losing him, over and over again, in every silence that followed.

The mist hadn’t even closed yet before Serana finally broke the silence.

She exhaled slowly. Then said, more to herself than to anyone else,

“…What a love.”

Not quite envy. Not quite wonder. Just quiet awe at the way two souls could cling to one another even in death.

Amon moved only slightly. But I felt it in the way the air shifted.

“Love makes people pathetic,” he said.

The kind of line meant to close a door, not open a discussion.

But Serana arched a brow and hummed lightly, just to be irritating.

“Hmm. Sounds like someone’s speaking from experience.”

Amon’s eyes didn’t shift, but his jaw did, a quiet tension clenching down.

“I’ve seen what love does,” he said. “It weakens. Binds. Makes people bleed for ghosts they can’t even touch.”

His words hung there, too pointed to be casual.

He wasn’t talking about Lethara.

And we all knew it.

Serana gave him a sideways look, tone dry.

“Right. Totally heartless of you. You should be proud.”

Amon’s lips curled into something that wasn’t quite a smile.

“And yet, here I am, dragging you both out of this place. Curious, isn’t it?”

His voice was light. But something sharp glinted underneath.

The stairs and the portal loomed ahead, shimmering like a wound in the world, its silver light spilling over stone and ruin. Serana had already passed through, vanishing into the real world without a backward glance. I remained.

It wasn’t fear that held me. Nor hesitation. Just… hollowness. The faint ache of something that had been missing too long. The echo of myself, restored in fragments, but not whole.

“Lingering?” Amon said, as if it amused him. “Or have you grown fond of this place?”

I didn’t answer. Just turned to face him, chin lifted, eyes steady.

“My soul.”

His lips curled, not quite a smile, not quite mockery. “Ah. That.”

I said nothing. The silence between us stretched, thick as fog.

He stepped down, slowly, closing the space between us. With every footfall, I could feel the tension wind tighter in my chest. When we stood nearly level, he tilted his head and spoke again, low, teasing.

“You know, most people don’t ask for their soul back. They beg.”

“I’m not most people.”

“No,” he murmured, eyes glinting, “you’re not.”

His hand moved to the pouch at his hip, and he withdrew the gem with maddening calm. The soul shimmered faintly within, as if submerged in water. Lightless, but alive.

It was strange seeing yourself like that. So small and quiet. It made my throat tighten.

He rolled the stone between his fingers, watching me watch it. “Still warm.” he said softly.

“Give it back.”

His eyes met mine, that maddening mix of mockery and fire. “Say please.”

“No.”

His grin widened, but not entirely out of cruelty. There was something else there. Something that hovered between enjoyment and warning.

“You promised to keep it safe.”

“And I did,” he answered, as though offended I’d even question it. “Carried it through death and worse. You’ve never been safer.”

I reached for it, but he moved just out of reach, holding it between us like a dangling thread.

“You shouldn’t have trusted a monster with your soul.”

He didn’t move.

Just stood there, rolling the gem between his fingers like it was a coin or a toy, not the last piece of me I hadn’t yet clawed back. The longer he held it, the more the panic crept in, slow and venomous. What if he didn’t give it back? What if this was just another twisted game? What if he meant to keep it?

The thought buried itself like a splinter in my mind.

What if he lied?

My throat had gone dry, my heartbeat rising, not from the void in my chest, but from the weight in my thoughts.

He was dangerous.

He was capable.

He could lie, deceive, turn on a whim.

But I remembered the way his hand had steadied me when I stumbled. The way he insisted I drink the potion even when I’d refused. The way he fought beside me in silence, never once letting me fall behind. The way he’d stood between me and every horror this realm could conjure.

He didn’t have to.

But he had.

So when I finally found my voice, it was quiet. And honest.

“I didn’t trust a monster,” I said, breath unsteady, words small but clear.

“I trusted you.”

That stopped him.

The amusement in his face didn’t vanish but something in his expression shifted just enough to reveal the crack beneath. His eyes flickered over mine, as though searching for a lie, or maybe daring me to take the words back.

But I didn’t.

He stepped in close, too close, and lifted the gem. Cold radiated off it, but beneath that cold was something warm. Familiar.

Mine.

He pressed it gently to my chest.

The world jolted.

Not outwardly. Not visibly. But inside me, everything realigned. Heat flushed through me, followed by light and breath and rhythm. The silence I’d carried, heavy and constant, shattered.

I gasped, staggering.

My foot slipped on the step behind me. For a heartbeat, I tipped backward—

—but his hand shot out, catching me.

One hand gripped my arm, the other braced against my back. His breath brushed my cheek, his body too close, cold and warm all at once, as if the Cairn still lived in his skin.

Everything he was, the power, the cruelty, the impossible pull of him, wrapped around me like shadow.

I pulled away fast, my balance regained, but the sensation lingered. My skin burned where he’d touched me. My mind reeled.

“I hate you.” I muttered, unable to look at him.

His lips twitched with that infuriating smirk. “You’re welcome.”

He turned toward the gate. Eventually, I stepped beside him. The weight of the soul settled quiet inside me now, whole again. My breath was mine. My body, mine. And yet the burn remained.

 

To be continued…

Chapter 71: Chapter 71

 

The world felt too loud.

Not in sound but in presence. In weight. In heat and smell and the pulsing thrum of something alive.

The Soul Cairn had stripped the world of all that. No scent. No air. No breath. But stepping through that portal, it all came rushing back, too sudden and too wrong.

I stumbled. Not from weakness, but from dissonance. The shift was violent, like I had been dropped from a great height into a place I once belonged, but no longer fit.

Stone pressed beneath my boots smooth and cold. The study. Valerica’s. Lit only by a single torch guttering against the far wall, casting long shadows that seemed to breathe.

I inhaled to steady myself—

and choked.

The air reeked.

Blood. Iron. Stale magic and rot.

Amon caught my shoulder, steadying me, but his gaze had already shifted, sharpening with recognition.

The first body was near the bookcases, slumped awkwardly, one arm twisted behind his back, head lolled to the side like a broken doll. One of the Dawnguard soldiers. His armor was soaked through, leaking darkness across the floor in widening stains.

The second lay closer. Or rather what was left of him. His crossbow crushed beneath his torso, bolts scattered across the stone like teeth.

Something inside me recoiled. That deep, primal corner of the soul that recognizes slaughter for what it is, not war, not even battle. Feeding.

Then I saw her.

Serana.

She stood a few paces ahead, framed by the firelight. Her posture was rigid, hands slack at her sides, fingers twitching now and then as though they ached for the cold curve of a spell. Her expression was unreadable, too still to be calm, too focused to be afraid.

Before her stood three vampires. They didn’t seem feral. These were the kind who fed with ceremony. Who lived long enough to forget they were ever mortal.

The one at the center was tall, golden-skinned, and wore fine robes so pristine they looked untouched by the massacre on the floor. An Altmer, expression sharp, eyes like polished amber, the kind of face that smiled only to mock. His gaze flicked toward Serana, then slid past her… and landed on Amon.

And that smile twitched. Just slightly.

To his left stood a Dunmer, smaller, pale even for his kind, with an alchemist’s belt slung across his shoulder and delicate fingers idly toying with the edge of his sleeve. There was something skittish in the way he glanced at the corpses, but it wasn’t guilt. Just annoyance. Like blood had splattered too close to his books.

And beside him… A brute. Broad, bone-pale, with hair like old straw and thick arms folded across his chest. A Nord, maybe, or what was left of one. He smelled like wet fur and iron. He was staring directly at Serana, lips curled back just enough to show the tips of his fangs.

The Altmer stepped forward by half a pace, graceful, deliberate. He nodded once toward Serana.

“Your father will be pleased to see you, my lady. You’ve been… missed.”

His voice was laced with courtly venom, the kind that dressed cruelty in ribbons.

Serana didn’t answer. Her face remained unreadable, but her magic stirred, I could feel it in the air, soft as a tremor beneath the floor.

And then the Altmer’s eyes slid to Amon. His smile grew sharper.

“And look. The pet returns. We wondered when you’d crawl back”

The Nord let out a dry laugh.

“Didn’t think you’d come dragging a snack behind you.”

I bristled before I realized they meant me.

Amon didn’t respond. His head tilted slightly, the way a predator studies a threat it doesn’t respect. His hand brushed mine, but he didn’t speak, didn’t even look at me.

The Dunmer muttered, just loud enough:

“He always did enjoy dragging corpses around. Guess this one walks.”

None of them moved forward. They didn’t have to. The room already belonged to them. They were circling Serana in words, letting the blood on the floor speak for them.

But the worst part wasn’t their cruelty. It was that they knew Amon and hated him. Not out of fear. Out of betrayal.

Whatever Amon had once been to them… he was not welcome now.

His fingers left mine. He stepped forward with the kind of stillness that wasn’t natural, a predator’s stillness, like the moment before a storm turns.

The air shifted around him softly. Enough that the torches flickered, and the Dunmer’s idle fingers froze on the edge of his sleeve.

He tilted his head, just slightly, as if he hadn’t quite heard the insult. Or perhaps didn’t care to.

Then he spoke, low and cruelly calm.

“You’re all still here,” he said. “How tragic.”

The Nord snarled softly, shifting his stance. The Dunmer stiffened.

But the Altmer just smiled wider.

“We could say the same of you. Though pet might’ve been generous. It’s hard to tell what you are these days, Amon. Ghost? Stray?”

Amon’s smile didn’t reach his eyes.

“And you’re still playing butler in a dead man’s house.”

The Altmer’s grin sharpened.

“And yet, here you are crawling back, dragged in on a leash. Is it loyalty or guilt that brings you home, Amon?”

The Nord stepped forward, cracking his knuckles. “He’s not back. Just lost.”

Amon didn’t flinch. His voice came low, deliberate, each word cutting cleanly through the thick silence.

“You’re not taking Serana.”

The Altmer raised an eyebrow. “You think you can stop us?”

“You left. You forfeited the right to speak for her.”

“I don’t speak for her,” Amon said. “But I will not let you drag her back into his cage.”

The Dunmer snorted. “You think Lord Harkon will let you decide what’s his?”

He turned to Serana.

“You’ve been gone long enough, my lady. It’s time to come home.”

Serana’s eyes flashed. “I have no home.”

The Nord moved then, fast. A blur of pale muscle and bone. He caught Serana’s wrist, wrenched her around before she could cast. The Dunmer blocked her spell with a grin.

Amon surged forward, magic gathering in his knuckles but before he could act—

Hands grabbed me.

The Altmer moved like mist, one moment across the room, the next pressed against my back, one cold hand curling around my throat, the other pinning my hip. His mouth was too close to my neck. His voice was silk-wrapped poison.

“I can hear it,” he whispered near my ear. “Your heartbeat. Fast, confused. Not afraid enough.”

“Let go of me—” I hissed, fighting the rising panic in my chest.

“Make a move, Amon,” the Altmer murmured, “and I swear I’ll make her scream.”

Amon froze.

One step forward and his entire body locked. His mouth parted slightly, breath shallow, as if he could already see the blood, the bite, the loss.

“Let her go Vingalmo.” he said, softer this time. A plea.

That made the Altmer pause. His head tilted slowly, his fingers still resting at my throat, but the tension shifted, no longer about hunger, or dominance, or even the game they were playing.

It became curiosity.

He inhaled near my jaw, the breath deliberate, almost amused.

“Now that,” he said, “is new.”

His fingers slipped down slightly, resting at the hollow of my throat.

“You used to watch mortals die without blinking. You used to feed beside us.”

He chuckled softly. “And now look at you.”

Amon didn’t move.

The Altmer turned his gaze toward him, grinning wider now.

“So she’s the reason you left? No… that’s not it.” He looked at me again. “You didn’t leave for her. You saw her. And you couldn’t look away.”

Then, deliberately, slowly, he leaned down, brushing his nose against the side of my neck like he was savoring the scent of something ripe.

“Tell me, Amon,” he murmured. “Do you dream of her? Or would you break for her instead?”

That was the moment Amon moved, fast. Too fast for me to see. One second he was behind me, the next he was between us, his hand wrapped around Vingalmo’s throat, pressing him against the wall with enough force to crack the stone.

Vingalmo didn’t fight back. Not at first. He only laughed.

“There you are,” he whispered through broken breath. “The monster I remember.”

Amon’s hand stayed locked around Vingalmo’s throat, pressing him harder into the wall. The Altmer’s feet hovered just above the stone, robes twisting beneath him like caught wings.

But behind us—

A scrape of boot on stone. The rush of cloaked bodies.

I spun just in time to see the other two vampires closing around Serana like a net.

She lashed out ice in her palms but the Nord was faster, catching her by the waist and slamming her back into the bookshelf. The Dunmer twisted something sharp in the air, a sickle-shaped rune, and her magic shattered with a crack.

“Amon!” she screamed.

Amon’s grip shattered bone. With a snarl that split the silence, he hurled Vingalmo across the room like a corpse. The Altmer hit the far wall with a thud and a crack, blood spattering behind him in a smear of red and velvet.

But Amon didn’t follow.

He turned to me.

“Get behind me,” he said sharply, already moving toward me. “Stay close.”

Across the room, the Dunmer raised a hand to Serana.

“Take her, Borald.” he snapped to the Nord, who grabbed Serana by the arm and yanked her toward the study doors, already swirling with dark mist. She struggled against him, kicking, clawing, screaming curses.

“No!” I shouted, raising my hand, and for the first time in what felt like forever, the magic answered.

Not the sluggish, frost-bitten haze it had become in the Soul Cairn. Not the echo. The real magic.

It rushed into my palm like breath returning to lungs.

And I cast. Not a shard or a spike. A wave.

Ice exploded across the floor in a shattering blast, streaking toward Borald’s legs, fast and jagged as spears—

But the mist caught him first.

He and Serana vanished in it.

The ice struck the stone behind them with a crack loud enough to shake the shelves.

I staggered forward, half a step, heart still racing, magic burning in my blood.

They were gone.

Serana was gone.

The silence that followed wasn’t empty.

It was charged.

Vingalmo rose from where Amon had thrown him, blood at his temple, robes torn, but his grin was intact.

The Dunmer turned his full attention toward me now. Not with annoyance. Not even with anger.

With wonder.

“Interesting.” he murmured.

The frost still hissed across the stone.

My chest rose and fell with the weight of it, not exhaustion, but raw power. My soul had returned, and I could feel it pulsing in every limb, in the burning in my palms, in the surge of magic that crackled just beneath my skin.

He moved toward me, slow, hands loose at his sides, every step a calculated dance.

I raised my silver dagger and braced myself to strike.

But he didn’t swing. Didn’t even block.

He dodged, elegantly, again and again, turning his body just out of reach as I slashed, ducking low when I tried to aim for his throat, stepping past me like we were rehearsing a routine only he knew.

“Raw,” he murmured as I spun, trying to catch him. “Wild. Dangerous.”

I lunged again—

But this time, he caught me.

How?

A blur of movement, and his hand closed hard around the back of my neck, pulling me to stillness like I was some stray creature needing correction. The silver dagger dropped from my grip, clattering against the stone.

I struggled, teeth bared, magic gathering but his other hand caught my chin, forced my face up to meet his eyes.

He looked… astonished.

His eyes searched mine, glowing faintly. “What are you hiding, little thing?”

“Feron!”

Amon’s voice cut through the study like a razor.

He was standing behind the Dunmer now, magic thrumming around him like a second heartbeat. But the Dunmer didn’t flinch.

“We’re not going to hurt her,” he said softly, still watching me. “She’s far too… intriguing for that.”

Vingalmo limped closer, grinning again, blood drying at the corner of his mouth.

“Kill her? No…” he said, eyes flicking between me and Amon. “Why waste her? You were keeping her all to yourself, Amon. Selfish.”

Feron’s grip tightened just slightly at my nape not choking, but firm.

“Imagine what she’d become if—“

“Let her go!” Amon snarled, stepping forward.

But there was panic in his voice now. A thread of something raw.

The Dunmer still held me, his fingers curled at the nape of my neck like he meant to brand me. His thumb brushed my throat like I was a specimen he hadn’t decided whether to dissect or tame.

Vingalmo circled behind him slowly, grinning again, lips slick with blood. His gaze drifted to Amon, then to me.

“I wonder what Lord Harkon would say.”

Feron’s grip on me tightened. I could feel his nails now, sharp against my spine.

Amon’s body was coiled, every inch of him alive with fury, magic pulsing beneath his skin like it was begging to be loosed. But he didn’t strike.

He stepped forward.

Once.

Then once more.

And slowly, carefully, he raised his hands open, not to cast, not to fight.

To surrender.

“Take me.”

The words dropped like a blade.

“Take me to Harkon,” he said, voice low, cracking at the edges. “You caught me. You can bring me back in chains, in pieces, however you like. But let her go.”

The Dunmer stilled.

Even Vingalmo paused.

“You would trade yourself… for her?” Vingalmo asked, incredulous. “A mortal?”

“Yes.”

“After all this time. After what you did.” He laughed dark and disbelieving. “You think he’ll take you back?”

“I know he will,” Amon said quietly. “He always wanted me caged. He’ll be pleased.”

His eyes flicked to me just once.

That was all. No words. No farewell. Just one look.

And in it, the choice. The quiet, inevitable weight of someone already gone.

My soul had just come back to me raw, bright, burning in my chest and now it slipped through my ribs all over again.

He was sacrificing himself.

“No,” I choked. “You can’t do this—”

“Fascinating, isn’t it Feron?” Vingalmo said, glancing sideways at the Dunmer. “No blood bond.”

His eyes flicked to me.

“And still—“

Feron looked at Amon for a long moment. And then, slowly, he released me. His hand dropped from the back of my neck with a finality that made my skin crawl.

“Touching.” he murmured. “Our monster has a heart that beats in someone else’s chest.”

Vingalmo smirked, “Let’s see if it breaks.”

They moved fast, too fast.

The mist around Amon shattered as Feron lunged, striking him across the face with the back of his hand, a blast of shadow magic exploding against his ribs. Amon staggered. He wasn’t fighting back.

“Run.”

I didn’t move.

“Go!” he shouted again, turning just in time for Vingalmo to slam a knee into his stomach and drive him to the floor. Blood sprayed from his mouth.

Something in me cracked.

I didn’t even breathe. I just froze like the air had left the room, like my ribs had locked around my lungs.

Run.

Run.

That’s what I was supposed to do.

I turned. One step.

But I couldn’t take it.

I saw his blood on the stone. Saw his arms pinned beneath Vingalmo’s knee, the black and red bloom already soaking into his shirt.

And something inside me something old and broken, screamed no.

Not like this.

I spun back, teeth clenched, hands blazing with frost. My vision blurred, not from tears but rage.

“Get off him!” I screamed.

“Nio—“ Amon rasped, voice thick with blood.

“Shut up,” I hissed. “You don’t get to die for me. Not without me.”

Not this time.

The frost flared again in my palms, but before I could cast, another blow hit me, magic this time, hard and sharp, seizing my limbs mid-motion. My legs buckled, and I dropped to my knees with a gasp, pain sparking behind my eyes.

Amon roared and the Dunmer struck him down again with a blast of shadow to the gut. He coughed blood against the floor.

Vingalmo laughed. He stepped back, brushing a streak of red from his sleeve with one graceful flick, and turned toward the Feron.

His eyes dragged over me then Amon.

“Lock them in the vault.”

He paused. Smiled slowly to Amon.

“You are starving, aren’t you?”

Feron frowned. “You think he’ll—”

“No,” Vingalmo said, teeth flashing. “That’s the beauty of it! He’ll try not to.”

I tried to move, to shout, to fight, but the binding spell coiled around my ribs like chains. My limbs wouldn’t obey me.

Amon twisted on the ground, blood still dripping from his mouth, eyes wide now, fixed only on me.

“Don’t,” he croaked. “Don’t do this—”

“You should’ve stayed gone,” Vingalmo said softly. “But you’ve brought us something far more interesting than Serana.”

“A choice.”

His voice dropped as he leaned closer to me, kneeling just far enough to whisper.

“Let’s see if your monster can save you from himself.”

 

To be continued…

Chapter 72: Chapter 72

 

The door slammed shut behind us.

Stone, steel and the brutal finality of metal grinding against itself, and then—

Silence.

The vault was small. Barely large enough to kneel in. No walls, just darkness pressing in too close. The air reeked of old blood and heat-baked stone. And beneath it, something else: ash. Burned flesh. Cooked marrow.

I didn’t want to know whose.

Chains yanked my arms upward, locking my wrists against the wall. They’d shackled Amon the same opposite me, just a few paces away, his body taut with tension, blood crusted down the side of his jaw. The ceiling arched above us in smooth black stone, and in its center—

A hole.

“Comfortable?” Feron’s voice slithered through the darkness behind us.

I twisted to look, but the chains wouldn’t let me. My shoulders strained, raw against the stone.

He came into view slowly, boots tapping on scorched rock, eyes aglow with lazy amusement.

“You’ll stay here,” he said, hands folded neatly behind his back. “Until Harkon decides what to do with you. Or until he forgets you altogether. Whichever comes first.”

Amon’s voice was hoarse, but steady. “He’ll want to see me.”

Feron tilted his head, mock-puzzled. “Will he?” He paced toward Amon, then toward me, like he couldn’t decide which of us bored him more. “Because as far as I can tell, he is busy catching up with her daughter.”

He crouched, finally stopping between us. “You see, these chains—” he tapped Amon’s manacle, “—are mostly for show.”

His smile widened.

“I’d much rather you broke them. I’d rather you snapped the chains, tore out her throat and fed like the beast you are.” His gaze flicked to me. “Just imagine the poetry.”

Amon didn’t look at me. But I saw his jaw clench.

Feron stood. “Still pretending, then? Shame.”

He turned, walking to the door, but paused, hand on the handle.

“Oh—” he said, glancing over his shoulder. “One last thing.”

His boots clicked slowly across the stone as he returned to me.

His eyes dropped, and for a moment, I thought he might speak. But instead, he crouched, and with deliberate hands, unbuckled the leather bindings across my back.

The scroll.

It was heavy, warm with the magic sealed inside. The moment he lifted it free, I felt its absence like something vital had been ripped from my spine.

Feron rose, holding it with both hands with a kind of reverence, as if the weight of it pleased him. 

“Can’t have this lost in the fire.” he murmured.

He didn’t look back after that.

The door groaned shut behind him.

I exhaled slowly, the chains creaking above me with the motion. My arms ached. My knees were already numb from the stone.

Amon knelt opposite me, wrists chained high above his head, body slumped but still held upright by sheer tension. Restraint curled through every line of him like coiled wire, and for a long, breathless moment… he didn’t move.

His lip was split, dried blood crusted at the corner of his mouth, and one eye was beginning to bruise beneath the lash of Feron’s magic. His shirt, what remained of it, hung torn and crooked off one shoulder, exposing the line of his ribs and the unmistakable curve of his stomach. Red streaks cut across pale skin, most still fresh. His abdomen moved with each breath, shallow, deliberate.

His hair was a mess. Tousled. Smudged with soot in places, sticking to his jaw in others. A strand clung to the sweat at his temple.

He looked… awful.

And still, somehow, like he’d been carved for this. Not the chains. Just the stillness. The silence. The way he sat beneath it all like it was a throne and he’d simply misplaced the crown.

It made me want to punch him.

Or maybe scream.

I closed my eyes.

Just for a breath. Just to stop seeing him.

I should’ve left.

They would’ve let me. That was the game, wasn’t it? Make the traitor kneel. Let the girl run. See which breaks first.

I could’ve gone.

I would’ve walked out of the castle, found the snow, the sea, the wind, the world, anything but this. I could’ve disappeared into the wilds.

So why didn’t I?

Why the fuck didn’t I?

Amon groaned softly in his chains, shifting just slightly and I flinched like I’d been struck.

I didn’t know him. I don’t know him.

He followed me. He watched me. Lied to me.

Saved me.

I opened my eyes again, and looked at him.

He hadn’t even turned his head. Just breathing. Quiet and shallow.

But he had stood between me and a dragon and spoken in it’s tongue like it was his own. He’d taken shadow in his hands and wrapped it around me like silk. He knew things he shouldn’t.

He wasn’t just a vampire.

He wasn’t just anything.

I’d seen creatures like him before, things that were shaped like men but weren’t. But none of them bled the way he did. None of them looked at me the way he did.

And I couldn’t make him fit into anything.

A chain creaked again as he shifted, jaw tightening. The bruises were blooming darker now.

I looked away.

And I wished for one weak moment that I’d never met him at all.

And then—

A soft chuckle.

I lifted my head, barely, just enough to see him lift his chin, the motion slow, heavy.

“Funny,” he rasped, voice like smoke. “You and I… locked in a dungeon. Again.”

I stared at him.

He let the silence hang a beat longer, then added, voice dry:

“I’m starting to think it’s a tradition.”

He grinned, crooked, half-swollen, stupidly alive.

And for one stupid moment… I almost smiled back.

Because he was right.

It was ridiculous.

But mostly because somehow, even like this, bloodied and shackled in a tomb, he still found the energy to joke.

I snorted. It slipped out sharp and bitter, too quick to stop.

He was smiling still, I could feel it. That half-sure, half-mocking curve of his mouth. Like he’d said something clever. Like he was proud of himself.

My voice came out low. Flat.

“Maybe next time I’ll chain you myself. Just to save us the detour.”

“Promises, promises.” he murmured.

I grit my teeth.

The silence started to settle again heavy as stone, thick as ash.

I didn’t let it.

“You could’ve run,” I said, too quickly.

He blinked like he hadn’t expected me to speak again.

I kept going. The words spilled out like something I couldn’t stop.

“You always find a way out, don’t you? Mist, shadow, charm or whatever the hell it is you do.” I met his gaze now, sharp and unflinching.

“You can get out of here,” I hissed. “Slip through the cracks like you always do and leave. It’s what you’re good at.”

The chains creaked as he shifted, didn’t even glance at the walls or the door or the ceiling. He just looked at me like I’d said something wrong.

But he could. I knew he could.

He could save himself.

Then—

That damned smile again.

“Leave?” he echoed, voice soft, almost playful. “Now why would I do that?”

His eyes dragged over me slowly, deliberately. Like I was some riddle he hadn’t finished solving yet.

“Besides,” he added, low and unhurried, “if I left now, you’d miss me.”

My mouth parted, then closed again — useless.

“And I’d miss you too,” he went on, like we were sharing some private joke. “This little dungeon rendezvous is starting to grow on me. You, chained up in front of me…” He exhaled, a rasp of amusement in his throat. “What more could a monster ask for?”

I stared at him. Disgusted. Flushed.

“You’re insane.” 

He smiled wider. “Debatable.”

“You think this is a joke? You think this—” I rattled my chains, metal shrieking against stone, “—is some kind of game?”

His smile didn’t fade. If anything, it softened like I’d amused him.

And that made it worse.

“Gods, I don’t even know what you are,” I hissed. “You lie, you vanish, you fight like something ancient and then you throw yourself into cages for people you barely know.”

I leaned forward as far as the chains would let me, glaring at him across the narrow space.

“So which one are you this time, Amon?” I said, voice low now, bitter. “The beast, the fool, or the martyr?”

A beat passed.

He didn’t answer.

But the smile faded.

Then softly, almost like he was answering a question I hadn’t asked:

“I’m whatever you need me to be.”

I let the silence stretch for half a heartbeat.

Then I snapped.

“No,” I hissed. “You don’t get to do that.”

His brow twitched, just slightly.

“Don’t stand there and pretend you’re giving me some kind of gift. You don’t know what I need. You never did. You threw yourself into this like some tragic fucking hero, and now you want credit for not leaving?”

I shook my head, chains groaning above me.

“You’re not what I need, Amon. You’re what won’t go away.”

I felt heat rise behind my eyes and crushed it down with force.

“You think bleeding or dying for me means something?” I spat. “Try being honest for more than five minutes. Try telling me what the fuck you even are.”

He looked at me, really looked.

And I thought… maybe.

Maybe he would say it.

Maybe I’d finally hear something real, something solid.

His lips parted.

But then—
the light struck.

A golden spear of sun sliced through the hole in the ceiling and hit the floor between us, hissing against the stone like it had teeth.

We both stilled.

It inched forward, slow and cruel, the arc of the sun dragging it closer to him one heartbeat at a time.

I saw how he tensed. Just in the way his jaw shifted, in the way his arms went still in the chains above his head.

I looked at the beam, then at him.

“You’ll burn,” I said, voice too thin. “Why aren’t you doing anything?”

His eyes lifted lazily. “What would you have me do?”

“Something,” I snapped. “Start with healing.”

That last word came out almost pleading.

He hesitated.

Then gently,

“I can’t.”

The silence rang in my ears.

“What?”

“The Cairn. Everything that came after. They are right, I am starving.”

He nodded once toward his side, toward the deeper wounds, the ones that hadn’t closed.

“I can’t heal.”

My heart thudded hard.

I looked again at the sunlight then at the distance between it and him. It was getting close. Just enough time to panic.

“Then do it.” I said. “I know you can break free of those chains.”

He didn’t move, but I breathed, not sure of what I was even offering,

“Feed.”

He stared at me like I’d hit him. Like he didn’t believe what he’d just heard.

The silence pressed.

The light crept closer.

I yanked at my chains, metal groaning.

“What are you waiting for?” I snapped. “Didn’t you throw yourself into this for me? For her?” I jerked my chin toward the door, “You’ve fought for us and now you’re just going to give up?”

His eyes flickered, something flashing behind them, sharp and dangerous.

But I didn’t stop.

“You don’t get to sit there waiting to burn. If you’re going to save me, then do it!”

That’s what did it.

He snapped.

“I told you to run!”

The sound echoed hard, bouncing off stone.

He pulled against his chains not to break free, but like he needed to move. Like the rage was too big for his body.

“I told you to leave, Niolenyl. And you didn’t.”

He was breathing harder now. Not yelling but close.

“So don’t stand there and tell me to feed on you like it’s a mercy.”

I scoffed short and sharp.

“Fuck you.”

He stilled.

“Don’t throw this back on me,” I hissed. “Don’t act like you’re some saint in chains and I’m the ungrateful bitch who won’t play along.”

His mouth opened slightly,  no words yet. Just breath.

Then—

“You think I want this? That I’m enjoying any fucking second of being chained or watching you unravel in front of me?”

I didn’t answer. Because part of me did think that. Part of me always would.

His head snapped to the side, a sharp, frustrated jerk like he wanted to throw the thought out of his skull. The chains groaned with the movement.

“You think I chose this?”

“Don’t you dare,” I hissed. “Don’t you dare act like you’re some casualty of circumstance. You had a choice the moment you met me. When you stalked me. When you charmed me.”

The word landed like a slap.

His expression broke.

“I didn’t charm you.”

He said it so quietly I almost missed it. But the weight of it hit like thunder.

The sunlight crawled another inch across the stone, toward him.

“I wanted to,” he went on. “I tried. I told myself I had. But it never worked.”

He looked down, just for a second.

“Not entirely. Not enough.”

I stared at him. But I wasn’t seeing him anymore.

He said it didn’t work.

Not entirely.

Not enough.

My thoughts turned in on themselves sharp, spiraling. Like the floor had cracked beneath me, and I was falling into every moment I’d ever questioned.

The stolen glances. The heat in my gut. The way his voice curled behind my ribs like a spell I couldn’t scrape out—

It wasn’t real?

Or worse—some of it was?

My stomach twisted, bile rising behind my teeth.

I thought I’d been resisting him. I thought I was strong.

But he’d tried.

That meant I’d failed.

I could feel the air leave me. My lungs still moved, but the breath didn’t catch.

The chains creaked as he shifted again, the light licking his legs now, burning, maybe. I couldn’t tell. I couldn’t see through the static roaring in my head.

“You tried?” I said finally, the words brittle.

He looked at me then and whatever he saw on my face made him flinch.

“I thought—” I began. But the words broke. My throat closed.

“I thought maybe it was just me,” I said instead. “That I was weak. That I kept letting you in because I was broken or tired or lonely. But no. It was you, wasn’t it?”

“No.” His voice was low, urgent. “No. It wasn’t like that.”

“Don’t lie to me.”

“I’m not—”

“You tried to make a thrall out of me.”

The words snapped through the air like a whip.

He winced.

And that was all the answer I needed.

“I should have known.” My voice shook with fury. “Every time I couldn’t tell if the way I looked at you was mine or yours…”

He didn’t speak.

“You tried to take me,” I snarled. “You tried to take my mind.”

“No,” he said again, hoarse. “I never wanted—”

“All this time,” I cut in, “you looked at me like I was yours. And I thought—“

I leaned forward as far as my chains allowed, trembling.

“But you never waited for me to choose, did you?”

He pulled against the chains, not to break them, just to feel them, like he needed pain to hold him steady.

“You want to talk about choices?” he said, voice rising now. “You gave me your blood.”

I flinched.

“You saved my life when you should’ve let me die. You looked me in the eye and stayed when I told you to run.”

His voice cracked on the last word, but he didn’t stop.

“There was no magic, Niolenyl.” He shook his head, eyes wild. “That was you.”

The light had reached his thigh now, he didn’t look at it.

“And maybe you hate me for that,” he said, breathless. “Maybe you’d rather blame magic than admit that some part of you might have wanted this.”

He stared at me like he didn’t expect forgiveness. Like he didn’t want it.

He just wanted me to stop pretending I was innocent.

How dare he?

“You think that makes it better?” I spat. “That I stayed? You think that proves something?”

I shook my head, “I just didn’t know what else to do. Because every time I tried to pull away, you followed. You waited and watched. You wanted me… confused.”

“No—”

“Yes,” I snapped. “Don’t lie now. You wanted to believe it worked. You counted on it.”

He was silent. The light was at his hip now, skin smoking.

And he let it.

That made me angrier.

“You want to burn?” I hissed. “You want to make this your great, noble self-immolation? Go ahead. Burn for it. But don’t pretend it’s some sacrifice for me.”

He flinched, barely. But I saw it. I savored it.

I wanted him to hurt.

And he must have.

“You think I enjoy being dragged behind you like a curse?” he snarled.

The chains groaned as he moved, not lunging, not breaking free, just burning with the need to move. His wrists trembled in the cuffs.

“I don’t follow you because I want to.”

That caught me. The way he said it. Like it cost something.

“I didn’t ask for this,” he went on. “Not the hunger. Not you. Not—”

He cut himself off. Swallowed hard.

And then—

“You made it matter. That’s on you.”

His words echoed like a curse.

I opened my mouth to scream something back, but nothing came out.

Because what did that mean?

I stared at him, not just with anger now, but something darker. Unease.

“Why then?” I said slowly. “Why are you following me if that’s not what you want?”

He didn’t answer. His jaw clenched. He looked away, just for a breath and that was enough.

My voice was still sharp, but it cracked at the edges, like ice under strain.

“What are you not telling me?”

Nothing.

He looked at me again and this time, it was like staring at a locked door. Something ancient and heavy just behind it. Something meant to stay sealed.

And suddenly I hated him again.

The light crept steadily toward him, curling up his thigh like a brand. I could smell it, blistering flesh, the sick-sweet rot of heat and skin. He didn’t even twitch. He just sat there, shackled and still, as if this pain was owed, not endured.

I needed answers. Some explanation of his unnerving presence in my life. Something-

I strained against my own chains, metal biting into my wrists, but there was no movement, no way forward. My chest tightened with rage and helplessness. I reached inward, toward my magic, toward anything left but it sputtered uselessly. The moment I touched it, it recoiled. Like something had clipped its wings.

Feron. It had to be him. I could feel it, his magic, humming beneath my skin, wrapping tight around every spell I might have called. My frost, my force, all bound by invisible strings.

I felt something inside me twist, a sharp, raw twist that wasn’t rage or fear but refusal.

Answers.

The magic didn’t come from calm or focus this time. It came from the place that screamed. From the fire I’d buried beneath every cracked rib and burned memory. And when it broke, it splintered.

Ice surged into my hands, ugly and jagged, I forced it out with a raw cry. The shard struck the stone floor between us like a blade, cold magic tearing a line across the sunbeam. The light fractured, scattering across the vault in crooked angles. One sliver veered away from Amon’s body. Then another.

I didn’t stop and wrenched another spike from the magic that fought me. The frost spread, twisting along the floor in jagged shards, distorting the sunlight in a fractured prism. It wasn’t elegant or clean. But it worked.

The burning stopped.

Amon turned his head slightly toward the shifting light, then toward me.

I stared back, chest heaving, wrists throbbing, magic still humming wild beneath my skin. I didn’t feel relief. Only anger.

Blood trickled from my nose. I didn’t care.

I held his gaze for a moment longer, then said hoarsely, “You don’t get to burn. Not yet.”

The words hung between us, sharp and echoing, as real as the smoke still curling from his skin. He didn’t flinch, not anymore. He only breathed, slow and shallow, like even that cost something.

I exhaled too, slower, trying to steady the shake in my ribs.

“Talk.”

He blinked once. Not in confusion. In recognition. Like he’d expected this moment or feared it. His mouth opened slightly, dry, blood-dark at the corner.

“About what?” he asked. Careful. Not flippant, but not obedient either.

I bit down hard on my response, jaw locked so tight it hurt. He wanted me to narrow it. He wanted direction, or delay.

I wasn’t giving him either.

“You know what.” My voice was low. “Start with the real reason of why I just can’t seem to get rid of you.”

His gaze shifted, just briefly, toward the ice, splintered frost that still steamed at his feet. Then back to me.

He paused for a beat, eyes on mine — dark, unreadable.

But whatever truth lingered behind them never made it to his mouth.

Instead, his lips curved, slow and infuriating, into that crooked, maddening smirk I’d come to loathe.

“You know,” he rasped, glancing at the shattered frost between us, “you could’ve used all that magic to unchain yourself.”

My fingers curled into fists, the manacles biting deeper.

He tilted his head slightly, the grin deepening, as if this were nothing but another sparring match, just words and heat and blood again.

I pulled against the manacles so hard the metal screeched, pain tearing through my shoulders, but I didn’t care.

“I want the truth,” I snarled. “No more riddles. No more clever little smiles to distract me from the fact that I don’t know what you want from me.”

Still nothing.

My voice cracked.

“Answer me, damn you!”

It echoed off the stone, raw and ragged.

I saw the fire in his eyes dimmed. Just slightly. Like the mask was slipping.

And then he said, quiet and hoarse—

“Do you really think I could tell you the truth… and still have you look at me the way you are now?”

The words hung in the air like smoke. Like ash.

But I didn’t flinch.

I stared at him, breath ragged, arms trembling from how hard I’d pulled against the chains.

And I said, quiet but seething:

“Try me.”

The silence after those words was heavier than the chains between us. Amon stared, as if weighing something, then, slowly, his mouth curved.

“Careful,” he murmured, voice like smoke curling in my lungs. “You might like it.”

I froze.

He tilted his head, eyes drifting across the ice shards on the floor. “Burned half your strength keeping me alive. For what? A thank you?”

“Answers.”

He huffed a dry laugh. “Or something uglier?”

I laughed. Bitter.

“You really are broken.” I said.

He grinned wider, like I’d just confirmed something for him. “Takes one to know one.”

My hands trembled against the chains. “You’re not clever. You’re just… afraid.”

I leaned forward, voice shaking with fury. “You flirt to buy time. You smirk to dodge questions. But it’s all just a mask, isn’t it? Because the truth is, you’re scared to let anyone see what’s underneath.”

His jaw flexed.

Still, he didn’t speak.

So I pressed harder. “A coward.”

Something changed. As if the vault itself had gone still, holding its breath.

Then—

A sound.

Metal groaning.

Chains cracking.

In the space of a heartbeat, the manacles shattered. Not with magic. Just force. Raw, brutal force.

And suddenly he was in front of me. Shoulders heaving, shirt torn open, the scent of smoke still clinging to his skin. Red and blue of his eyes locked onto mine with such intensity I forgot how to breathe.

The space between us was gone, and so was the game.

“Say it again. Say I’m afraid. And I’ll show you what fear isn’t.”

I didn’t hesitate.

“Coward.”

His breath ghosted against my skin. He didn’t touch me, but the closeness felt like a threat.

“You call me the coward,” he murmured. “But I’m not the one trembling.”

I turned my head slightly, just enough to keep his mouth from brushing mine, just enough to show him I wouldn’t look away— but I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction either.

My chains groaned with the motion, biting into my wrists.

His mouth hovered beside my jaw.

“There’s nothing in your blood I haven’t already tasted. No spell left to cast.”

My breath caught in my throat.

“And still,” he murmured, “you press your thighs together when I get too close.”

I went still.

“That’s not magic,” he said. “That’s instinct.”

He dragged in a breath like he was tasting mine.

“Every time I step near you, something in you flinches. Like your body hasn’t caught up to your hatred yet.”

His eyes dragged over me like he was memorizing something sacred and ugly all at once.

“Do you know what it does to me,” he murmured, “watching you try to hate me and fail?”

I clenched my jaw and snapped my gaze toward him. “Get away from me.”

“Why?” he said softly. “You’re the one leaning closer.”

I wasn’t.

I wasn’t.

“Go to Oblivion,” I hissed.

“I’m already there,” he said. “And you—”

His voice went darker. Rougher.

“ You’re the curse I’d choose every time.”

 

To be continued…

Chapter 73: Chapter 73

4 E, 187

 

He had failed.

Not in some grand, final way or in blood. Not in the way mortals fail, with sword in hand and regret on their lips. No, this was worse.

He had failed by forgetting.

By wandering too far. Staying too long. Pretending that time would wait. That she would wait.

The rage didn’t come all at once.

It began in his throat, a tightening, a dry burn as if air itself had turned traitor. Then it moved behind his eyes, a low ache, pulsing with every heartbeat he didn’t have. His hands trembled with fury, ancient, sharp-edged fury. The kind that lived beneath old stone. The kind that outlived gods.

He had been given this duty. Forced into it. Shackled by command, by a father’s voice that rang colder than any throne room.

“You are not my son.”

That curse had bound him like iron.

But this loss, this was worse.

What was he now, with no task to complete? No girl to guard? No path to walk but the one that ended in smoke?

Nothing.

Not a son. Not a warrior. Not even a monster.

Just nothing.

He dug his fingers into the wood beneath the window. It cracked beneath him, wet bark splintering like brittle bone.

He could still see her, or the ghost of her. That careless, infuriating brightness. The way she ran barefoot in the frost like it did not sting.

And now she was gone.

Taken.

By whose hand? For what purpose?

Why had the village not stopped it?

Why had he not stopped it?

His jaw clenched so hard his teeth ached. If he screamed, he was sure it would come out as fire.

They let her go.

His hands fell from the windowsill as he rose. Quiet. Too still for anything living.

Something inside him snapped.

He dropped from the branch in silence. Landed in the snow with a thud that echoed louder in his mind than in the world. The mist curled around him. Shadows bent to his steps.

And then he began to walk.

Back to the center. Back to the knot of guilt and ruin. To the woman still sobbing in the mud. To the villagers whose heads hung with grief and shame.

They looked up as he approached.

They saw him, really saw him, for the first time.

And by then, it was too late.

He did not speak.

Not when the first man reached for a blade, nor when the second raised his hands in prayer.

He struck with silence. Graceful. Final.

Like frost carving its name through a blooming field.

Like dusk swallowing stars.

The first neck snapped before the man could scream. The second was crushed beneath a boot against the roots of Y’ffre’s tree. The third, the woman in the mud, he took her face in both hands, leaned close, and whispered nothing at all before he shattered her skull on the stones her ancestors once sang over.

They deserved it. All of them.

They let her be taken.

And the blood answered.

It spilled hot across wooden slats and curled into the bark, steaming against snow.

Men. Women. Elders.

It didn’t matter.

He tore through them like wind through wheat, a silent god of wrath and ruin. No flourish. Only precision. Only the reaping.

Old prayers were chanted, names of gods whispered in desperation.

He carved through them all.

Y’ffre is not here.

He reached her family’s home last.

The ivy still clung to the eaves. The bone charms still clicked, though now, they sounded more like teeth.

Three sleeping breaths.

He stood at the threshold, one hand on the wooden frame, eyes fixed on the shadows within. When he crossed the threshold, he did so with a heart colder than the sea.

The father rose first, broad-shouldered, proud, shaking only slightly. He reached for something behind the table. A blade. A staff. Or maybe just hope.

It didn’t matter.

The strike was fast. Not clean.

Bone cracked. A gurgle. The man’s eyes widened, then dulled and he crumpled beside the hearth, fingers twitching once before they stilled.

The mother screamed.

She lunged past him, toward the back room, the beds.

“Please!” she gasped, grabbing at his arm, falling to her knees. “They’re just boys! They don’t know—”

He did not look at her.

Her hands clutched at him, shaking. “Take me. Just—just me. Spare them. They’re all I have.“

He turned to face her slowly. Her face was streaked with ash and tears. She looked up at him like he was a god she didn’t believe in, but had no choice left to pray to.

She fell before she could speak again, throat opened clean. Blood spilled across the worn furs where the girl had once curled with her brothers to sleep.

The woman’s hand twitched once, reaching toward the door to the back room.

And then, stillness.

The mother’s body slumped in the hearth’s glow, her hand still outstretched toward the door as if she might have shielded them from death with her bare palms.

He stepped over her.

The room beyond was small. Cramped. Smelling of smoke, wool, and childhood.

He pushed the door open with slow, deliberate force.

Three boys. Curled in a corner, eyes wide, faces pale. Blankets clutched tight to their chests, as if cotton could keep the darkness out.

They did not scream.

They barely breathed.

He stared at them.

Waited.

For what, he wasn’t sure.

Some flicker. Some sign. Some trace of her.

But they looked nothing like her.

Not one.

No white hair. No river-stone eyes. No light behind the gaze. Just children, brown-haired, frightened and utterly plain.

And yet still here.

Still breathing.

Why them?

Why had the world let them live, while the only one who ever mattered had been taken?

His hand tightened around the hilt at his hip.

The oldest boy flinched. Pressed himself tighter against the wall, as if the wood might swallow him whole.

None begged or pleaded. They only looked. With terror. Pure, honest, animal terror.

He raised the blade and paused.

There was no glory in this.

No purpose. 

They were just bodies, too small to carry blame. Too blank to carry memory.

Killing them wouldn’t bring her back.

It wouldn’t make his failure disappear.

It would only make the silence louder.

And suddenly, he couldn’t bear it.

With a sharp breath, ragged, almost human, he lowered the blade.

He turned, walked to the door, and left them there, three nameless lives spared not out of mercy, but because there was simply nothing left in him to kill.

The mother’s blood was still warm as he stepped over it.

The wind howled against the broken trees.

And somewhere far off, deeper than sky, older than stone, a god watched with narrowed eyes.

He didn’t remember leaving the village.

Only the quiet.

The kind that crawled into your bones and whispered you are alone now.

Snow fell soft on his shoulders as he walked, slower now. Not because of injury, he hadn’t been touched, but because there was nowhere left to go.

He had burned it all.

And yet she was still gone.

Her scent. Her voice. Her place in the world — all erased. 

Stolen.

And he had no name. No trail. Nothing but memory and blood.

So he searched.

For years.

At first, he stalked through Solstheim. Every cavern. Every ruin. Every whisper from the Skaal, the Reavers, the smugglers and druids. He tore secrets from the minds of those too slow to lie. He followed rumors like a beast follows a scent but they always led to ash and silence.

Then came the mainland.

He moved through Morrowind, tracing old trade routes. Through Skyrim, haunting the fringes of Nordic strongholds like a curse. To Cyrodiil, where the temples stank of divines and diplomacy. Each whisper, each glance, each pair of white-haired children, he checked them all.

Not her.

Never her.

He fed when he had to.

Killed when he wanted to.

But nothing ever filled the place where her presence had once been.

He didn’t know what the village was called.

If it even was a village. It was more like a smear of roof-thatch and low stone along a cracked road between nowhere and fog. Skyrim’s border shimmered in the distance, a jagged promise of cold and conflict. The trees here whispered in old tongues, but they did not speak to him.

No one did.

Not even his father.

Especially not him.

He had tried.

Through the years, he had tried.

He had prayed beneath stars that no longer recognized him. Raged in ruins carved with names older than wind. Slaughtered priests in holy robes, begging for a voice that never came.

Now he barely spoke.

Not to mortals. Not to monsters. Not to the god who called himself father.

The fire in him had gone out long ago, a slow death, like embers swallowed by snowfall.

He didn’t even remember why he had stopped in this place. Perhaps the wind had carried him. Perhaps he had hoped to die.

He sat alone in a crooked tavern that smelled of dog piss and rotting bark. The mead was thin. The hearth was hollow. A few locals hunched over mugs, speaking in hushed tones.

He didn’t listen.

Not at first.

Until a word broke through.

“…Ashenblade.”

He blinked. Slowly. As if surfacing from deep water.

A man at the bar laughed, the rough kind of laugh that followed too many drinks and not enough fear.

“They say she gutted him right through the throat,” he was saying. “Didn’t even slow down. Walked through the snow like it wasn’t even red.”

The others murmured, nervous.

“A myth,” one muttered. “The Brotherhood invents those.”

The drunk man snorted. “Ashen eyes and hair like snow. They say she sings while she kills.”

“A ghost.”

His chest twisted.

Slowly, slowly, he turned.

“What did you say?” His voice was low. Smooth. Gentle as snowfall.

The man blinked. “What, the Ashenblade? Just a story. She’s some killer for the Brotherhood. Shows up, things die—”

“White hair?” he asked, quieter still.

“Yeah. Why?”

He didn’t answer.

He didn’t need to.

The breath caught in his chest. That aching breath that wasn’t quite life.

He walked out into the cold. The wind bit his skin like it missed him. The sky hung low, heavy with clouds that never broke.

It couldn’t be her.

It was too late. Too far.

Too cruel.

He had stopped looking.

He had let go. And now—

Ashen eyes.

He stumbled into the trees, past the stables, past the torches flickering weakly in their posts.

There, he dropped to his knees.

Snow soaked into his clothes. His hands sank into the dirt like roots that no longer knew the tree.

Something inside him stirred. A heartbeat not his own. A tether that had once been cut, frayed, forgotten, now pulled.

She was alive.

She had lived.

She had become.

And she had done it without him.

At least he believed that.

And he would find her.

If he had to walk to the edge of the world, he would find her.

Because she was his to protect.

And no one would take her from him again.

To be continued…

Chapter 74: Chapter 74

 

Amon didn’t move like a man.

He moved like gravity.

And I— I couldn’t stop him.

I told myself I would. Told myself I wanted to.

The chains above me groaned as I pressed back, spine flat to stone, breath caught half-formed in my throat.

His lips didn’t touch. But his presence was a heat in the dark, his breath stirring the air between us, warmer than it should’ve been, scented like smoke.

And then, his tongue.

Warm and slow, it dragged along my jawline. The blood I hadn’t realized was still running caught on the edge of his mouth.

He tasted it like it meant something.

“Your blood tells me everything your mouth won’t.”

His voice was quiet.

“And it hasn’t lied once.”

My body tensed so hard the chains bit into my wrists again, cutting deep, but I didn’t feel the pain. I felt him, every breath, every inch of proximity like a scream just beneath the surface of my skin.

All I’d allowed, and all I’d denied, surged through my mind. My blood had betrayed me. Or maybe it hadn’t. Maybe it had simply told him what I never dared to say out loud.

That I hated him.

That I wanted him.

That I didn’t know the difference anymore.

Would turning away be refusal? Would letting him in be surrender? And if I screamed now, would he hear it as a no… or a call?

His lips hovered over mine, breath uneven now, like even he wasn’t sure what he’d just done.

And I—

By the void...

I felt heat.

Something crawling up my spine, nestling at the base of my throat like shame dipped in hunger.

My pulse thundered in my ears.

And I hated him for that, too.

And then, he raised one hand. I flinched. Just a breath. But it was enough for him to feel it.

His fingers brushed the metal at my wrist.

No force. No visible magic. Just touch. And the chains crumbled to dust.

I gasped.

The manacles fell away in silence, and my arms dropped heavy, blood rushing back with a bright, aching sting. I didn’t understand. I didn’t want to understand.

Before I could move, before I could speak—

He stood.

Rising like smoke, like something unbound. The vault didn’t feel big enough to contain him now. And as he straightened, I saw it.

His wounds, the ones that hadn’t closed,  sealed in seconds.

The bruises faded. The blood vanished.

His skin knit itself back together as if it had never been broken. Even the crack in his lip healed mid-breath.

The starving. The pain. The helplessness. All of it —

“You...”

My voice broke through the dark like lightning, jagged and sharp, and I didn’t even recognize it as mine.

“You could’ve done that the whole time?”

He didn’t flinch. He just stood there, calm, whole, breathing me in like my fury was incense and he had missed it.

I surged forward, shoulder slamming into his chest, fists catching in what was left of his shirt. He didn’t move. Didn’t resist.

“All that was nothing but a performance?”

His voice, when it came, was low.

“I let it hurt, because pain makes you stay.”

My breath caught. Not because I didn’t understand. But because some part of me did.

“What the fuck,” I spat, “does that mean?”

I didn’t wait for the answer. I didn’t want it.

My fist struck his jaw.

He didn’t dodge. Didn’t even raise a hand.

I hit him again, harder this time, or I tried to. My arm screamed from the sudden motion, muscles numb and blood-starved from the chains. The impact was clumsy, ugly, desperate.

Still, he let me.

And that made it worse.

“You—” I tried to speak, but the words tangled, tore. “You manipulative—”

My hand shot up, trembling with fury.

But he caught it this time.

His fingers closed around my wrist with ease, not harsh, not cruel, just absolute. Like he’d done it before in some buried dream, and now it was simply muscle memory.

I snarled and raised my other arm, but he moved faster. In a breath, he twisted me.

The world spun, his body against mine, breath hot at my ear, my back pressed to his chest. One of his arms looped around me, catching my second wrist before I could move it. He pulled both behind me, locking them in a single grasp, just above the small of my back.

His other hand slid to my waist.

I writhed, spine arching, teeth bared.

But he held me, anchored me like a storm tethered to stone.

I sucked in a breath. Shallow. Sharp.

He leaned in, his mouth beside my ear, his voice a rasp against the thrum of my breathing.

Then, low and uneven,

“You make it hard to be decent.”

I closed my eyes, jaw trembling, breath dragging ragged through my teeth.

“Don’t—” The word cracked, “Don’t touch me.”

He stilled behind me.

Then, low. Unsteady. Like it slipped out on accident, or maybe because it couldn’t be held in any longer:

“Every time you say that, I almost don’t listen.”

Silence.

Then his hands dropped away.

Absence, like he’d ripped himself out of the moment before it was too late.

My breath came shallow, tight in my chest, as though I were still searching for ground I hadn’t stood on in years. As if I had forgotten how to be steady. How to hold myself upright without shaking. Everything felt unmoored, like I was floating just above my own body, disconnected from the weight of it.

Pain hummed low through every part of me, my shoulders throbbed, my spine pulled, even the muscles around my eyes ached. There was nowhere in me that didn’t feel strained. As if I’d been carrying something I didn’t recognize until now. Shame. Confusion. The ache of not knowing who or what I was to him.

I couldn’t make sense of it, any of it. The things he said, the things he didn’t. He followed me like a shadow, never far, always present, and yet every time he spoke it was like peeling back a layer only to find more rot.

None of it fit. Not if it was just want. Not if it was something more. Not if it was something he couldn’t control. And that, more than anything, terrified me.

I leaned back slowly, pressing my elbow against the wall for balance. My limbs were too heavy, my thoughts heavier still. It felt like trying to hold myself together with shaking hands and not enough thread. I wasn’t anything special, if that was what he saw. There was nothing buried deep in me, nothing divine, nothing worth chasing. I was just trying to survive. Like anyone else.

I turned my head and found him still there, standing just beyond the sunlight that spilled into the cell. He stood there like a statue carved from something colder than stone, eyes locked on me like he was waiting. But not for questions. I knew better. He wouldn’t answer. He never had. From the very beginning he had been all riddles and half-truths, every word a trap, every silence louder than speech. It didn’t matter how much I wanted the truth. It wouldn’t come. Not from him. And certainly not here.

Still, I had to move. I had to get out of this place before it swallowed us both whole. I needed to get back to the Sanctuary. Back to what I knew. Somewhere far from this moment. Far from him, if there was still a place untouched by him at all.

So I did. I moved.

Slow at first, stiff and clumsy, then sharper. I pushed off the wall and crossed the cell in three uneven steps, my hands already searching along the stone.

There had to be something. A seam. A switch.

My palms dragged across the surface, feeling for breaks, for air, for the smallest lie in the stone.

Nothing. Just cold, solid weight pressing back.

I crouched, then stood again, pacing the edges like a trapped animal. My fingers skimmed each groove, nails scraping, teeth clenched. I knocked once. Then harder. Then again.

Still nothing.

The wall that had closed behind Feron didn’t even look like it had moved. No line. No break. Just smooth, ancient rock sealed like the grave it was.

I pulled magic through my fingers before I could think. Frost bloomed across my skin, sharp and angry, and I slammed my palm against the place the door had been. The ice struck hard. A dull thud cracked through the cell. The spell shattered. The wall didn’t.

No response. No shift. Not even a flicker of sound from the other side.

Just silence. And this vault that wanted to bury me alive.

I turned, breath tight in my throat.

He stood arms loose at his sides, eyes fixed on me with that same impossible calm. Like he was waiting for me to wear myself out.

Then, with the faintest tilt of his head:

“Desperation suits you.”

No warmth. No. Just… observation. Like he was naming the weather. Like he’d always known it would come to this.

“They call it the Vault for a reason,” he said, tone even. Almost conversational. “There’s no way out. Not unless someone opens it from the outside.”

My fingers scraped along the edges of the floor, knuckles raw, breath dragging through clenched teeth.

Stone. More stone. Unmoving. Unbreakable.

Like the silence stretching behind me, heavy, watching, a shadow I refused to turn toward.

“You can get to the other side and open it.”

A beat. Then—

“I could.”

I looked up.

Met his eyes. Stared straight into the mockery that was him.

It was infuriating, sickening, how easily he said it. How casually he admitted he could have gotten us out this whole time. Could have saved us the wasted hours, spared himself the agony of burning in the sun, spared me this suffocating silence.

But no. He stayed. Like this was some twisted conversation he’d been waiting for.

I watched him. Watched the way stillness clung to him, as if motion were something he granted, not surrendered to. That calm, unwavering gaze held a thousand answers, but none he’d give freely. Behind those eyes, restraint simmered.

And I could play this game. Not to win—gods no. But I had to know I could play. That I could stay on the board with him. His board. His rules.

“You could’ve left,” I said quietly. “Any time.”

He didn’t answer.

I stepped toward him, careful, not like prey. Like someone figuring it out.

“But you didn’t.”

Still, he said nothing. Still, he watched.

I kept my voice soft. 

“In the Cairn… you didn’t take my soul. You kept it safe.” I watched his jaw tighten, just barely. “You protected me.”

My tone stayed gentle, not because I felt gentle, but because I knew how he listened.

“You’ve always protected me.”

I could feel it now, the edge, the shift, the place where silence starts to bleed into obedience.

He hadn’t moved. But something had changed.

So I stepped closer. Let the weight of my presence press forward. Let it reach him, the way touch does without touching.

“You want to keep me safe,” I said, voice barely above a whisper. “Don’t you?”

And gods help me, part of me wanted it to be true.

He stood still, watching me in that way he always did. Unblinking.

So I let it shift in my eyes. Not challenge for once. Something softer. Something like… trust. Or the echo of it.

I looked up at him with wide, uncertain eyes. Quiet breath. Open face. Vulnerable on purpose. But maybe too much.

I didn’t mean for it to feel real.

I just wanted him to move.

To show me I hadn’t misstepped in this game.

And he did.

But not how I expected.

In the space between one breath and the next, he was gone.

The Vault was silent.

I stood frozen. The cold air pressed in. The stone around me felt suddenly heavier, closer. For a moment, a real moment, I was alone.

Wrong move?

If he doesn’t come back—

If I guessed wrong—

What if…

But then—

A click. A seam in the wall split with a soft groan of shifting stone.

Light slipped in thin, dust-streaked, but real.

So was the air behind it.

And there he stood.

Just outside the passage.

Lit in gold and shadow like something out of a forgotten story. Like he’d never left.

So I’d played it right, then.

I stepped forward slowly, out of the Vault. Toward him.

And then I smiled.

Not the curl of a knife-edge or the mockery I wore for everyone else. Not the grin I’d practiced to keep people guessing. This one was different.

I made it look real.

Made it soft. Made it grateful. Because I needed him to believe it was. I needed him.

And his eyes…

They changed.

Lit faintly in the glow, they caught the smile like it was a gift. Like I’d just offered him something sacred.

And whether he saw a savior or something else entirely— didn’t matter.

What mattered was that  I was still in a nightmare. Still in this cursed castle. And he was the only one who knew the way out.

So I would play the game. Wherever it led. For as long as I had to.

Until the last breath. Or the last move. Whichever came first.

The air outside the Vault was colder than it should’ve been. Not biting, but sharp like something warning me not to trust the reprieve. My limbs ached as I moved, my wrists still remembered the chains. My shoulders still remembered the weight.

I rolled them back. Let the tension stretch and crack through me, joint by joint. Arms. Spine. Neck. Small motions at first, like testing the boundaries of my own body again. I flexed my fingers, then curled them into fists. Not from anger. Just… to feel control return.

The hallway yawned before us, long and empty, carved from the same obsidian stone as the Vault. Lit only by torches spaced wide apart, flickering like they were afraid to burn too bright.

I scanned the corridor. Left. Right. Every arch, every seam in the wall, every shadow that looked like it might open into something more. Nothing but cold stone and silence. No signposts. No scent of blood or air or freedom.

He stood behind me, just a pace or two back. Still watching.

Of course he was.

I didn’t turn to look at him. Just stretched once more—shoulders square, spine loose, ready to move.

Then I asked, calm and flat:

“Which way?”

The words left my mouth like a blade dulled by use, functional, but not gentle.

Behind me, I heard the soft shift of his boots against stone. No sound beyond that quiet, maddening patience he wore like second skin.

Then his voice, low and even:

“Up.”

A pause.

“Three floors. Maybe four. Depends on how much the architecture’s rotted since the last time I crawled through it.”

I turned slightly, eyeing him now. Not fully. Just enough to catch the shape of him in the dim torchlight. 

“So you’ve done this before.”

His lips twitched. Something close to a smile, if amusement could bleed.

“Let’s say I know the way the rats do.”

I didn’t like that answer. But I liked having no weapon even less. My hand drifted unconsciously to my thigh, to where the dagger should’ve been—

gone.

Gone in the Cairn. Or the Vault. Or wherever else things went when I lost control.

I exhaled through my nose. Not a sigh. Not quite.

“Then lead on, rat.”

Soft, dry. Barbed enough to make a point.

He moved with purpose, slow and sure, his body barely disturbing the air. I followed a step behind. The hallway narrowed ahead, turning sharp against a broken archway that looked like it hadn’t been touched in years. Moss clung to the stone in patches. Roots curled between the cracks in the wall, thin and pale like veins.

We passed the first stairwell, half-collapsed. Amon barely glanced at it.

Stone had given way years ago, eaten by time and moisture. What remained was a jagged incline of broken steps, most crumbled inward, some hanging at cruel angles like snapped bones. Whatever once connected this level to the next was now rubble, slick with moss and barely climbable.

I slowed beside it, eyeing the ruins.

Too steep.

Too far.

Too damned high.

My fingers curled, itching for a rope, a ledge, anything. But my belt was bare, my hands empty. All I had were the clothes on my back and the him beside me.

Amon stopped ahead, then turned back, gaze flicking from the ruined stairs to me.

He didn’t say anything.

He didn’t need to.

I already knew.

“No.” I said flatly.

I stepped forward, tested one of the lower stones with my boot. It shifted under my weight, crumbled to dust.

A few feet higher, there was a stable ledge. Just high enough to be impossible without help. I looked up at it. Then down. Then at him.

He arched a brow, not smug, not pushing, just waiting. Like gravity itself had offered me a hand.

I swallowed whatever sound tried to claw its way out of my throat.

“I can climb.”

“You can fall.” he replied, voice even.

I hated him for being right.

I hated him for offering before I even asked.

And I hated him most for not making me say please.

He moved toward me with slow certainty, like it cost him nothing. No comment. No smirk. Just silence and open arms, waiting to catch me even if I threw something instead.

I stepped forward like I was walking into fire.

“Don’t start.” I muttered.

“I wouldn’t dare.”

He bent slightly, arms firm around my thighs before I could second-guess it. One swift movement and I was lifted, his hands steady beneath me, guiding me up. My palms caught the edge of the higher ledge, pulling as he pushed. Muscle strained, stone bit into my skin, but it worked.

I hauled myself onto the upper floor, breath sharp in my chest, and didn’t look back.

Behind me, he landed with a quiet thud, no sound of strain. Just presence.

I didn’t thank him. He didn’t expect me to. We just kept moving.

I could summon a blade of ice if I needed to. Form it in the curve of my palm, sharp and glinting and cold enough to cut. But I knew it would be useless. A brittle comfort against creatures faster, stronger andolder.

Vampires didn’t bleed the way men did. They didn’t flinch. They didn’t fall. At least not those three.

The memory tightened in my spine, a reflex.

Feron’s hand flashing toward me, the air splitting as he seized me, how easily he’d stilled me. I was nothing but prey in his grip.

The hair on the back of my neck lifted.

No. Ice wouldn’t save me here.

This floor was colder.

Damper, too. The air carried a metallic tang, old blood, rusted chains, rot that had settled in stone and stayed. Rows of iron-barred doors lined the walls, their shadows long in the low torchlight. Most of them stood open. Some shut. All quiet.

Cells.

The forgotten kind. The kind that held things no one wanted remembered.

Amon slowed ahead of me, scanning the hallway with that eerie stillness he always carried.

He raised a hand without looking back.

Stay.

I didn’t need to be told twice. Something in the air had shifted. He was reading it. Listening.

Then he moved.

Not fast, just efficient. One step, two, then a blur. The first guard didn’t even grunt. A rush of air, a flash of movement, a dull sound of impact, then silence. The second turned in time to scream. He never finished.

Another pair came from a side passage. Amon met them before their weapons cleared their hilts.

It was clean. Too clean. It made my skin crawl.

I pressed against the stone wall, staying low, eyes following every motion. The bodies didn’t fall with drama. Just… dropped. Soft and final.

He was already wiping blood from his fingers by the time I stepped over the first corpse.

I moved through the hallway in his wake.

The cells around me whispered. Not with voices, but with memory. Scratch marks on stone. Iron rusted with something darker. Chains that swayed slightly, as if still remembering the weight they once held.

I didn’t look too closely.

Amon stopped at the far wall, gaze tilted toward the shadows, listening again. I kept close, my footfalls soft over the stone. The air had grown heavier and thicker somehow, like something unspoken pressed against it.

Then—

“Who’s there?”

A voice. Hoarse, ragged. Echoing from one of the cells.

I froze.

Amon’s head turned sharply toward the sound, eyes narrowing. I stepped past him before he could speak.

The voice came again, louder, desperate.

“Someone—please, is someone there?”

My steps were automatic. I barely felt them beneath me.

The cell was dark. The torchlight didn’t reach far enough inside. But I knew that voice.

Even bruised and broken.

No.

A shape shifted in the back corner, slumped, bound, then slowly raising its head.

Eyes squinted at me through blood and filth and days of silence.

And then—

A beat. A breath. Recognition.

“…Ash?”

The word didn’t echo, it landed. Heavy.

Familiar. 

Only he ever calls me that.

I stood there, fingers curled tight around the iron bars, breath caught somewhere between past and present.

My voice shook before I could stop it.

“Arnbjorn?”

 

To be continued…

 

Chapter 75: Chapter 75

 

Arnbjorn blinked at me through the bars, eyes narrowing in disbelief. Then he dragged himself forward into the torchlight, the chain at his ankle clinking against stone. Bruised. A wolf caged.

“Sweet Mother—” The oath tore out of him, hoarse and disbelieving. “It is you.”

I stepped closer before I could think. My fingers curled tight around the iron.

“What—how—”

A shadow moved at my side. The air shifted, warmer.

Amon leaned one shoulder against the bars, eyes dragging lazily over Arnbjorn from head to toe, like a man examining a piece of meat left out too long. Then his mouth curved, not a smile, not really.

“Well,” he said, voice low and edged with something like amusement, “look what the vampires dragged in.”

Arnbjorn’s gaze flicked to him, and I watched recognition darken his face.

I stepped between them before the air could get any heavier. “We’re getting you out.”

Amon’s head tilted. “Are we?”

My jaw clenched. “Yes.”

His gaze flicked to Arnbjorn, then back to me, a faint smile ghosting at the corner of his mouth.

“Why don’t you ask him why he’s here first?”

I knew, If he was here, then he’d been caught on a job. Or wrong place, wrong time. Or—

The cell stank of rust and rot. I could feel the clock ticking in the walls, in the stones under my boots. Every second here was a second closer to more guards. A second closer to being boxed in.

I shook my head, hard, “We don’t have time for this,” I said, the words cutting out sharper than I meant. “Let’s get him out.”

Amon didn’t move.

“The guards are dead,” he said, tone infuriatingly even. “New ones will come. You’re right.”

For a moment, I almost relaxed until he added,

“We have no time. We have to go.”

I stared at him.

“What?”

“We leave.”

My voice climbed before I could stop it. “Leave him? Are you serious?”

“I’m alive because I don’t collect strays in vampire dens.” he said, still maddeningly calm.

My fists curled against the bars. “He’s not a stray, he’s a Brother.”

“And last I checked,” he murmured, eyes narrowing just enough to make my pulse jump, “the Brotherhood isn’t here.”

“By Sithis’ cold hand,” Arnbjorn growled from behind the bars, “are you two gonna stand there makin’ eyes at each other, or are you gonna get me the fuck out of this cage?”

The sound of his voice, rough and impatient, cut straight through the haze in my head.

I turned back to him, fingers tightening on the rusted iron.

“We are,” I said. “We’re getting you out.”

Behind me, Amon’s voice was a low, amused hum. “Bold of you to speak for both of us.”

I spun on him, heat flaring sharp in my chest. “You don’t get to decide who I leave behind.”

He didn’t so much as blink, but I caught the faint twitch of his mouth, the kind of smile that was made to irritate. Then his gaze slid past me to the cell, to Arnbjorn, and the warmth in his tone turned to something sharper.

“Doing the hound’s work… as usual?” he said, voice all silk over steel.

Arnbjorn’s lip curled, a flash of teeth. “Careful, leech.”

Amon tilted his head, the movement slow, deliberate. “Or what?” The corner of his mouth curved just enough to show it wasn’t a real question. “You’ll rattle your chain at me?”

Arnbjorn’s hands flexed at his sides, knuckles pale. The chain at his ankle clinked against stone with the weight of every breath he took.

I looked between them, pulse skittering. “What are you talking about?”

Amon didn’t answer me. His eyes stayed on Arnbjorn, a lazy gleam in them now, voice smooth as poison.

“Astrid send you?” His head tilted, smirk cutting wide. “Paranoid wife, keeping her dog on a short leash?”

Arnbjorn’s jaw tightened. “That’s none of your godsdamned business.” He turned his head toward me, voice rough but urgent. “Come on, Ash. Help me out of here.”

I didn’t move.

“What is this about?” The words scraped out before I could stop them, low and tight in my throat.

My hands were still wrapped around the bars, but I couldn’t feel the iron anymore. All I felt was the sudden drop in my chest, the way the space between us seemed to twist.

“Ash—” Arnbjorn shifted his weight, chains clinking.

“It’s not like that.” His voice softened a notch, almost coaxing. “Astrid just… wanted to make sure you weren’t—” He broke off, jaw tightening, eyes cutting briefly toward Amon. There was something raw in the glance, guilt, maybe, or shame but it was gone before I could name it.

My stomach turned. “Weren’t what?”

Arnbjorn’s glare slid back to the vampire. “Not here. Just get me out, and I’ll—”

Amon’s laugh cut him off, low and indulgent, like a man listening to a lie he’s already heard before. He didn’t even bother looking at me.

“You hear that? He doesn’t want to talk about it in front of me. Wonder why.”

I couldn’t move.

Astrid set him to follow me? And for what? Was it suspicion that I might turn against her orders again? Or worse, was it fear that I’d begin to doubt hers?

But to send Arnbjorn… This wasn’t just the Brotherhood’s eye on me, it was hers. A quiet decree that I was not to be trusted without a leash.

I felt eyes on me before I looked up.

Amon was watching, head tilted just enough to read me without asking. There was a glint there like he was holding a secret he’d been waiting for me to uncover.

His voice came low, threaded with that same infuriating mischief he wore like second skin.

“You start to think he deserves this now… don’t you?”

My head snapped toward him. “Shut up.”

It came out sharper than I intended, edged with something too close to guilt.

Amon’s mouth curved, slow and knowing, like he’d just confirmed what he wanted without me ever saying it.

I turned back to the bars, my grip tightening on the rust until my knuckles ached. I wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of an answer. Not when I wasn’t sure what it would be.

I forced the thought down, shoved it into the same dark place I kept all the things I couldn’t afford to think about. This was Arnbjorn. He wasn’t just some job or liability. He was family. Not by blood, but by every oath and blade we’d shared.

Whatever orders had put him here, whatever shadows he’d been sent to walk in behind me, they didn’t erase that.

The thought had barely settled before the air changed—

Sharp, metallic, and wrong.

A low, throaty snarl rolled out from the dark end of the corridor. Two pairs of eyes flared red in the torchlight, low to the ground, their bodies sliding forward on claws that scraped stone. Death hounds. And behind them, the soft, deliberate footfalls of something worse, vampires, pale and smiling like they’d already won.

Amon’s gaze flicked past me, that stillness in him snapping into motion.

“Stay.”

The word was out of his mouth before I could argue. Then he was gone, moving so fast the torchlight seemed to warp around him. Steel and claws met in the space between heartbeats, his body a blur as he drove the first vampire into the wall hard enough to crack stone. A death hound lunged at him; he caught it mid-air, twisting until its neck snapped with a sound that made my teeth ache.

I turned to the nearest corpse, one of the earlier guards, and dropped to my knees, rifling through pouches, belts, anything that might hold the cell keys. Nothing. Just rusted coins and a half-rotted scrap of leather.

Another body, still no keys. My heartbeat pounded so loud it nearly drowned out the fight behind me, the clash of steel and bone a savage rhythm. Behind me, the second vampire hit the floor with a wet, final crunch.

“Nothing!” I hissed, shoving the last pouch away. My eyes darted to Arnbjorn, still chained, still watching.

From somewhere above us, a voice barked through the stone, “They’re loose! Seal the halls!”

The sound of boots answered, pounding from both ends of the corridor.

Amon wrenched his claws free of the last vampire, blood slick and black on his palms. His eyes found mine, already weighing the next move.

“We’re out of time.”

“No!” The word ripped out of me, sharper than I meant, but I didn’t care.

Amon’s jaw tightened. “We have to get out—”

“What about Serana?” My voice cracked. “And the scroll—” I gestured wildly toward Arnbjorn, chains rattling as he stood as far forward as they allowed. “And him? We can’t just—”

The words tangled in my throat, spilling over themselves until they were more breath than sense. I couldn’t choose which to say first because they were all screaming at once.

If I left, I lost one of them. Maybe all of them.

The torches seemed to flicker faster, shadows twitching along the walls. Boots were getting closer. My heartbeat matched them. The space felt smaller, the air sharper, every second heavier.

Amon stepped forward, closing the space between us, his voice low but hard as the stone under our feet. “If we die here, none of that matters.”

My chest felt like it was caving in. “Then do something!” I snapped, stepping toward him, heat and panic scraping in my voice. “Break the lock, tear the wall down, whatever it is you do!”

For a moment, his expression didn’t change. Then he stepped closer, close enough that the torchlight caught the red and blue in his eyes. “It doesn’t matter if I survive this,” he said quietly. “If I lose you here, it’s over anyway.”

The words hit harder than the noise in the hall, harder than the pounding boots drawing closer.

“I can’t let you die in this hole.” His voice was steady, absolute. “We’re leaving. Now.”

“No.” My voice came out raw, but I didn’t care. My chest was a vise, my breath tearing at my throat, if I let him go now, I’d be leaving more than a man in chains, I’d be cutting away a piece of a family. I turned back to the cell, frost sparking over my palms until it burned, ice crawling in jagged veins across the lock. If I froze it deep enough, I could—

A shadow loomed behind me.

In the next breath, my feet were off the ground.

“Amon—” I thrashed in his grip, legs kicking, nails digging into his arm, but he only adjusted his hold, one arm braced under my knees, the other locked tight around my back, pinning me against the unyielding wall of his chest. My magic sputtered uselessly against him, the cold from my hands sinking into his shirt but not slowing him.

I twisted toward the cell, tears blurring Arnbjorn’s face through the bars. “No! Let me go!”

“No.” The word was steady, unshakable, right against my ear.

I shoved at his shoulder, kicked hard enough to jar my own hip, but it was like fighting the roots of a mountain. He carried me back down the corridor without slowing, the echo of my boots against his side drowned out by the pounding of incoming footsteps.

“Niolenyl!” Arnbjorn’s voice rang behind us, rough and desperate. The chain at his ankle rattled as he strained toward the bars. “Don’t you—”

The sound cut off as the hallway bent and his cell vanished from sight, swallowed by the stone.

The hall narrowed ahead, torchlight shaking with every step Amon took. The pounding boots behind us were closing fast. He set me down only when the shadows ahead shifted, low shapes darting between the walls, fangs catching the light.

And at their center, tall and cold as stone, was Feron.

“Running away, again?” His voice carried down the hall, smooth and venomous, dripping with the same smugness.

I froze. Every muscle in me locked tight. Rage burned through my spine at the sound of him, at the memory of his hand snapping toward me, at how easily he’d stilled me before.

Amon stepped forward, putting himself between me and the oncoming line. His fingers curled, claws sliding free in a slow, deliberate flex. His smile, sharp and hungry, flashed fangs that caught the firelight.

For a heartbeat, I turned, my gaze flicking back toward the direction of Arnbjorn’s cell. I could still hear the faint echo of his voice. If I went now—

A vampire lunged for Amon, and he met it head-on. One swipe of his claws tore through flesh and bone, spraying the wall red. The body hit the floor before its head did.

My choice was made. I turned back toward the fight.

Feron’s smile widened, like he could read the fury in my bones. “Come on, little assassin. Show me you’re worth chasing.”

The cold hit me before the rage did. It flooded my hands, my arms, my lungs, until every breath came out as a plume of frost. I thrust my palm forward and the air between us cracked, thin shards of ice screaming toward him like a storm of knives.

He raised an arm to block, but the shards bit deep, tearing through leather and skin, scattering frost over his chest and shoulders. He staggered a half step, and before he could recover, I dropped my aim to the ground.

Ice exploded up from the stone, jagged spikes curling around his boots, climbing fast to his calves. He tried to wrench free, but the frost thickened with each heartbeat, locking him in place.

I met his eyes over the growing ice, my voice low and steady.

“You wanted a chase?” My grip tightened, and the frost groaned under the force of my will. “Run now.”

The ice twisted, dragging his legs in opposite directions until the crack of bone echoed down the hall. His snarl broke into a roar as I sent the twist higher, knee, hip, spine, until his body bent where it was never meant to.

Another vampire lunged for me, but Amon was there in a blur, claws raking open its throat before fangs sank deep, tearing away a mouthful of flesh. He dropped the body and spun into the next, driving his hand straight through its chest, ribs snapping around him before he ripped free a dripping mass that used to be a heart.

Two more fell just as fast, their screams cut short under his hands. Then there was only Feron, frozen, broken, spitting curses between ragged breaths.

His eyes found me over Amon’s shoulder, narrowing despite the pain. “What are you? You’re no mere mortal… and no creature I’ve ever named. Does he even know what he’s keeping?”

Amon didn’t let him finish. In two strides he was on him, one hand locking around Feron’s jaw, the other gripping the back of his skull.

“You won’t live to know.”

He twisted. Bone tore. Flesh split. Feron’s head came away in his hands before the last word had even finished leaving his mouth.

Amon let the body drop in a heap, then tossed the head aside like it was nothing.

Snarls rose immediately, echoing from every direction. Boots hammered the stone above and below, the pitch of the shouts closing in fast. Torchlight shuddered along the walls as shadows lunged and broke against each other in the chaos. The air reeked of blood and wet fur.

“We’re moving.” he barked, voice thick with the rush of the kill.

I ripped the frost back into myself and turned, the air thick with the smell of blood and dust. Together, we pushed past the fallen and into the next passage before the rest could close around us.

The shouts were already echoing from the far end of the corridor, boots hammering against stone. I could almost feel the air shift as more bodies poured into the hall we’d just cleared.

I spun mid-stride, dragging the frost out of the ground and walls with both hands. The temperature plummeted, my breath misting in front of me as the stone groaned under the sudden freeze. Jagged walls of ice burst upward, sealing the passage in a solid, glittering barricade.

Cracks spiderwebbed through the frost as the first fists and blades slammed from the other side. The wall shuddered, groaning under each blow, frost splintering into white dust—but the cold held. For now.

“They’ll break through.” Amon warned.

“Not before we’re gone.” I shot back, my chest still heaving.

They could burn the walls bare, but they still wouldn’t melt the ice.

Nothing melts my ice. 

The muffled pounding behind the wall of ice faded as we pushed deeper into the corridor until two figures stepped out of the dark ahead.

I felt him before I saw him, a shift in the air, the crackle of a storm gathering between us. He dropped low, slipping under the first lunge, and my blade of ice bloomed in the same breath, edge flashing as it kissed a throat. Frost spiderwebbed across skin, the body convulsed before I wrenched away.

A second came at me, arm raised and Amon’s hand was already there, catching the wrist mid-swing. The crack of bone snapped through the corridor. He spun the vampire toward me, my pivot slid in under its guard, the blade sinking deep into its chest even as, behind me, he tore the head from the first.

A third rushed in from the flank. His claws caught its arm, dragging it past him toward me, our shoulders brushed, a quick, hot jolt through the chaos  and my ice spiked upward beneath its jaw. He didn’t release it; instead, he folded low, claws raking down its spine as I twisted the blade free, the corpse crumpling between us.

There was no pause. No room for breath. My frost chased the edges of his kills; his claws cleared the path for my strikes. Blood hit stone before the bodies did, our rhythm unbroken, every kill an echo of the last.

The last vampire fell, skull shattered against the wall under Amon’s hand. 

I straightened, breath sharp in my chest. He stepped closer, eyes still bright from the fight, mouth curved just enough to show the tip of a fang.

“Careful,” he murmured, low enough only I could hear. “Keep moving like that, and I might start to think you’re enjoying yourself.”

I met his gaze, my pulse still pounding from the fight. “Who says I’m not?”

His smile deepened, slow, dangerous, before he turned away, stepping over the bodies as if he’d just been handed a secret he planned to keep.

“We’re close.” he said over his shoulder.

I caught up to him, scanning the shadowed corridor. “Close to what?”

He didn’t answer right away, just kept moving with that effortless, unnerving certainty. Then, ahead, the air shifted—less stagnant, colder, carrying the faintest trace of salt and wind.

Amon stopped at a narrow archway almost hidden in the stone, his hand brushing over the frame like he’d been here before. “This way.”

We slipped through, the passage twisting in a steep, uneven climb. The torches here were long-dead, leaving only darkness to follow. But I could hear it now, the low hiss of waves against rock, the muffled cry of gulls.

Amon stepped aside, motioning me forward with a faint sweep of his hand. “After you.”

I didn’t hesitate. My boots hit wet stone as I climbed through the gap, the cold air slamming into me after so long in the castle’s choking dark.

Daylight hit like a blade, harsh, unfiltered, forcing my eyes to narrow. The sky was a hard, brilliant blue, the sea below scattering sunlight in a thousand sharp shards.

I turned back, expecting him right behind me.

He stood just inside the tear in the wall, the sunlight cutting a bright, deadly line across the stone in front of him. His expression was unreadable, but the tension in his shoulders told me everything.

Without thinking, I shrugged off my cloak and held it out to him.

“Here.”

He didn’t move at first, just looked at it, then at me, like he was making sure he’d heard right. “That for me?”

“Unless you plan on rotting in there until nightfall.” I said, stepping closer and thrusting it into his hands.

For a heartbeat, his usual guarded, needling expression slipped. There was something almost wary in his eyes like he wasn’t sure if this was a trick or if I’d truly, just once, decided not to be a complete bitch to him.

Then, slowly, he took the cloak. The heavy fabric swallowed his shoulders as he drew it tight, pulling the hood low. When he stepped into the daylight beside me, the air shifted.

Even under the cloak, I could feel the tension in him, muscles locked, the faintest hitch in his breath. The sun’s heat seemed to cling to him in a way it didn’t to me, heavy and hostile. A sharp, acrid scent curled from the fabric where the light caught at the edges, singeing the weave. For a heartbeat, I almost asked if he was all right, then I shoved the thought down hard, the way I did with every impulse I couldn’t afford.

He didn’t flinch, but I saw the tightening at the corner of his jaw, the way his fingers curled subtly under the folds to shield every inch of skin.

“Didn’t know you had it in you.” he said.

“Don’t get used to it.” I muttered.

The faintest curve touched his mouth, but he said nothing else, stepping into the daylight with me, the heavy cloth shielding most of him. I still caught the twitch in his jaw at the sun’s touch, but he kept moving.

We moved quickly along the cliffside, the wind pulling at my hair, the scent of salt stinging my nose. Every step away from the castle should have felt like relief. It didn’t.

Arnbjorn was still in there. So was Serana.

And the scroll, the whole damned reason we’d set foot in that place.

My chest tightened. We’d run, yes, but all we’d done was drag ourselves out into the open with nothing to show for it but the weight of what we’d left behind.

I had no plan, no way back in, and the one person who might get me close was the same one currently keeping pace beside me under my own cloak.

Every step forward felt like it was dragging me farther from the people and things I couldn’t leave behind, even though I already had.

The path spilled us out onto a narrow strip of rock and sand where the waves slammed hard against the cliff base. The air was brighter here, almost blinding after the castle’s dark, the smell of the sea sharp in my lungs.

I turned to him before he could say anything. “Get to Isran. Tell him what happened. I’ll head to the Sanctuary.”

His hood shifted just enough for me to see the faint narrowing of his eyes. “I’m not leaving you.”

“We don’t have time for this,” I snapped. “If we split, we can move faster. I go to Astrid—”

“Astrid?” His voice sharpened, almost incredulous. “You think she’ll thank you for coming back without her husband?”

I bit down hard against the sting of that. “We don’t have the luxury of dragging our heels.”

The waves crashed louder, the wind lifting strands of my hair into my face.

A slow, humorless smirk pulled at his mouth. “So your grand plan is to send me straight into the vampire hunters’ den?”

I didn’t flinch. “Serana got through it. You can too.”

His brows lifted just enough to make the mockery clear. “Serana had the benefit of not being me.”

“And you have the benefit of not being stupid,” I shot back. “Keep the hood up, keep your fangs to yourself, and tell Isran to send his men.”

The waves crashed hard against the rocks, filling the pause between us. His gaze stayed on me for a beat too long, searching my face like he was still deciding whether to fight me on it.

“Do you think he’ll do it?” Amon asked at last, voice low and skeptical.

I didn’t hesitate. “Do you think he’d choose the endless night over his pride?”

A faint curve touched his mouth, not quite a smile, more an acknowledgment, and the wind off the water carried the silence between us.

I stepped closer, close enough to see the faint shadow of my own reflection in his eyes beneath the hood. My voice dropped, softer now, cutting through the crash of the waves.

“I will be fine.” I said as if a promise. 

For a moment, he didn’t move. Then his hand rose, slow and deliberate, fingers brushing the curve of my cheek. His touch was warm despite the salt-cold wind, thumb lingering just long enough to feel like a claim.

His gaze locked on mine beneath the hood, the red and blue catching what little light the cliffside gave.

“See that you are…” he murmured, and his eyes darkened, the shift slow and deliberate. “Or I’ll come for you, and you won’t like how I do it.”

Before I could answer, the touch was gone. The space he’d filled held his warmth for a heartbeat, then the wind stole it and he was gone, swallowed by cliffside shadow and sea mist.

 

To be continued…

Chapter 76: Chapter 76

The road from the shore had been long enough for the sun to die and the cold to set in.

Night clung to the Sanctuary like it had been here long before me, older than the stone and the blood soaked into the ground.

The Black Door loomed before me, its surface slick with dew, its painted skull grinning in the dim torchlight. The words it would demand were already in my mouth, the same as they’d been a hundred times before. My voice should have been steady.

It wasn’t.

I could still feel the echo of the shore and the castle in my bones, the smell of salt and singed cloth, Amon’s weight beneath the cloak, the stubborn way he’d looked at me like leaving wasn’t an option. I’d sent him toward the Dawnguard with orders I wasn’t sure he’d follow, with promises I wasn’t sure I believed.

And now… I had to walk through this door and tell Astrid we had nothing. Just me, and a story that would sound too thin.

My hands clenched at my sides. I didn’t know which would be worse, her disbelief or her belief.

The door’s carved grin caught the torchlight again, stretching wider, as if it knew. As if it could smell the hesitation on me.

What was I going to say? What could I say? It’s not what it looks like was the language of liars, and Astrid didn’t forgive liars. Not when her trust was already cracked.

And yet… my boots didn’t move.

I thought of Arnbjorn, chained and shouting in the dark, and guilt punched the breath out of me all over again.

I took one last breath, steady in, shaking out, and lifted my hand toward the door’s cold surface. The skull’s gaze seemed to follow me as I leaned in, whispering the passphrase.

Inside, the Sanctuary swallowed me whole. Quiet, too quiet. No idle chatter, no low laughter from the table, no familiar scrape of whetstone on steel.

It was strange how different it felt to walk these same halls after so many returns. I had stepped through them bloodied and grinning before, victories clinging to my skin like a second armor.

Tonight, there was nothing but the weight in my chest.

No victory. No contract. Only failure.

I followed the curve of the hall toward the dining room, each step echoing in the emptiness, until a sudden voice cut through the stillness.

“She lives!”

Chairs scraped, boots thudded. “I told you she was alive!” someone else barked over the rising chatter.

I froze in the threshold, caught like a deer in a hunter’s sight. Faces turned toward me, some wide-eyed, some grinning in disbelief. The sharp scent of wine and roasted meat mingled with the rush of voices.

“She looks like shit.”

Then Fen was there. She collided with me in a heartbeat, arms crushing me to her chest, her breath shuddering. “Nio,” she whispered, the words breaking somewhere between relief and prayer. Her cheek pressed against my temple, and I felt the tremor running through her.

I stood stiff for a moment, startled by the sudden warmth and the sting in my own eyes.

Fen’s hands stayed on my arms as she pulled back enough to look at me, half-laughing through her tears. “I knew you’d return… Sithis, I knew it. I told Astrid—” She stopped herself, shook her head.

Her arms crushed me against her chest again and for a moment I sagged into it, too starved, too tired to resist the comfort. I let myself pretend it could end here, that the cold road, the gnawing ache in my stomach, the stone weight in my ribs might dissolve in the heat of her embrace. Just for a moment.

Then she said it.

“She told us you…” Her voice faltered, and the relief in her eyes clouded like glass catching a shadow. “You were gone.”

The words struck harder than any blow. My grip on her sleeves tightened, knuckles white before I even knew it. The noise around us dulled, dimmed, until all I could hear was the rush of blood in my ears.

“She told you what?” My voice was raw, hollow. “That I… died?”

The syllables tasted foreign, not mine at all, like they belonged to another mouth, another life. The room tilted. Laughter blurred to a muffled roar, as though I’d dropped beneath black water. My thoughts clawed at Fen’s nod, at Astrid’s name, at the jagged implication.

She told them I died.

The fire in my chest wasn’t warmth; it was fever, sharp and searing.

I moved before I thought, tearing free of Fen’s hold, shouldering past half-familiar faces. Boots cracked against stone, a hard, relentless drumbeat that carried me down the corridor.

By the time Astrid’s chambers rose before me, my hands were fists, trembling with the need to knock, to pound, to rip the door off its hinges.

The guards shifted as I approached, but none stepped in my path. Perhaps they, too, thought me a ghost best left alone.

I shoved the door wide.

Astrid was bent over her desk, quill caught between her fingers. Her head lifted. And when her gaze met mine, her eyes lit with something feral, disbelieving.

“Nio?” Her voice was low, unsteady. Then she was up, moving fast, the scrape of her chair lost under the sudden rush between us. She caught my shoulders, fingers gripping like she needed to confirm I wasn’t smoke. Her eyes swept over me, my face, my arms, the dirt and blood still clinging to my clothes as if cataloguing proof.

“Is this real?” she breathed, and before I could answer, her arms were around me. “I was sure…” She pulled back enough to search my face again, a flash of something darker in her eyes. “I was so sure.”

I held her gaze. “Sure of what? That I was dead?”

“Yes.” The word left her like a confession. “It was gone, the bond. Your soul… It left.”

The words landed heavy, too heavy, sliding under my skin before I could push them away.

My soul.

The air in the room changed. Cold rushed in under my skin, crawling through my ribs like frostbite.

I was back on the edge of the Soul Cairn, my chest wrenching, something being ripped out of me with a force I couldn’t fight. That tearing, the dimming of the world in a single breath.

She felt that? Felt me vanish?

The thought slid under my ribs like a blade, pressing from the inside. My mouth was dry, my eyes stung, but I couldn’t look away from her.

Astrid’s smile softened her face in a way I hadn’t seen in so long. “It doesn’t matter now,” she said, voice thick with relief. “You’re here.”

She pulled me toward the table before I could protest, her hand warm around mine, already reaching for the wine.

I let her guide me, but the words wouldn’t stop echoing.

Your soul. It left.

Her hand was steady as she poured, the rich red spilling into the chalice like nothing in the world had gone wrong.

But my pulse was hammering now.

The sip burned down my throat. I set the cup down hard, heat crawling under my skin. “You sent him after me,” I said. Her brow knit, and I pressed in before she could answer. “When I was on coin duty. You put Arnbjorn on my tail.”

My chest was tight, heat crawling up my neck. “What was that? Did you think I’d steal from the Brotherhood? That I’d betray you?”

The air between us turned taut, the edges of her smile faltering.

“After the embassy? Well—” her tone was maddeningly calm, almost indulgent, “—I had to do something.”

She let out a slow exhale, eyes sliding from mine. “I needed to be sure you weren’t… drifting.”

“Drifting?” My voice cracked into a laugh that wasn’t laughter at all.

Her gaze sharpened at my tone, but I didn’t let her speak.

“You sent him after me like I was some traitor to be leashed.” My hands were shaking as I pulled the chalice toward me. “Now he’s rotting or gods know what in a cell because you needed to be sure.”

The wine burned going down. I didn’t sip this time, I swallowed, the whole cup gone before I drew breath again.

It didn’t dull the heat under my skin.

Astrid’s brow furrowed, the satisfaction draining from her face.

“…Arnbjorn’s not with you?”

“No.” The word scraped out of me, bringing with it the last thing I saw of him,  raw in the shackles, teeth bared in defiance, shouting my name until the dark swallowed him.

“And he won’t be. Not unless we get him out.” My throat was tight, the heat in my chest sinking into something heavier.

Astrid went still. Not in grief, in thought. Her eyes stayed fixed on me, but behind them, I could see the flicker, the cold turning of gears.

“Where is he, Nio?” The words came smooth, warm enough to almost pass for concern.

Hell.

He was probably in hell.

“Volkihar,” I forced the word through the grit in my throat. “A castle of vampires. He’s—“

Astrid’s hand froze around the goblet. For a moment her eyes were somewhere else, calculating, sharp, but then the glass trembled, red spilling over the rim. Wine streaked across her fingers and down onto the parchment-littered desk, blooming dark like blood.

She didn’t ask how I knew. She didn’t ask if it was true or the rest of the story that led him there.

The goblet hit the table with a hollow clang, and she was on her feet in one swift motion, chair skidding back. “Armory,” she snapped to the guards, her voice like a lash. “Find Grodyl and Gabriel. Now.”

They bolted as though the floor had opened under them.

I staggered a step after her, the room tilting, “Astrid—wait. You don’t even know the whole of it—”

But she wasn’t waiting. Her cloak was already over her shoulders, boots pounding the stone as she pushed into the corridor. I followed because I had no choice, each step jarring, the ache in my limbs dragging heavier the faster she moved.

The halls stretched ahead, torch after torch guttering in their sconces. Each one threw her face into sharper relief, her jaw set, her eyes alight with something near feral. I had thought my words would buy me questions, maybe even suspicion. Instead, they had lit a fuse.

“You don’t understand—” I tried again, my voice fraying with weakness. “Astrid, it isn’t just him. The place—”

“I’ll tear it down stone by stone if I have to.” She didn’t even look at me. Her pace only quickened.

The armory doors loomed at the end of the hall, iron-bound and waiting. My legs shook beneath me, the gnawing hollow in my belly twisting tighter. And still she strode, determined, as though nothing else in the world mattered except dragging her husband out of that cursed castle.

The armory doors groaned open, the tang of oil and steel thick in the air. Astrid didn’t slow. She went straight to the racks, fingers grazing over blades before reaching the polished plates of an armor.

“Change,” she ordered, her tone clipped, final. “You’re in rags. Find something that fits. We leave as soon as we can.”

I stood there, the weight of exhaustion crushing down heavier than any cuirass. My voice broke before I could gather it sharp. “It’s too dangerous, you can’t—”

Her head snapped toward me, hair catching in the torchlight. The buckle of her breastplate clanged as she locked it into place. “Out of the question.”

The words cracked through the armory like steel on stone.

Before I could answer, the door swung wide again. Fen slipped in fast, her eyes darting between us, her breath still quick from running. “What’s this about?” she demanded, her tone sharp with suspicion. She caught the sight of Astrid half-armored.

Astrid didn’t even look up from strapping her vambrace. “Not now, Fen—”

“Not now?” Fen’s voice rose, sharp with disbelief. “You’re suiting up like we’re marching into Oblivion! What’s going on?”

“Drop it.” Astrid snapped, her hands steady as she buckled the next plate into place.

But Fen only stepped closer, planting herself in the middle of the armory, shoulders squared. “No. You said it’s dangerous. I can see it all over your faces. What are you hiding from me? Where are you going?”

Her eyes swung to me, pinning me in place. I felt the heat rise in my chest with the weight of her stare. My lips parted, but no words came.

“Nio?” Fen pressed, softer now but far more dangerous. “What is it?”

Astrid’s gauntleted hand slammed the table between us, the sound ringing like a struck bell. “Enough. We don’t have time for explanations.”

Fen jolted at the clang, but she didn’t back down. Her jaw worked, the muscle in her cheek ticking as she searched Astrid’s face for some crack, some slip of truth.

I tore my gaze away from her, forcing my stiff legs toward the racks. The ruined cloth hanging off my shoulders felt heavier with every step. My fingers shook as I reached for the armor Astrid had pointed me to, leather cold against my palms. It smelled of oil and dust.

The buckle in my hands slipped. My stomach cramped with hunger as I forced it closed, each strap feeling like a chain cinched tighter across my ribs. Astrid’s silence pressed heavier than words, her focus narrowed only on the next piece of armor, each movement precise, deliberate.

Grodyl and Gabriel stormed in together, cloaks flaring, the urgency on their faces enough to freeze the room. “We came at once.” Grodyl said. Gabriel’s satchel clinked with glass and metal as he stepped forward, eyes scanning between us all.

The air seemed to contract, steel, spell, and silence coiling tight in the armory, waiting for Astrid’s word.

Astrid’s fingers moved fast, braiding her hair back with the same ruthless efficiency she’d shown buckling her armor. Her voice cracked like a whip through the armory:

“Get ready, boys. You too, Oz. We leave at once.”

The guard, Oz, straightened immediately, but behind him the others traded startled looks. Grodyl’s brow furrowed. Gabriel’s hand hesitated on the clasp of his satchel. Even Fen stilled, the tension in her shoulders stiff as stone.

Astrid, leaving the Sanctuary herself? She had never stood at the front lines. Orders, yes. Plans, always. But not this.

Gabriel found his voice first, his tone careful, edged with unease. “Speaker… whatever this is, let us handle it. You give the command, we carry it out, that is how it’s always been.”

Astrid’s braid snapped into place with a vicious tug. She turned, eyes burning, lips pulled back from her teeth. “I am not going to stay here while my husband is being tortured or gods know what else!” Her voice broke over the words, loud enough to rattle the racks of steel. “Do you understand me? I won’t sit idle while he rots in that hell.”

The armory fell into stunned silence.

Fen’s breath hitched, her voice a fragile thread. “…Arnbjorn? Is he in danger?”

Astrid’s mouth opened, closed. She staggered back a half step, then dropped onto the nearest bench, armor clattering under the weight of her collapse. For the first time, her face cracked, hot tears cutting down her cheeks.

The sight of her broke something in the room. Even the air seemed to still, as if the Brotherhood itself was holding its breath.

Fen moved first. The scrape of her boots broke the silence as she crossed the floor and dropped to her knees beside Astrid. Her arms went around her without hesitation, pulling the Speaker in close even as the plates of armor dug into her. “Astrid,” she murmured, voice breaking against the sobs. “Astrid, it’s alright. We’ll get him back. We’ll find him.”

Astrid clutched at her sleeve like she was drowning, braid half-finished, tears sliding unchecked down her face. The woman who had commanded us all with fire and steel now shook under Fen’s hold, her grief louder than any order she had ever given.

Behind them, Grodyl turned to me. His eyes were sharp, questioning, the firelight throwing deep shadows across his gaunt face. “What in Sithis’ name is going on, Niolenyl?” he hissed under his breath, stepping close so the others couldn’t hear.

My throat worked. I kept my eyes on the buckles of my armor, fastening them tight like the they could shield me from his stare. “It’s Volkihar,” I said, voice low, flat. “A vampire castle. Arnbjorn is there. That’s all you need to know.”

“That’s all?” Grodyl’s eyes narrowed, suspicion sparking.

“It’s all that matters,” I cut him off, harsher than I meant to. “We’re going to get him out. Nothing else changes that.”

His mouth pulled into a hard line, as if he wanted to push but the weight of Astrid’s sobs silenced him. For once, even Grodyl knew better than to drag this into the open.

Gabriel cleared his throat. He adjusted the strap of his satchel, glass vials clinking together like nervous teeth. “If we are truly marching into a vampire castle,” he said carefully, “then I’ll need to gather a few more things before we leave. Going in unprepared would be suicide.”

Astrid dragged the back of her gauntlet over her face, smearing her tears but not hiding them. For a moment she just sat there, bent under the grief like it might crush her. Then she straightened, breath shaky but voice firm. “Do it. Whatever you need, Gabriel. But make it fast.”

Fen’s arm tightened around her shoulders, as if she could anchor her by force alone. Grodyl remained by the racks, eyes still sharp on me, but for once silent.

The torches hissed in their sconces, throwing long shadows over blades and armor. It felt as though the whole Sanctuary held its breath with us, listening, waiting.

Astrid’s braid had come loose where her hands had trembled. She caught it up again, fingers moving slower now, deliberate, as if each twist and knot was a way to pull herself back together. When she spoke, it was low but resolute. “We leave as soon as Gabriel returns.”

Fen pulled back from Astrid just enough to catch her eyes. “You should stay,” she said firmly, though her voice was still raw. “You’re the Speaker. You’re too valuable to lose. If you fall in there…” She shook her head, swallowing hard.

Astrid’s jaw tightened, her fingers pausing mid-braid.

Grodyl stepped forward, his long fingers working a strap across his own chest. He was pulling armor down from the rack now, the steel ringing faintly as he set it into place. “Fen is right. If Volkihar swallows you, what’s left for us to come back to?”

Astrid’s gaze snapped toward him, her face streaked with tears but her eyes like fire.

“We are assassins, Astrid.” Grodyl pressed, voice heavy as he fastened another plate across his shoulders. “We do not walk into the maw of a vampire keep with our leader at the front.”

Fen’s hand squeezed Astrid’s tightly, her knuckles white. “Please. Let us bring him back to you.”

For a heartbeat Astrid said nothing, only the sound of leather straps tugging tight as Grodyl armed himself filling the silence. The firelight licked at her tear-streaked face, making her look carved from both steel and grief.

Fen rose from her knees, wiping quickly at her own eyes as if she could scrub away the tears she’d let slip. She turned from Astrid and crossed to the racks, her hands finding the familiar curve of her leathers.

Beside her, Grodyl cinched the last strap of his armor, the leathers sitting awkwardly over robes more suited for spellcasting. He muttered something under his breath, an old curse, or perhaps a prayer, but his hands didn’t falter.

Astrid sat rigid on the bench, tears drying stiff on her cheeks. She looked smaller like this, weighed down not by the armor at her shoulders but by the choice she refused to make.

I moved toward her, slow, my legs trembled as I sank down to her level, close enough that my words would reach only her.

“They’re right, Astrid,” I said, my voice low, careful. “If you fall in there, the Brotherhood falls with you. None of us can afford that, not even Arnbjorn.”

Her eyes flicked to mine, bright and fierce, but beneath the fury was a hurt so raw it nearly undid me.

Her lips parted, trembling, and then her voice struck out, ragged with fury and grief.

“You would have me do nothing? Just sit here while they tear him apart piece by piece?” Her gauntleted hand balled into a fist on her knee, the steel creaking with the force of it. “You would chain me to this bench and call it duty?”

The heat in her words nearly broke me, but I held her gaze. “It isn’t nothing,” I whispered. “It’s everything. You are the Speaker. The Brotherhood breathes because of you. If you walk into Volkihar, you risk all of us. We’ll go. We’ll fight. And we’ll bring him back.”

Her breath hitched, her shoulders shaking as though the armor on her frame was suddenly too heavy. For a long moment she said nothing, only the sound of Fen and Grodyl’s armor settling into place echoing faintly in the chamber.

Then she turned fully to me, eyes glassed with tears that hadn’t fallen yet, her face stripped bare of command. “Promise me,” she said, and her whisper was no longer the Speaker’s. It was a woman’s, broken and begging. “Promise me you will bring him back to me.”

The words cut deep, deeper than any order she had ever given.

I reached out, leather creaking as my gloved hand closed over hers where it trembled on her knee. The steel of her gauntlet was cold and unyielding beneath my palm, but I pressed down anyway, holding her steady.

“I promise,” I said, my voice steady.

Her eyes squeezed shut, and a tear slipped free, cutting down her cheek unchecked. A shuddering breath escaped her, half sob, half release, as she leaned forward. The cold edge of her brow pressed against the crown of my head for a heartbeat, two sisters bound together by grief and the vow I had given.

Fen stood frozen at the racks, her own gloves still half-buckled, the weight of the words settling on her like fresh armor. Grodyl said nothing, but his fists tightened on a staff, as though the promise had bound him too.

At last, Astrid pulled back, dragging the heel of her gloved hand across her damp cheek. She straightened, squaring her shoulders, her mantle of command settling back over her like a cloak.

The silence broke with Grodyl’s low mutter as he adjusted the last buckle across his elbow. His sharp eyes flicked toward the doorway, where Oz lingered, already armored and waiting.

“So the door guard comes with us now? What’s he going to do? Hold the gate open while we bleed inside?”

Oz straightened to his full height, broad shoulders squared, the torchlight catching on the iron of his helm. His hand rested firm on the axe at his belt, voice rumbling like gravel. “My duty here is to guard the Speaker,” he said flatly. “The most valuable soul in this Sanctuary. Do you doubt me, mage?”

The room stilled at his words.

Astrid’s head lifted, her red-rimmed eyes snapping toward him. “Oz—” Her voice cracked, torn between protest and gratitude.

His voice rumbled like stone grinding. “I’m not going there as a guard. I’m going as Arnbjorn’s brother. We fought side by side long before the Brotherhood. I’ll not leave it to others to drag him out.”

Astrid’s lips trembled, and for a moment her composure slipped again. She turned her face away, covering her mouth with her glove as if to hide the sob that threatened to break.

Even Grodyl had no retort, only a curt nod as he pulled his staff tight under his arm. Fen, watching Astrid with wide, worried eyes, moved closer, settling a hand on her shoulder in silent comfort.

The armory door banged open again, and Gabriel rushed in, his breath clouding in the torchlight. A heavy pack was strapped across his back, the clink of glass and metal loud with every step. “What did I miss?” he panted, adjusting the strap higher on his shoulder.

Grodyl gave Gabriel a sharp glance but said nothing, only turned toward me as though the weight of the room had shifted.

“All of us are ready,” Grodyl said, voice low, steady. “So what’s the plan?”

I drew in a slow breath, the leather of my gloves creaking against the hilt I held. My gaze swept across them, trying to find my voice.

“We get to Fort Dawnguard,” I said at last, my voice cutting through the silence. “Amon is there.”

Grodyl’s staff thudded against the floor as he shifted, arms folding across his chest. His mouth twisted, sharp with disbelief. “Amon?” The name dripped from his tongue like poison.

I didn’t flinch. “He’s already tied to this, whether we like it or not. And if Isran has any sense, he’ll send men as well.“

Oz snorted, the sound low and rough, like a bear’s growl. His axe glinted in the torchlight as he shifted it over his shoulder. “Why would Dawnguard care about the life of an assassin? You think they’ll risk their throats for one of us?”

Before I could answer, Fen cut in with a sharp roll of her eyes, the leather of her gloves creaking as she fastened the last buckle of her vambrace. “Because we’re allies.” She gave Oz a look like he’d asked the stupidest question in all of Tamriel. “Vampires are the enemy. If the Dawnguard won’t march for that, then they’re not worth the silver they sharpen.”

The air crackled, half tension, half grim resolve.

Grodyl’s arms stayed folded, but he didn’t argue further. He finally sighed through his nose, shoulders dropping as if conceding the inevitable. He planted his staff firmly against the stone, murmuring words that curled through the air like smoke. The floor beneath him shimmered, lines of pale blue light etching themselves into the stone, spreading outward in a sharp circle. A breath later, the air tore open, revealing the jagged outline of a portal.

The chamber stilled. Even the torches seemed to bow back from the pull of the portal, shadows stretching long.

Astrid rose slowly from the bench, every movement deliberate, heavy with the weight of what she was about to do. Her braid hung unfinished over her shoulder, her tear-streaked face bare, but when she spoke, her voice carried like steel across the armory.

“You are my blades, my shadows, my family,” she said, eyes sweeping across us, Fen standing straight with her armor buckled tight, Gabriel with his satchel full of glass and fire, Grodyl with his staff humming, Oz looming tall with his axe, and me in leather and steel that still felt like chains across my chest. “I have given you orders many times, sent you into darkness more than once. But tonight—” her voice broke and steadied again, “—tonight I ask you not as your Speaker, but as your sister.”

Her eyes burned, wet but unyielding. “Bring Arnbjorn back home. Whatever it costs, whatever you must cut down, do not return without him. He is ours. Mine. And I will not let Volkihar claim him.”

For a breath no one moved, her words heavy as stone pressing against our ribs

Then Oz struck his chest with a gauntleted fist, the clang ringing through the chamber. “On my life.”

Fen echoed him with a sharp nod, Gabriel muttered a prayer under his breath, and even Grodyl inclined his head, his expression carved with rare solemnity.

I met Astrid’s gaze last, “I promised,” I said quietly. “And I keep my promises.”

The pull of the portal yanked the breath from my chest, a flash of cold tearing through me like claws. Then the stone of the Sanctuary was gone.

We spilled out into another chamber, boots striking hard against flagstones. The smell hit me first, lamp oil, parchment, steel. The war room.

A heavy oak table dominated the center, its surface buried beneath maps and markers, lines of ink crossing it like scars. Torches guttered in their sconces, throwing jagged light across the men bent over the plans.

Isran stood at the head, broad shoulders bowed over the map, his fist pressing hard into the wood as though he could grind the enemy into dust with sheer will. Celann was beside him, his scarred face intent, one hand tracing the jagged lines sketched across the parchment.

And across from them, Amon. Pale hair falling loose across his forehead, one red eye catching the firelight, the other blue as ice. He leaned over the map like he belonged there, the sharp edge of his smile carving shadows across his face.

The three of them looked up as we arrived, the ripple of the portal snapping closed behind us. The room fell into a charged silence, the only sound the hiss of the torches and the slow scrape of Isran straightening to his full height.

“You’re late.” Amon said softly, though the glint in his mismatched eyes made it sound more like a taunt than a greeting.

Isran’s stare swept over us, heavy and measuring, and for a heartbeat I couldn’t tell if we’d just walked into an alliance… or an execution.

For a heartbeat the room was still, everyone caught in the weight of our entrance.

It was jarring, Astrid’s tears still fresh in my mind, her vow ringing in my ears, and now this: a fortress bright with banners, strangers’ eyes weighing us like scales. The world had shifted in the space of a breath.

Then Fen’s voice broke through, bright and utterly unguarded.

“Woah,” she breathed, her eyes wide as she spun a slow circle to take it all in, the vaulted ceiling, the banners, the racks of silvered weapons gleaming in torchlight. “So this is Fort Dawnguard?”

She twirled once more, the plates of her new armor clanking together. “I mean, look at this place! It’s like walking into some kind of—”

“Fen.” Grodyl’s voice snapped like a whip.

She froze mid-turn, cheeks flushed, and ducked her head but not before I caught the glimmer in her eyes. Awe. For her, the war room wasn’t a den of suspicion and judgment. It was something out of a story, stone walls and heroes sworn to fight darkness.

Isran’s frown deepened, his gaze cutting from Fen to me. “You brought children to my table?” he said, voice low and thunderous.

Fen blinked, her mouth falling open. “Children? Excuse you—”

“Enough,” Celann cut across her sharply, his voice clipped with the authority of a man used to drilling recruits. His hand flattened against the map as he straightened, scar catching the torchlight. “This is not a tavern for you to flap your tongue in. This is Dawnguard’s fortress.”

Fen’s retort died in her throat. She snapped her mouth shut, cheeks burning, and shifted her weight as though the floor itself had turned hostile beneath her boots.

Amon’s laugh was barely a breath, low and cutting. “Anyone who steps willingly into Dawnguard’s war room isn’t a child.” His mismatched eyes caught the firelight as they lingered on me. “Fools, perhaps. But not children.”

Fen bristled, color flaring across her cheeks. “I’m standing right here.”

Grodyl groaned audibly, dragging a gloved hand down his face like he could scrape the moment away. Gabriel shifted under the weight of his pack, glass vials clinking, and muttered, “And to think, we haven’t even reached the impossible part yet.”

 

 

To be continued…

Chapter 77: Chapter 77

 

The weight of Oz’s boots carried across the war room as he strode forward, iron helm catching the firelight before he lifted it free. His hair clung damp to his brow, his scarred face set like carved stone.

“We are not children,” he said, voice low and gravel-deep, carrying through the vaulted chamber. “Nor fools.”

His gaze swept over Isran, Celann, and then across the Brotherhood at his back.

“We are here for one reason only. To tear through whatever waits at that castle, and bring back our brother.”

The words fell hard, sharper than steel on stone. Even Dawnguard steel didn’t gleam as fierce as the conviction in his eyes.

Isran’s jaw tightened, the cords in his neck standing out as he leaned across the war table. His fist came down hard on the wood, rattling the silvered markers scattered across the map.

“One life,” he growled, “the life of an assassin no less, is nothing beside what the vampires are plotting against us. Do you even understand what’s at stake? Weren’t you briefed?”

His gaze cut past Oz and landed on me. Fury burned in his eyes, sharp enough to pin me where I stood.

“You,” he spat, voice low and seething. “You walk into my hall, dragging shadows behind you, demanding we risk Dawnguard men for one of your kind? While Harkon sharpens his blade against all of Skyrim?”

The weight of Astrid’s promise burned hotter in my chest.

Oz’s shoulders squared as he stepped closer to the table, helm under his arm. “He is not just an assassin. He is our brother. You speak of what is at stake? Then know this, Arnbjorn would bleed for his own, as we will bleed for him. Whatever your war is, Dawnguard, our bond is no less sacred.”

A flicker of unease rippled through the room. Grodyl muttered under his breath, Gabriel shifted the satchel on his shoulder, and Fen bristled at being lumped with “shadows.”

Amon’s smile curved sharp. “Touching,” he murmured, eyes lingering on me. “But I believe the Commander has a point. One wolf in a cage is hardly worth a world falling in shadows.”

Isran’s fist still pressed into the map, his glare locked on Oz like a spearpoint. “Whatever my war is? These vampires mean to end the sun itself. That is what we stand against.”

The words cracked like thunder. My chest tightened, the promise to Astrid burning hot against the weight of his fury.

Fen blinked, her head jerking up. Gabriel muttered a curse under his breath, glass rattling in his satchel. And Grodyl, Grodyl actually barked a laugh, sharp and incredulous.

“The sun? What in Sithis’ name are you talking about?” His staff cracked against the stone, sparks flaring from the tip. “Did we stumble into a madhouse? Nio—” his gaze snapped to me, fierce and accusing, “what are they talking about?”

I moved before Amon could open his mouth again, boots striking hard against the stone as I stepped up to the table.

“The Brotherhood is here for Arnbjorn,” I said, my voice cutting through the hiss of the torches. “That’s what Astrid sent them for, and that’s what I promised her. I won’t risk their lives chasing anything else.”

My eyes swept across Fen, Grodyl, Gabriel—tired, loyal, already too deep in blood and shadow. Then I looked at Isran, his glare still burning into me.

“They get Arnbjorn,” I continued, firmer now. “And I’ll help with finding the scroll.”

For a moment, silence.

Then Fen’s voice cracked through it like a blade.

“What the fuck, Nio?” She shoved forward, armor plates clattering, her face flushed with anger. “You’re just, what, handing us off while you go chasing some mad prophecy? After everything?”

“Fen—” I started.

“What?” Her eyes burned, her voice raw. “We just leave you behind?” She shoved closer, fists trembling at her sides. “That’s it? We drag Arnbjorn out and you throw yourself to Dawnguard’s wolves? To him?” Her glare flicked, sharp as a blade, toward Amon.

Behind her, Gabriel’s mouth opened and closed like he’d lost his words. Oz shifted, his shoulders rigid, watching me with something close to pain.

Her words cut deeper than steel. For a breath, the ache in my chest almost undid me.

But I forced it down.

I stepped in close enough that she had to look up at me, my shadow falling over her.

“Yes,” I said, quiet but hard as iron. “If it keeps you alive, then yes. You leave me behind.”

Her mouth opened again, but I didn’t let her speak.

“This isn’t yours to choose, Fen. It’s mine. And I’ve made it.”

The silence pressed heavy, Fen’s breath still ragged behind me. I turned from her, forcing my boots toward the war table.

The map stretched wide across the oak, lines inked sharp and merciless. Not just Skyrim’s coasts and keeps, no, this was narrower, darker. The jagged sprawl of Castle Volkihar.

My throat tightened. I knew those lines.

The cracks along the sea wall where we slipped through. The stairwells slick with moss that led down to the dungeons. Even the cells where iron bit into Arnbjorn’s wrists, the vault where Amon and I had stood chained. It was all there, etched in black across parchment like scars pressed into skin.

I reached out without meaning to, fingertips hovering just above the marks. Places I could still smell, the wet stone, the blood, the fear that clung like rot.

My hand curled back into a fist.

Amon leaned casually against the opposite edge of the table, one corner of his mouth tilted upward. “Familiar, isn’t it?” 

The room seemed to tilt, Dawnguard soldiers watching me, Brotherhood watching me, Amon watching most of all.

I pressed both palms flat against the table, leaning over the inked sprawl of Volkihar. My voice cut clean through the tension.

“We’ll go in here.” My finger traced the cracks along the sea wall, up to the dungeon vault. “The entrance by the cells. Two floors above that is where Arnbjorn’s being kept.”

I looked to Fen, to Grodyl, to Gabriel, to Oz. My family. My ribs felt too tight, but I forced the words steady. “You’ll go straight for him. Get him out. Grodyl will open a portal the moment he’s free. You won’t linger.”

Fen’s lips parted, ready to argue again, but I pushed on, harder. “You’ll leave. All of you. Arnbjorn comes home, alive, that’s the only thing Astrid needs from you.”

Then I turned, meeting Isran’s eyes, then Celann’s, then Amon’s burning mismatched gaze.

“As for me, I’ll stay with Dawnguard. We’ll push deeper. We’ll search for the scroll. And for Serana.”

The silence that followed rang louder than any outburst. Brotherhood and Dawnguard both staring at me, caught in the fracture I’d carved between them.

Fen’s breath hitched behind me. Grodyl’s jaw flexed, his staff shifting like it wanted to spark. 

And across the table, Amon smiled faintly, like he’d been waiting for this exact divide.

I dragged my eyes from his, meeting Isran’s glare head-on.

“How many men of yours?” My voice came out sharper than I meant, but I didn’t take it back.

Isran leaned back from the table, arms crossing over his chest. His voice rumbled like thunder held on a chain.

“Five. No more. And Celann.”

My gaze flicked to the scarred veteran at his side. Celann’s expression didn’t shift, steady as carved rock. He gave a short, firm nod.

A shadow fell across the parchment.

Amon’s hand slid into view, pale fingers tracing the inked lines as though they belonged to him. His touch skimmed over the sea wall, the dungeon vault and then lingered a fraction too long where my knuckles pressed against the wood. His skin brushed mine, light as a whisper, deliberate.

“The eastern wing,” he murmured, mismatched eyes lifting to mine. His finger drifted upward along the map, cutting past the vault and the hall. “Serana’s chambers were here. If Harkon has her hidden, he might favor the familiar. Or…” His finger curved slowly across the parchment, until it landed on a darker mark. “…someplace else.”

The pause hung like a taunt. His fingertip stilled, the heat of his touch still ghosting across my hand.

Isran’s glare cut sharp across the table. “Give us directions, not riddles.”

Amon only smiled faintly, leaning back but leaving the phantom weight of his touch behind. “I’ve given you both.”

I dragged my hand back from the map. My voice came out tighter than I meant.

“And the scroll?”

Amon’s smile deepened, slow and maddening. His fingertip slid lazily across the parchment, past the towers, past the vault, circling the keep like a predator’s path.

“That,” he said softly, “is a mystery.” His mismatched eyes found mine, lingering.

He tapped once against the map, a hollow sound against oak. “Could be buried in Harkon’s private vault. Could be on a lectern in the chapel. Or could be carried on the person of one of his men or thralls.”

Celann’s scar caught the torchlight as he leaned forward, both hands braced on the table. His voice was clipped, flat with soldier’s bluntness.

“So what—” he said, eyes narrowing, “—we search the whole damned castle? Every hall, every vault, every crypt until we stumble on it?”

I let the weight of the question settle, then pressed my palm flat against the map.

“No,” I said, firm enough to cut through the tension. “Serana may know where it is. If she’s still in the castle, she’s our best chance at finding the scroll.”

My eyes swept across the table,

“We find her first.”

The words hung in the air like a blade, sharp and unyielding.

Celann’s gaze flicked over the Brotherhood at my back, his scar tightening as his eyes lingered on their leathers and worn steel.

“Then you’ll need more than shadows and old blades. Against vampires you’ll want silver, and armor that doesn’t split the first time a death hound sinks its teeth in.”

Fen bristled, her hand snapping to the dagger at her hip.

“We don’t need to clank around like tin men,” she hissed. “We move quick, we strike where it counts. Heavy gear slows us down. Dead men don’t see us coming.”

Celann turned toward her, eyes cold, voice flat as stone.

“And when they do see you? When speed fails, when your leathers tear, when silver is the only thing that keeps their fangs from your throat? You choose death, then?”

Fen’s jaw clenched, her eyes blazing, but before she could spit another word, Grodyl’s staff tapped once against the stone. The sound rang out sharp, commanding attention.

“We’ll take the silver,” he said flatly. His tone carried no heat, only iron certainty. “Of course we will. We may be assassins, but we are not fools.”

Fen’s mouth snapped shut, fury simmering under her skin, but she didn’t argue.

Celann’s gaze lingered a moment longer on Fen, then flicked toward Grodyl with the faintest nod of approval.

The tension between Fen and Celann still hung sharp when Gabriel cleared his throat. He slipped the heavy pack from his shoulders and dragged it onto the table with a dull thud.

Isran’s glare cut to him instantly. “What is this?”

Gabriel said nothing at first, only unbuckled the flap and spread the contents across the map. Dozens of small glass vials clinked and rolled against the parchment, their liquid centers glinting strange shades of green and gold. The sharp tang of herbs, iron, and something acrid filled the air.

“These,” Gabriel said, voice low but steady, “are my own making. When consumed, they disrupt hemovoric assimilation, thinning the potency of vitae within the subject’s bloodstream. In simpler terms: if one of us is bitten, the transference will corrupt. Their feeding weakens them rather than strengthens.”

The room went silent, save for the faint hiss of the torches.

Isran’s brow furrowed, his scowl deepening. “…Translation, please?”

Gabriel sighed through his nose, then picked up a single vial, the liquid within catching the firelight.

“You drink it. If a vampire bites you, it poisons them instead of you. Weakens them. Gives us time to fight back.”

That landed. Even Celann leaned closer, his scar catching the glow, eyes narrowing at the vials with a glimmer of respect.

Isran grunted, the sound grudging. “Hnh. Not Dawnguard craft… but useful.”

Gabriel allowed himself the faintest smile as he adjusted the row of vials.

“How did you even make this?” Fen cut in, her voice sharp, her eyes narrowing.

“It started the night Amon nearly died. He should not have risen again, his body was finished. And yet…” His eyes flicked toward me, uneasy. “He came back to life by Niolenyl’s blood. By every law of nature, at that amount, it should have turned her, but it didn’t. It was her magic that burned him down, and her blood that raised him again…”

The sound of his voice blurred.

I was no longer at the table.

I was back on the infirmary, breath ragged. Amon’s skin was cold as stone beneath my palms, his chest unmoving. His eyes had gone dim, that infuriating smirk gone slack. He was dead. I had killed him.

I should have left him there, should have watched the last of him fade.

But I hadn’t.

My hands had shaken as I tore open my palm with my own blade, dragging it to his lips. My blood had spilled hot across his teeth, into his mouth, down his throat. I remembered the way it burned, the way he seized like fire had caught him from within. The sound of his gasp as breath returned, the flash of red and blue as his eyes snapped open again, alive and ravenous.

The memory twisted sharp in my chest. Why had I done it? To save myself? To keep him?

Gabriel’s voice cut faintly back through the haze. “…something in it weakens the bond. I distilled it, mixed with hawthorn and aconite, and balanced it with powdered moonflower. But it would not hold without a stabilizer. So—” his hand lifted one small vial, the pale shimmer catching torchlight, “—I added silver salt. Just a pinch. Enough to bite back at the corruption without killing the host.”

Fen’s voice came low and trembling. “So these bottles, this… weapon, it’s her?”

Isran’s gaze burned into me, hard as a hammer. His voice was low, clipped. “Your blood does this?”

The words struck like a blade point. My chest clenched, heat crawling up my throat before I could breathe. For a breath I thought the whole room could hear the rush of my blood.

Amon leaned back from the table, his smile slow and cutting, mismatched eyes never leaving mine.

Oz let out a grunt, stepping closer. He planted his helmet down on the table with a thud, crossing his arms.

“What about side effects?” His voice rumbled, low and rough. “I’m not about to swallow a brew without knowing if it’ll rot my guts or make me useless in a fight.”

The Brotherhood shifted uneasily. Fen snorted under her breath. Grodyl arched a brow, waiting. Even Celann’s scarred face angled toward Gabriel, as if he agreed with the Nord’s bluntness.

Gabriel bristled at the phrasing but forced his tone smooth.

“It may cause nausea. Fatigue in the limbs. A lingering chill through the bloodstream—temporary, I assure you. Nothing compared to what a vampire’s bite would do.”

Oz grunted again, unimpressed. “So we choke down your poison, fight with lead in our arms, and pray it slows the leech faster than it slows us. Hmph.”

Gabriel’s lips twitched, irritation breaking his calm for a heartbeat. “It isn’t poison. It’s protection. And unless you’ve better ideas for when a vampire has its teeth in your throat—” he tapped one vial sharply against the table, glass ringing, “—you’ll drink.”

Oz’s grunt was low, suspicious. “Words are wind. Show me. I want proof your brew does what you say.”

Gabriel stiffened. “Proof? You want me to—”

Oz’s hand slammed against the table, rattling the vials. “Drink it. Or have someone else drink it. Let the bloodsucker test it.” His scarred face tilted toward Amon, eyes narrowing.

The room went taut in an instant. Fen’s mouth dropped open.

Amon’s laugh was soft, dangerous, curling through the war room like smoke. “At last, someone with imagination.” His eyes slid to Gabriel, then to me. “Well, alchemist? Shall we put your craft to the test?”

Gabriel’s face paled. “That… that isn’t wise—”

“Why not?” Oz rumbled. “If it works, we’ll know. If it doesn’t, then your little bottles are just colored piss.”

Gabriel’s jaw clenched. For a heartbeat he just stood there, stiff, his hand trembling over the row of glass. Then he snatched up a vial with a sharp flick of his wrist.

“Fine,” he snapped. “Fine.”

He pulled the stopper with his teeth, the bitter scent of silver and herbs burning the air, and downed it in one swallow. His throat worked hard, and when he set the vial back on the table it rang against the oak like a challenge.

For a moment nothing happened. Then Gabriel sucked in a sharp breath, pressing a hand against his chest. His face went pale, then flushed red. He shuddered once, shoulders jerking as though a cold wind had ripped through his bones.

“See?” he said through gritted teeth, forcing his voice steady though sweat had already broken along his temple. “Unpleasant, yes. But not fatal. Not to me. If a vampire were to bite now—” he looked squarely at Amon, eyes blazing, “they’d choke on it.”

The room stilled.

Amon’s smile curved, slow and cutting, his gaze never leaving Gabriel’s throat. “Do you want me to prove that for you?”

Isran leaned forward over the war table, his scarred knuckles pressing white into the wood. His voice was low, cold, every syllable cutting like an axe.

“Let’s see it… monster.”

Amon’s eyes glittered, red and blue catching the firelight. Slowly, he pushed off from the table, his boots echoing heavy across the floor as he closed the space toward Gabriel.

Gabriel stood rigid, throat working as Amon loomed closer, every inch of him predator.

Before he could second-guess the sanity of volunteering, Amon moved too fast for the eye to track. One hand gripped the healer’s shoulder, the other braced his jaw open. Fangs sank deep into the vein at his throat.

The reaction was instant. Amon tore back with a guttural sound that was nothing like his usual silken mockery, more like a beast choking on spoiled meat. He staggered, spitting blood, clutching at his mouth as if it burned.

“Sweet Mother—” Gabriel stumbled, hand clapped over the bite. “You could’ve—”

“You taste like shit,” Amon snarled, voice hoarse, nearly gagging as he wiped at his lips. “Like drinking from a corpse soaked in piss and fire.”

The veins at his temples flared black for a moment before receding, his throat working like he might vomit.

Across the table, Oz let out a bark of laughter. “Guess it works.”

Isran’s stare was flat, unyielding. “Not just works.” He leaned forward, voice low and cold. “It hurts him.” His eyes narrowed on Amon like a blade point. “Monster.”

Amon shot him a glare, still panting, still sick. “Say it again, old man,” he hissed, “and I’ll show you what real hurt tastes like.”

Gabriel winced, pressing his palm to the shallow bite. “That was unpleasant.”

“Unpleasant?” Amon spat, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. His chest heaved like he’d swallowed fire. His eyes were glassy, veins blackening briefly beneath his skin. “Your blood tastes like you boiled it with troll dung.”

Fen half-laughed, half-grimaced, covering her nose. “You really do look sick.”

“Better you than me.” Oz muttered, though there was the faintest curl of amusement at the corner of his mouth.

Grodyl leaned back against the table, arms folded, and shook his head. “Well, at least your obsession with bottles and powders finally paid off.”

Gabriel shot him a glare, his hands were already glowing faintly with healing light over the bite.

Amon straightened slowly, still pale, still fighting back the bile rising in his throat. “Next time,” he rasped, voice low and jagged, “I’m biting you, Nord.”

Oz barked a laugh. “Can’t wait.”

Isran’s gaze stayed fixed on Gabriel, hard as the stone walls. “How long does it last?”

Gabriel shifted, tightening the bandage on his neck where Amon’s teeth had grazed. He didn’t quite meet anyone’s eyes. “I… don’t know.”

“You don’t know?” Isran’s voice cracked against the table like a whip.

“I hadn’t exactly tested it before,” Gabriel said, sharper than he meant to, then exhaled through his nose. “But I brewed extra. Enough for each of us. Best to take them just before we step inside, to make sure the effect doesn’t wear off too soon.”

A muscle in Isran’s jaw ticked. “So we walk in blind, trusting your guesswork.”

“Guesswork or not, you saw it worked,” Gabriel shot back, wiping his mouth on the back of his sleeve. “Unless you’d rather let him chew on you next time.”

“Still can’t get the taste out of my mouth.” Amon muttered darkly, dragging his tongue over his teeth like he could scrape the memory away.

Everyone grabbed vials from the table, tucking them into belts and armor straps with the quiet efficiency of people preparing for a fight.

Isran’s eyes swept over us once, his jaw tight. Then he jerked his chin toward Celann.

“Take the Brotherhood to the armory,” he ordered. “Put silver in their hands.”

Celann gave a short nod and motioned for us to follow. His boots struck hard against the stone, the sound carrying through the vaulted halls.

The inside of Fort Dawnguard was nothing like the Sanctuary. No dust, no sagging beams, no lingering smell of rot. Here the air was sharp with oil and steel, every surface scrubbed clean until it caught the torchlight.

We passed long corridors lined with heavy doors banded in iron, alcoves stacked with bundles of crossbow bolts, crates stamped with the Dawnguard’s sigil. Men and women in their sun-emblazoned armor crossed our path, their eyes flicking toward us with poorly veiled suspicion.

The farther we walked, the more the scent of metal thickened, until it was all steel and silver in the air.

Celann stopped before a wide oaken door reinforced with blackened bands. He pushed it open, revealing the armory, a chamber that could have been mistaken for a treasury.

Racks of weapons gleamed in ordered rows, the pale shine of silver bright even in the dim torchlight. Axes, swords, maces, daggers, even arrowheads, every edge was honed to a perfect bite.

The walls were lined with shelves of armor polished to a mirror’s sheen, their plates catching glints of firelight like a hundred silent eyes. A long workbench ran along the far wall, cluttered with whetstones, brushes, and vials of polish, each tool meticulously laid in its place.

“This way,” Celann said, his voice clipped, already moving toward the racks heavy with silvered steel.

He led us down a flight of worn stairs into the armory. Rows of racks lined the walls, blades polished to a shine, silver runes carved into their edges. Spears, axes, and crossbows hung ready, and chests overflowed with bolts capped in gleaming silver. Armor lay stacked on benches, breastplates, pauldrons, gorgets,dented from use, but sturdy.

“Take what suits you,” Celann said, his voice carrying over the clamor. He gestured to a wall lined with blades and to a chest where plates lay stacked. “And if you value your ribs, take some plates that won’t crush when a claw rakes across.” His hand tapped the shoulder pieces for emphasis.

Men moved around us, fastening buckles, hefting blades, slipping helms under their arms as they prepared to march.

Fen was already moving, quick as a striking snake. She seized two silver daggers and spun them experimentally, their gleam flashing in the lamplight.

Grodyl lingered, squinting at the racks. At last, with a grimace, he pulled down a pair of daggers, holding them as if they might burn. “Too bright.” he muttered, almost offended by their shine.

Oz’s hand went unerringly to a heavy axe. He tested the weight with a single swing, shoulders rolling like he was greeting an old friend.

I drifted along the racks until a short sword caught my eye, light, balanced, and hungry. I took it, then slid a dagger free as well, tucking it at my hip.

Gabriel lingered longer than any of us, lips pressed thin. At last, he sighed and reached for a crossbow. “I hope I won’t need it,” he murmured, as if saying it softly enough might make it true.

I lingered at the far end of the armory, away from Fen twirling her daggers and Grodyl’s muttered curses. The Dawnguard’s men bustled around us, pulling on cuirasses and checking straps, their movements sharp, efficient, purposeful. I wanted the space, the quiet, just for a moment.

The armor racks loomed before me, row after row of steel polished to a blinding gleam. My hand hovered over the plates before I chose the tassets and a shoulder piece.

The shoulder piece was heavier than it looked. I twisted it, trying to slide the hook into place, but the weight dragged it down again. My arms ached from forcing it high, my breath catching as I wrestled with the unfamiliar metal. I’d never been one for armor. Leather, cloth, things that let me move fast, that was mine. This… felt like being caged.

The clasp slipped again. A sharp clatter of steel against steel rang out. I muttered a curse under my breath and went for it once more, refusing to admit the tremor in my arms.

And then, his hands.

Cool, steady, prying the piece from my grip like it weighed nothing. “You’ll wear it crooked if you keep at it like that,” Amon murmured, far too close.

I froze. “I can manage.”

“Mm.” He didn’t sound convinced.

He stepped in, the weight of him hemming me in without ever touching. His fingers worked the clasp against my shoulder, slow, deliberate. I could feel the brush of knuckles through the gap at my collar. Too close. Too steady. My breath stuttered anyway.

“Better,” he murmured, close enough that his breath stirred the loose strands of hair at my temple. “But not perfect.”

I should have stepped away.

I didn’t.

His hand shifted higher, grazing my collarbone as if testing me, then slowly he brushed a strand of hair back behind my ear. His knuckles lingered against the curve of my neck a heartbeat too long.

“You should braid it properly,” he said, voice dark silk. “Before I get the urge to wind it around my hand when you’re not looking.”

My breath hitched. I hated the way my lips parted, the silence that betrayed me. His smile curved, sharp and knowing.

“Or maybe when you are looking.” he added, softer still.

“Back off.” I hissed.

Heat crawled up the back of my neck. I shoved at his hand, but he caught my wrist lightly, not enough to stop me, just enough to remind me he could. His eyes held mine, a glint of amusement twisting with something hungrier.

My pulse thundered so hard it hurt. His chestplate brushed mine as he leaned closer, shrinking the space between us until the rest of the armory faded.

“I missed you.”

The words landed like a blade sliding between my ribs. Simple, unadorned, but heavy enough to make my breath hitch.

I yanked my wrist free, scowling so hard my face ached. “Don’t.”

His smile was slow, infuriating. “Don’t what? Tell the truth?”

The armor pieces weighed on me, but not half as much as the weight of his voice. I turned away, snatching the tassets from the bench like they might shield me from him, from the memory of how it felt the last time we’d stood this close.

Behind me, I heard him laugh under his breath, low and satisfied. I didn’t dare look back. The sound clung to me like the brush of fingers at the nape of my neck, something that stayed even as the hall opened wider and the others came into view.

Oz was already transformed, head to toe in steel that made him look more fortress than man. Grodyl and Gabriel had only claimed pieces here and there, shoulder guards strapped loosely over their leathers, as if to say they’d take what they needed and nothing more.

And Fen was herself. Already perched on a crate, chatting with two Dawnguard soldiers like she’d known them her whole life, laughter spilling out of her as if we weren’t standing in a fortress built for war.

I fastened the straps of the tassets at my hips, the weight settling against my thighs with a dull clink. Each buckle pulled me back into the present, into steel and leather, into the role I had to play.

“Ready?” Celann’s voice cut through the clamor of the hall, crisp and commanding. He stood a few paces off, helm tucked under his arm, gaze sweeping across us with the kind of ease that came only from years of drilling soldiers into obedience.

“Come on, boys,” he called over his shoulder.

The two Dawnguard soldiers Fen had charmed into easy laughter rose at once, spines snapping straight. One of them glanced toward Celann. “Sir, the others are at the training ground. We’ll fetch them and meet you in the courtyard.”

Celann gave a short nod. “Good. Don’t keep me waiting.”

Fen glanced sideways, her voice low but edged with restless energy. “You got one more portal in you, Grodyl?”

“Pfft.” He snorted, adjusting his cloak with a flourish. “You underestimate me.”

Their boots echoed together as they moved down the hall, the air thick with the scent of oil and steel. Celann’s men peeled away to gather the others from the training grounds, leaving us to march toward the courtyard. Step by step, closer to the night.

They fell into an easy rhythm, but the sound of it made my chest ache. A family, walking into danger together. How many of them would walk out again?

Would we find Arnbjorn? The Scroll? Serana? Or would the night strip more pieces away from us, the way it always did?

The stone arch of the courtyard gate came into view, black against the stars. My hands tightened on the straps at my hips, leather biting back.

The weight wasn’t the armor.

It was the question I couldn’t silence.

Was I leading them to a rescue, or to their graves?

To be continued…

 

Chapter 78: Chapter 78

 

The night air hit colder than I expected when we stepped out into the courtyard. The torches along the walls burned low, their flames stuttering against the weight of the wind.

My legs felt heavier than the plates strapped to them. I hadn’t rested, not since we fled the castle. Every hour since then had been running or bargaining, and now here I was, about to walk back into the same stone belly we’d barely escaped alive. My body ached with the memory of chains and the damp sting of moss-slick walls.

The Dawnguard hadn’t assembled yet, their boots and voices still echoed somewhere deeper in the fort.

A nudge against my shoulder made me start. Gabriel slipped something into my hand without a word. When I looked down, the glass caught the torchlight, one of his vials, but not like the others. This one shimmered pale and clear, threads of gold swirling faintly inside.

“For the weariness,” he murmured, voice low enough only I could hear. “It’ll steady your pulse, keep your hands from shaking.” His mouth quirked, humorless. “You’ll need them steady.”

The glass was cool against my palm, heavier than it should have been. My throat tightened. I wanted to tell him I was fine, that I didn’t need his brews or his pity, but my limbs ached, my chest dragged with every breath, and we both would know I was lying.

His eyes searched mine, tired but intent, waiting.

I turned the vial over between my fingers, the pale swirl catching faint sparks from the torches. My lips tugged into something closer to a grimace than a smile.

“Do I look that bad?”

A corner of his mouth lifted, just barely. “Bad enough I thought you’d snap in half trying to lift that armor.”

I let out a breath that was almost a laugh. “Careful. You’re starting to sound like Oz.”

“That’s an insult I don’t deserve.” he muttered, but the twitch of his mouth betrayed him.

The weight in my chest eased for a heartbeat. I curled my fingers around the glass, nodded once, and raised it in a mock toast.

“Thank you, Gabriel.”

Before I could second-guess it, I uncorked the vial and threw it back. The liquid burned cold as snowmelt and hot as flame in the same swallow, searing down my throat until I coughed.

Gabriel arched a brow. “Better?”

The heat spread through my limbs, dull ache ebbing, breath coming easier. My heart steadied, less like a drum being beaten, more like a rhythm I could keep pace with. I met his gaze, managed a thin smile.

“Better.”

For a fleeting moment, it felt like the world had steadied too.

The quiet between us didn’t last.

Boots struck against stone, sharp and measured, and the Dawnguard emerged through the archway at the far end of the courtyard. Celann led them, helm tucked under one arm.

Behind him came five men, armored head to toe in sun-emblazoned steel. Their faces were hidden beneath their visors, their steps steady but not drilled into the same rhythm as Celann’s. No soldiers, just men who’d bled enough to follow orders without question.

They fanned out behind him in a rough line, shoulders squared, weapons strapped close at hand, crossbows at their back.

Ready, if not refined.

Celann’s gaze swept over them, then over us, and when he spoke his voice carried across the courtyard like a hammer on an anvil.

“Some of you’ve seen what waits in that castle,” he said, scar tightening as his jaw set. “You know what we walk into. There will be no second chances. No wasted steps. Every strike, every breath, you take it for the one beside you. You fight, or you die.”

His eyes flicked to me, just for a moment, then back to his men.

“But you will not die easy. Not tonight. The night belongs to vampires, but dawn will belong to us.”

A rumble of steel followed, gauntlets tightening on hilts, armor shifting as the five men straightened like the words had hammered iron into their spines.

Beside me, Grodyl’s scoffed.

“Shame Astrid isn’t here to rattle off encouragement for us too.”

No one laughed.

Because he was right. We didn’t have speeches. The Brotherhood had never been about words, about banners or sunlit vows. We were shadows. We were killers, not proud like these men.

Their steel shone under torchlight like a promise. Ours stayed hidden, meant only to strike.

For a moment, standing between them, I felt the divide sharper than any blade.

Celann’s gaze swept over us one last time, then he turned to Grodyl.

“Open the portal, mage.”

Grodyl’s jaw tightened, and for a heartbeat I thought he might bite back, remind the Dawnguard he was no hired conjurer to be ordered about. His lips pressed thin, voice clipped.

“Fine.” His fingers tightened on the runed wood. “Where?”

Before Celann could answer, Amon’s voice slid in smooth as oil.

Amon’s voice cut through the murmur of boots and armor. “Hjaalmarch. Have you ever been to the Northwatch Keep?” His mismatched gaze slid toward Grodyl, tone more command than question.

“Certainly,” Grodyl said, straightening a little, staff tapping once against the stone floor. “I can open a portal near the keep.”

Celann frowned, arms folding across his chest. “Why not Castle Volkihar itself? Would save us the walk.”

Grodyl’s brows knit, a flicker of annoyance breaking through. “Because I’ve never set foot there. I cannot anchor to a place I don’t know.”

Celann’s lip curled. “You hadn’t set foot in our fort either, yet you appeared from thin air in our war room.”

Gabriel lifted a hand before the exchange sharpened into something worse.

“It’s not the same. We had an anchor stone hidden here. Portals need a mark, an imprint of the world tied to the caster—”

The Dawnguard men stiffened at once, shoulders locking like drawn bows. Celann’s head snapped toward him, fury flashing across his scarred face.

“An anchor stone? Here? How the fuck did you have anything here?” His gaze cut to me, sharp as a blade. “That’s your doing?”

One wrong breath and I’d wear the blame. I felt the weight of their eyes crawling over me, heavier than the armor on my back.

His anger rattled the air more than the fire in the sconces. I opened my mouth, but Fen beat me to it, leaning back on her crate, smirking with arms folded.

“Well done, Gabriel,” she drawled. “Really, couldn’t have explained it better.”

Gabriel’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t take the bait.

Celann’s voice cut low, teeth clenched. “We are allies. Allies don’t spy on each other.”

Grodyl turned on him with a dry, humorless smile. “The Brotherhood has had no allies. Not then, not now. That stone was here long before you begged for an alliance. Before your men could even lift a silver blade without trembling.”

Celann bristled, fury flashing in his eyes as he stepped forward.

“You smug little—”

Oz moved between them, helm tucked under his arm, his broad frame cutting the heat like a wall of steel. His voice rumbled low, iron-steady.

“Enough. Save the fight for the castle, not each other.”

The tension held a moment longer, taut as a bowstring. Then Celann pulled back with a curse under his breath, though his glare stayed fixed on Grodyl like a blade’s point.

I felt it coil in my gut, the way their eyes flicked toward me, suspicion licking at the edges. One stone, one careless word, and suddenly the truth stood bare, the Brotherhood had eyes and hands everywhere. Unseen, unknown. We didn’t plant spies for whispers or intelligence. That was the Thalmor’s game.

No, our game was for something else. Not to listen. Not to watch.

Only for the kill.

Oz’s gaze swept over them, steady and unblinking. “Let’s go, Grodyl.”

The mage barked a laugh, sharp and bitter. “You don’t order me around, door guard.” Still, his fingers tightened around the staff, runes spilling light across the stone as the air bent to his will. 

Oz didn’t reply. He didn’t need to. The silence was heavier than any retort, and Grodyl’s words wilted into it as if they’d never mattered.

The portal hissed and shimmered, its light painting the courtyard in ghostly ripples. The Dawnguard men shifted in their armor, glancing between one another, the weight of their steel suddenly less steady.

Their hesitation hung thick until Fen’s laugh cut through it, sharp and mocking.

“Oh, come on, boys,” she said, spinning a dagger once between her fingers before tucking it back at her belt. “You look like it’s a gate to Oblivion. This is nothing compared to what you fight on the daily.”

Without another word, she strode forward and slipped through the circle of light, her silhouette swallowed whole.

The men stiffened, as if her words had stung their pride. One adjusted his grip on his sword, another squared his shoulders before stepping toward the glow.

Behind me, Gabriel cleared his throat, his voice lower, calmer. “It can feel a bit dizzy the first time,” he said, eyes flicking to the soldiers. “Don’t fight it. Just step through. The ground will be there waiting.”

One of the Dawnguard muttered something under his breath, the kind of prayer soldiers spoke before battle, then vanished into the light.

I watched them go, the light licking over their armor until they were gone, one by one. Fen’s laugh still echoed in my ears, reckless, bold, so alive. She had walked into the unknown like it was nothing.

My hand tightened on the hilt at my side. My boots struck hard against the stone. And I too, stepped through.

The portal snapped shut behind me, the world clamping down with a cold rush of sea air.

We stood on a jagged bluff, the night wind biting sharp, carrying salt and the crash of waves below. The castle loomed in the distance, black stone against darker sky, its towers like teeth. Between us and it, the shoreline stretched, slick with tide and shadow.

Amon was already scanning the rocks, his head turning with a predator’s focus. After a moment, he gestured east, where a narrow path wound down toward the shore. “This way.”

He picked out a narrow path winding down toward the water and started forward without a word.

The rest of us fell in behind him. Armor shifted, boots ground against stone, the silence between Dawnguard and Brotherhood heavy as a drawn blade. None of us spoke. We only followed toward the jetty that would carry us back into Volkihar’s shadow.

The dock creaked under our boots as we reached it, the wood slick with spray. The boat waited, tied off at the post, its hull low in the water. It rocked with every pull of the tide, groaning like it already resented our weight.

Celann came to a stop, his scar caught the starlight as his frown deepened.

“One small boat.”

“Doesn’t seem like we have any other choice.” Oz muttered, crossing his arms.

Celann’s gaze swept over his soldiers. His voice cut through the salt wind like a blade.

“Get on.”

The men obeyed at once, boots thudding against the planks as they climbed aboard. The hull rocked hard under their weight, groaning as if already protesting.

Amon was the next to step down, his movements unhurried, graceful. He sank onto one of the benches as though the cramped boat were a throne, one arm draped along the side. His eyes found mine, glinting with mischief.

“The boat may be small,” he said, low and velvet, tapping his fingers against his thigh in invitation, “but there’s always room for you on me.”

I fixed him with a glare sharp enough to cut steel. “I’d rather swim.”

Fen stepped lightly onto the boat, the planks groaning under her weight. Oz followed after, settling onto a bench with a grunt. He shifted his axe aside and patted the space beside him.

“Sit here if you want to.” he said, low and plain, like it cost him nothing to offer.

Fen’s lips curved, faint but genuine. “Thank you, Oz.” She lowered herself beside him without hesitation, the two of them steadying each other as the boat rocked.

At the other end of the vessel, Grodyl squeezed in awkwardly beside Gabriel, his cloak tangling against the healer’s satchel. The boat dipped alarmingly, water lapping at the edge.

“We’ll sink,” Grodyl muttered, bracing his staff across his knees. “Because you insist on dragging that blasted bag stuffed with gods-know-what.”

Gabriel clutched the satchel tighter, muttering back, “If you’d rather bleed out without my help, by all means, toss it overboard.”

Grodyl rolled his eyes skyward, as though appealing to Sithis himself, and tightened his grip on the edge of the boat.

Celann’s voice cut across the night air, clipped and commanding. “Row. Now.”

The boat lurched as the Dawnguard men took up the oars, steel gauntlets clanking against the worn wood. It was too many bodies in too little space, armor pressing against leathers, weapons clattering with every shift. The air grew stifling, salt and sweat mixing heavy in my lungs.

I found myself pressed shoulder to shoulder with Amon, hemmed in tight between him and the Dawnguard. Every jolt of the oars rocked me against cold steel, the brush of unfamiliar men in sun-etched armor.

Amon shifted, smooth as silk, angling his body so mine fell into the shadow of his. His arm rested casually along the bench behind me, but there was nothing casual in the way he blocked the others from brushing against me. His frame hemmed me in, a shield that felt less like protection and more like possession.

Uncomfortable heat crawled up my throat. I tried to press into the sliver of space left between us, but his scent closed in like a trap.

My jaw clenched. The words burned at the back of my throat, sharp, ready, venom meant only for him. He smiled, of course he smiled, like he could hear them before I spoke.

The hull shuddered hard, a crack groaning through the wood. Water surged over the rim, icy against my calves.

One soldier’s gauntlet slipped, his body pitching toward the black. Another grabbed him just in time, the boat rocking hard enough to nearly spill us all. 

“Hold it steady!” Celann barked, but his voice cut sharp against rising panic.

“We’re going under!” another soldier cried, fumbling for the side.

The boat lurched again, wood screaming like ribs ready to snap.

Celann’s jaw tightened, his hand darting for the hilt at his hip, as if steel could hold back the sea. But the thought pressed cold against us all: if the boat went under, every ounce of that steel would drag us down with it. Armor turned to chains, weapons to anchors, the sea claiming us before fangs or claws ever could.

Not here. Not like this.

Before panic could rise, I shoved to my knees, thrusting one hand over the water. The cold burned hot in my veins, surging from palm to sea. Ice bloomed outward, crawling along the hull, reinforcing the wood with a jagged sheath of frost.

The groaning stopped. The boat steadied, gliding smoother over the dark water, the silver glint of ice clinging to its sides.

My chest heaved. I sank back onto the bench, knuckles white where they gripped the rim.

The Dawnguard let out ragged breaths, their shoulders easing as the hull held fast. One muttered a quick prayer under his breath, another wiped sweat from his brow, the tension in their armor unwinding if only for a moment. Relief rippled through them like they’d been holding it in all along.

The oars cut steady now, smooth against the water, carrying us across the last stretch. I kept my eyes on the black horizon, my fingers aching where frost still clung to my skin.

When at last the prow scraped sand, I was the first to move. I shoved up from the bench, breaking free of Amon’s shadow, and stepped hard onto the shore. The ground was cold, damp, but solid and it felt like freedom just to put distance between myself and the boat.

Behind me, boots thudded heavy onto the beach. Fen stretched her arms wide with a groan, rolling her shoulders. Oz muttered something about cramped benches and shifted his axe back into place. Even Grodyl and Gabriel untangled themselves stiffly, the satchel knocking against the staff as they clambered out.

The Dawnguard men disembarked last, helmets gleaming faintly in the moonlight. Their movements were rigid, disciplined, but I caught the way their gauntlets flexed, the subtle relief of standing on solid earth again.

Celann was the last to step down, boots sinking into the wet sand. His voice carried low, steady, like steel sharpened against stone.

“Well,” he said, eyes narrowing on the fortress that rose black against the stars, “so this is the den of monsters.”

Fen snorted mid-stretch, rolling her shoulders until the joints cracked. “No…” she drawled, tossing him a look over her shoulder. “That’s called the Sanctuary. We live there.”

Her grin turned sharp, flashing teeth in the moonlight as she planted her fists against her hips. “This—” she jerked her chin toward the looming castle, “—This is a nest of leeches.”

A few of the Dawnguard men shifted, uneasy under her smirk. Oz let out a low rumble of amusement, and even Grodyl barked something like a laugh as he adjusted his cloak.

Amon’s smile thinned. His gaze slid to her, red and blue catching the moonlight, and his voice dropped low.

“Leech, is it? Curious, when you once called it… something sweeter.”

Fen’s mouth tightening before she looked away with a scoff. “That was a mistake.”

Amon only hummed, faint and mocking. “A delicious one.”

My stomach turned. Heat burned sharp at the back of my throat, ugly and unbidden, though I forced my face still.

Amon only hummed, soft and amused, his gaze sliding past Fen to linger, far too long, on me.

The air felt too tight in my lungs. I forced my gaze down, to the slick stones underfoot, anywhere but his eyes.

I told myself I didn’t care, why should I care?

But the thought lodged like glass under skin, sharp and festering. His mouth on her. His hands. His teeth.

I didn’t care.

I didn’t.

Did I?

“Eugh,” Grodyl muttered, wrinkling his nose. His staff clicked sharply against the stone as he turned toward the looming keep. “Can we go now? I’d rather fight vampires than listen to this.”

The Dawnguard shifted uneasily, Celann’s scar tightening with visible disgust.

Focus.

My eyes swept the cliff face, tracing the jagged rise of black rock where sea spray turned everything slick and gleaming. Somewhere along that wall… there. A pale scar in the stone, the faint crack we’d slipped through before.

“There,” I said, pointing. My voice came out harder than I meant, sharp enough to snap heads toward me. “The wall’s split, just wide enough. That’s where we’ll get in.”

The Dawnguard men shifted uneasily, their armor catching stray flecks of moonlight as they squinted at the cliff. Fen followed my hand, brows knitting, and Gabriel muttered under his breath like he could already smell the mold and blood waiting behind those stones.

Celann’s scar tugged as his gaze followed my hand up the cliffside. His voice came out flat, grim as stone.

“We climb that?”

His men grunted low, armor plates clanking as they shifted uneasily. Heavy pauldrons scraped, greaves dug into the rocks as if they could already feel the weight dragging them down. One muttered under his breath, something like a curse swallowed by the waves.

Fen just smirked, rolling her shoulders like a cat limbering for a leap.

“See? That’s why you don’t clank around in tin.” She was already moving before Celann could spit a retort, boots catching the stone, fingers darting for holds with an ease that mocked the men still hesitating below.

She climbed like she’d been born for it, quick, lithe, the dark leather of her armor barely whispering against the cliff. A flash of pale hair, the twist of her wrist, and in what felt like heartbeats she was already pulling herself over the ledge at the crack.

“Too easy,” she called down, voice edged with triumph. She leaned out just enough to flash a grin, one hand braced against the stone, the other flicking in a mocking wave.

The Dawnguard soldiers stared up at her, their armor gleaming dully in the moonlight, and one let out a breath through his teeth. “Show-off.”

Gabriel was next, scaling the cliff with surprising ease, his satchel thudding lightly against his side as he pulled himself up. Grodyl followed, cloak snapping in the wind, staff wedged into cracks like it belonged there. Both of them moved quicker than the Dawnguard, their lighter steps leaving the armored men clanking and cursing below.

By the time Celann and his soldiers hauled themselves over the ledge, breaths ragged and armor scraping, the Brotherhood were already waiting. Fen lounged smugly against the stone, Grodyl shook the dust from his cloak, and Gabriel knelt to check the straps on his satchel.

“Alright,” Gabriel said, his voice cutting clean in the dark. “Before we step inside, everyone drink the poison.”

Oz’s brow furrowed, “You said it wasn’t poison.”

Gabriel’s mouth twitched, something like irritation mixed with exhaustion. “Well, I hadn’t named it yet.”

Fen barked a laugh, sharp and amused. Grodyl only rolled his eyes and took out his vial with a flick of his wrist, muttering something under his breath that sounded like, “Sithis help us.”

Glass clinked soft against gauntlets as the vials were passed down the line. One by one, Dawnguard and Brotherhood alike raised them, grimaces twisting at the bitter taste as they swallowed.

I lifted mine last. The glass was cold between my fingers, the liquid within catching the moonlight like molten silver. My lips had just brushed the rim when Gabriel’s hand caught my wrist.

His eyes were sharp, uncertain, the faint glow of his healing magic still clinging to his palm. “Wait.” His voice was low, almost swallowed by the wind off the sea. “For them, yes, I trust it. But for you…” His gaze flicked to the vial, then back to me. “…this was brewed from your blood. I don’t know what the side effects would be.”

The words landed like a weight in my chest. Everyone else had already swallowed theirs, soldiers wiping their mouths, Fen tossing her empty vial aside with a clang.

And then low, velvet, Amon’s voice slipped through the silence.

“Don’t fret.” His eyes gleamed as his smile curled sharp. “No teeth but mine will ever come near that pretty neck of yours.”

Heat crawled up the back of my throat.

Gabriel’s grip fell away, his brow furrowed, guilt shadowing his face. The vial still hung in my hand, glass cold as ice. For a long moment I just stared at it, the silver swirl catching torchlight like a blade. Then I lowered it, sliding it back into my belt.

“I won’t waste time gambling with side effects,” I said, my voice steadier than I felt. My gaze swept the map carved into memory, the castle’s stone corridors already tightening around me. “Here’s how this goes.”

The Brotherhood straightened, Dawnguard shifted closer, waiting.

“We descend through here. Down into the lower cells. That’s where Arnbjorn is. The Brotherhood comes with me. The moment he breathes free, Grodyl opens the portal and you take him home.”

Fen’s mouth parted to argue, but I cut her off with a sharp look.

My eyes found Amon’s mismatched gaze, burning smug across the dark.

“You’ll go with Dawnguard,” I said, iron in the words. “When Arnbjorn is safe, I’ll join you.”

For a heartbeat, silence. Then Amon’s smile vanished, sharpness flashing instead. He stepped closer, shadows clinging to him like a second skin.

“Absolutely not,” he said, his tone cutting like a blade. “You think I’ll march into the castle and leave you crawling through its belly without me?” His eyes burned, red and blue catching the torchlight. “I am not leaving you.”

The air seemed to cinch tighter around us. Fen shifted uneasily, Gabriel’s brows knit, Grodyl clicked his tongue, and even Celann’s scar twitched with disgust.

I felt every stare, but none heavier than his.

My teeth clenched. Heat crawled up my throat, sharp with the urge to snap.

“Not now, Amon,” I hissed, every syllable tight,

“Nio—”

“Save it,” Fen cut in, voice sharp as her daggers. “We bled beside her long before you crawled from your crypt. She’s with us. Relax.”

Grodyl’s chuckle was low and poisonous. “We are family. And you? You came last. Don’t mistake yourself for more than that.”

The words landed like stones in my chest, dragging me under. Family. A word that once meant warmth, blood, a hearth in the dark. Now it was knives. Eyes everywhere, hands everywhere, always ready to remind me where I belonged and where I didn’t.

I braced for Amon to snarl back at them, to bare teeth and make it worse. But he didn’t. He didn’t so much as glance their way.

His eyes never left mine.

Red and blue, burning steady, pinning me down harder than any chain. The world creaked and shuddered around us, but to him, none of it mattered. Not the Dawnguard’s glares. Not Fen’s bite, nor Grodyl’s poison. Only me.

“You have to guide Celann and his men deeper. Let me do what I must. I’ll survive.”

Behind us, the sound of boots scraped too sharp against stone. One of the Dawnguard men stumbled, breath catching audibly as though he’d been struck. Celann’s head snapped toward him, a sharp hiss of irritation, but the soldier ducked quickly, muttering something that was swallowed by the surf and the wind.

I turned away, forcing my boots toward the cliff wall before Amon could say another word.

I ducked low, slipping inside first. The stone was damp, the smell of moss and rot already clinging to the air. Behind me, Fen followed without hesitation, her daggers catching a glint of moonlight before the dark swallowed us. Grodyl muttered something sharp as he wedged his staff through the gap. Gabriel came after, his satchel brushing the stone with a soft scrape. Oz was last, his bulk nearly grinding the passage wider as he forced his way through.

The crack gave way to the tunnels, narrow and black, every echo carrying like a whisper.

We pressed deeper, the crack narrowing behind us until the sea’s breath was gone. The tunnel ahead yawned silent and black, swallowing the last trace of moonlight. My boots found stone steps slick with moss, the air damp and heavy, every sound swallowed too fast.

It was quiet, too quiet. The kind of silence that clung like a warning.

A sharp tap echoed, Grodyl’s staff against stone. “Enough of this.” he muttered. He lifted his free hand, fingers curling, and fire bloomed in his palm. Small, but alive, the flame licked shadows across the walls, painting the corridor in restless orange.

The fire painted every surface in flicker and shadow, but it was better than blind silence.

The scrape of a boot rang too loud against stone. One of the Dawnguard faltered, the sound cutting through the silence like a crack.

The reply came fast—low, guttural snarls spilling from the dark. Claws skittered on stone, the stink of blood and rot thickening the air.

“Death hounds!” Celann snapped, blade flashing free.

They lunged out of the black, eyes glowing like embers, jaws unhinged.

Fen was already moving. She spun past me in a blur, daggers flashing, her body bending and twisting with impossible ease. She drove one blade deep into a hound’s throat, then pivoted, her heel catching another across the snout. When one of the Dawnguard men froze, shield slack in his grip, she shoved him back with a bark of laughter.

“Up with it, soldier!”

The man’s grip was trembling on the shield.

“Get it together, V!” Celann barked, voice cutting through the clash. His blade split another hound clean through the ribs. “You move or you’re dead weight!”

Grodyl’s staff cracked the stone, fire blooming in a violent burst that lit the hall in roaring orange. Flames swept across matted fur, filling the air with the stench of burning rot.

“Damn,” Grodyl muttered, lips curling in distaste as the creatures shrieked and burned. “They’re even uglier up close.”

Gabriel hung back, hands glowing faint with restoration, his satchel clinking with glass. “Hold steady!” he called, throwing light against a soldier’s bleeding arm.

Amon tore through the melee like shadow given teeth, fangs flashing, claws raking deep. He moved with unnatural speed, one hound’s skull cracking beneath his grip, another thrown back into the wall with a sickening snap.

Celann’s silver blade sheared clean through a hound’s neck, black blood spraying across the stone.

At his back, Oz’s axe split another from shoulder to spine, the crack echoing like thunder.

“You swing clean.” Celann muttered, shifting to meet the next lunge.

Oz caught the strike on his axe-haft, snarling as he shoved the beast away. His mouth tugged into something like a grin. “I swing harder.”

I ducked a lunge, steel biting deep into slick hide, and shoved the carcass free with a boot. Another hound barreled toward one of the Dawnguard at my side, and together we met it, his shield slamming against its jaw while my blade carved into its belly.

The last creature fell twitching, fire licking at its mangled body until the corridor fell silent once more.

Our breaths hung heavy in the dark. Fen twirled a dagger, grinning at the wide-eyed Dawnguard she’d shoved earlier. “Still breathing?”

For a moment, only breathing filled the dark, ragged, uneven, the sound of men who knew this was just the beginning.

Celann wiped his blade clean with one swift motion, eyes snapping to the soldier who had faltered.

“They were only death hounds,” he said, voice cutting sharp as steel. “Not even half of what we’ll face inside. I don’t want you freezing again!”

The soldier stiffened, helmet dipping low. “Y-yes, sir.”

Celann’s glare lingered another heartbeat before he turned back to the rest of us. “We move.”

The corridor stretched on, Grodyl’s flame our only guide. The silence pressed in close, broken only by the rasp of armor and the occasional clink of Gabriel’s vials. Dawnguard boots followed in rhythm, heavier, slower, their sun-emblazoned armor catching dull sparks of firelight.

We rounded a corner and the air shifted, colder, rank with damp stone. The stairwell loomed ahead, collapsed halfway, jagged stone spilling like broken teeth. The upper steps still climbed toward the halls above, fractured but intact. The lower descent twisted into shadow, the way I remembered, chains, cells, the stench of blood that clung like rot.

I stopped, the Brotherhood halting with me. Amon’s presence burned just behind my shoulder, Dawnguard steel filling the corridor with their weight.

I turned, voice steady, though the crack in the stair gaped like a wound between us.

“This is where we split.”

Fen’s eyes narrowed, but she said nothing. Grodyl’s flame flared once, as if it knew the truth of my words.

I pointed downward, to the broken steps spiraling into the dark. “The cells are two floors below.” My gaze swept over my family, each of them silent shadows at my back. “We go down.”

Then I raised my chin toward the fractured steps climbing higher. “The upper levels lead into the castle. That’s where you go,” my eyes found Amon’s mismatched ones, burning in the half-light.

The silence cut sharp as steel.

Oz shifted beside me, axe across his shoulder, scar cut deep in the glow of Grodyl’s flame. He looked square at the Dawnguard men, then inclined his head, voice rumbling low.

“May shadows keep you.” he said, the Brotherhood’s words carried rough but sure.

Celann’s gaze swept us, steady as a blade point. He answered without hesitation, voice like stone on steel.

“And may the light guide you.” he returned, Dawnguard creed clipped and final.

The words hung in the dark, stark as banners. Two paths, two faiths, split by a shattered stair.

The Dawnguard men began their climb, armor clanking faintly as they hauled themselves up the fractured stair. Celann followed close behind.

I turned toward the broken steps that spiraled down, ready to lead my family into the cells—

But a hand caught my wrist. Cold, unyielding.

Amon.

His eyes fixed on me as if the rest of the world had vanished. His voice was low, velvet cut with steel, meant only for me.

“Come back to me.”

Oh, fuck. Not here. Not with all of them watching.

The words hit like a blade under my ribs. For one heartbeat I wanted to believe him. To fall into the promise and let it keep me. Shame surged hot right after, twisting with anger, exhaustion, everything I couldn’t afford to feel.

My breath stuttered. I wrenched my wrist free before the weakness could root any deeper, forcing myself down into the dark before I shattered.

And still, even there, the echo of his voice followed me.

 

To be continued…

Chapter 79: Chapter 79

 

The stair spiraled down into damp black, every step dragging us deeper into the keep’s gut. Stone slick with moss caught at my boots, the air thick with the stink of rusted chains and rot. Blood had dried here long ago, but the walls still remembered it.

Fen moved at the front, daggers loose in her hands, her dark hair bound in tight braids that swung lightly with each step. She didn’t walk so much as coil, every shift of her body was fluid, spring-loaded, like she was already half a breath from flipping into a fight.

Behind her, Grodyl leaned on his staff, the carved runes glowing faint against the damp walls. His jaw was clenched, eyes narrowed, the flame in his palm painting restless shadows across the stone.

Gabriel followed close, the quiet clink of glass from his satchel marking his steps. His crossbow was still strapped across his back, one hand brushing the strap as though measuring its weight.

Oz came last, his boots striking slow and heavy, axe balanced across his shoulder. He carried his helm under his arm, scarred face set like carved stone, every step the rhythm of a drumbeat marching to war.

The stair flattened into a narrow tunnel, black and tight, the air pressing colder against our lungs.

Fen’s hand snapped up, halting us.

The growl came first. Low. Wet. Crawling out of the dark until it sat heavy in our chests. Then claws scraped stone, and the stink of carrion thickened.

Death hounds.

They burst forward in a rush, jaws frothing rot, eyes ember-red in Grodyl’s firelight.

“Be ready.” I hissed, sword lifting.

Fen was suddenly at my side, her daggers gleaming like fangs of their own. She grinned at me through the dark, wild and steady all at once.

“Like the good old days, sister?” she murmured, low enough for only me.

A sharp, cold knot pulled in my chest because she was right. We had fought together before, bled shoulder to shoulder. I knew her rhythm like I knew my own breath. And she knew me.

The first hound lunged, and we moved as one.

Fen threw herself forward, body snapping into a flip so quick she was a blur in the firelight. Her heel smashed into the beast’s jaw, bone crunching loud enough to rattle the tunnel. She landed in a crouch as it reeled, her dagger already driving into the thick muscle at its chest. The scream cut short when she twisted, carving through tendons until its whole side went slack.

Another lunged for her flank. My sword split across its snout, spraying rot and gore. Fen cartwheeled in the air, both daggers flashing down. One punched through the beast’s eye, the other into the muscle under its foreleg. It collapsed twitching, pinned under her weight until she ripped free.

“Still got it!” she barked, laughter spilling bright and feral as she twisted in the gore. Her braid slapped blood across her cheek, and she licked it away without breaking stride.

I struck beside her, my blade severing a hound’s throat in a hot spray. She was already there to meet the next, flipping over its back, landing with both daggers buried in its spine.

We cut together and for a breath the world narrowed into the rhythm of our blades.

This, after all, was what we were made for.

Fen’s eyes met mine in the chaos, fever-bright, blood painting her lips like a grin. “Dance with me!” she shouted, voice wild with joy.

And so I did.

Her body was acrobatics and cruelty, flipping, twisting, cutting where the tendons bound flesh together. My strikes were brutal and direct, severing heads, splitting bone, kicking bodies aside.

We pivoted together, back to back.

Her laugh rang sharp in my ear, bright as glass breaking. “Keep up, sister!”

One beast lunged between us, jaws snapping, claws reaching. Fen vaulted up my shoulder like I was a stepping stone, her heel smashing into its temple. The crack echoed as I shoved my blade through its ribs, twisting hard until it fell twitching at our boots.

She landed in front of me, grinning wild, her lips split with blood. “Perfect!” she cried, eyes fever-bright, as though every scream was music to her.

The last hound collapsed twitching, Fen’s dagger buried to the hilt in its skull, my blade punching through its ribcage in the same heartbeat. Its death rattle echoed wet down the tunnel before silence claimed it.

“Necessary.” I corrected, shaking gore from the blade.

From behind us, Grodyl’s voice slithered through the quiet.

“Well,” he said dryly, staff tapping once against the stone, “if you two are finished showing off…”

Fen shot him a grin over her shoulder, dagger dripping in her hand. “Don’t get jealous. When we’re out of here, maybe I’ll teach you how to throw a knife.”

His snort was sharp, humorless. “Spare me.”

Oz shifted his axe onto his shoulder, rumble low in his chest. “Enough chatter. Let’s move.”

The tunnel answered before any of us could.

A scrape. A hiss. Claws raked across stone, fast, skittering. Eyes burned in the dark, not low and ember-red this time. Brighter. Hungrier.

I knew the voices.

The ferals were coming.

The scrape grew louder, claws dragging across stone, the stink of rot thickening with every breath. Shadows crawled along the walls, too tall, too fast.

Fen spun her dagger in a lazy twirl, smirking.

“Stay sharp.” I muttered, blade rising.

Grodyl’s sigh cut across the tension, dry as old parchment.

“If you’ll allow me, ladies…” He lifted his staff, runes blazing, and flicked his wrist. A firebolt screamed down the tunnel, the blast lighting up snarling faces just before it hit. Flesh split and blackened, screams echoing off stone as the first of the ferals crumpled in burning heaps.

The others shrieked in fury, pouring forward faster.

“Stamina,” Gabriel’s voice snapped beside us, sharp and sure. Two vials gleamed in his hands, glass catching the firelight as he tossed them cleanly through the dark. Fen caught hers without looking, popping the cork with her teeth, while mine slapped into my palm cold and slick.

“Drink,” he ordered, already slinging his crossbow from his back. “You’ll need it.”

The glass burned down my throat like frost and flame all at once, heat unfurling in my limbs, steadying the ache in my muscles.

Fen licked her lips, grin blood-bright. “Just what I needed.”

The tunnel erupted as the feral vampires closed in, claws flashing, jaws gaping, bodies crawling across walls and ceiling.

Oz braced himself in the middle, axe gleaming, every muscle drawn taut.

Fen was already moving. “Lend me a hand, big man!” she barked, and before he could answer, she was sprinting up his side like he was a wall.

His arm shot out, catching her by the waist, and for a heartbeat it looked like a dance, her dark braids whipping as he spun her in the air. Then he threw.

Fen dropped from his shoulders like a dagger loosed from the gods. Her laugh rang wild as she crashed down onto the first feral, both blades burying deep into its collar and chest. Blood sprayed in a hot arc as she rode it to the stone, ripping free in a wet flourish.

Another lunged for her flank. Oz’s axe cleaved it from shoulder to hip before it touched her. Fen kicked off the corpse, flipping sideways, landing against his broad back in perfect step. He turned with her, his bulk the pivot to her mad dance.

“See, sister?” she shouted over the shrieks, her voice wild with glee. “We all can dance!”

Blood steamed between them, claws kept at bay by his wall of steel and her blur of flashing daggers. For a moment, it wasn’t just killing, it was performance, savage and perfect.

I cut down one that lunged for Fen’s back, my blade slicing through its chest, but my eyes weren’t on the bodies. Not fully.

More would come. There were always more.

I forced myself to breathe through the stench of blood and smoke, to trace the layout in my head. Stone corridors, the spiral of the stair, the narrowing passages. I’d been here before.

Another feral lunged. I shoved steel up beneath its chin, yanking the blade free in a rush of black gore. My boots slipped on the blood-slick floor as I pushed past its twitching corpse, forcing my mind to hold the memory.

We couldn’t drown here in endless waves. We had to cut through.

Fen’s laughter jolted behind me, bright and manic. Oz’s growl followed, his axe crunching bone like thunder.

But my focus stayed on the map carved into memory, every step of the stone pulling me closer.

The last feral twitched on the stone, Fen’s dagger buried to the hilt in its gut. Oz tore his axe free from another’s chest with a wet crack, blood running down the blade in sheets. Grodyl’s fire still hissed on the walls, charred corpses smoking where they’d fallen.

For a breath, the tunnel fell still. Only our ragged breathing, only the drip of blood.

Fen licked crimson from her lips, grinning wild. “And I was just starting to enjoy myself.”

“Don’t get comfortable,” I cut in, my voice low, flat. My hand dragged along the damp stone, forcing memory into shape, left turn, broken gate, narrow stretch, cells ahead. I could almost hear the chains. “More will come.”

Their eyes slid to me, still fevered from the fight, but they followed as I pushed forward.

“We have to move.” I said, keeping my voice steady, louder this time.

Oz hefted his axe onto his shoulder, his mouth a grim line. Grodyl only muttered under his breath, staff tapping against the stone as his flame dimmed to a glow. Gabriel fell back in step, vials clinking faintly at his side, his gaze fixed forward.

The tunnel widened into a corridor I knew too well. My boots slowed, the blood in my veins colder than the stone around us.

The ice was still there.

It shimmered faintly under Grodyl’s glow, frozen slick across the floor where the fight had ended. The frost hadn’t melted, jagged scars etched into the stone, gleaming silver-blue like a wound that refused to close.

I could still hear it if I let myself. Feron’s voice breaking against the walls, Amon’s claws tearing, my breath shattering in my throat.

Fen’s shoulder brushed mine, snapping me back. She tilted her head, smirk tugging at her lips. “You’ve been here before.”

I swallowed, the taste of iron heavy in my mouth. “Yes.”

The others said nothing, but I felt their eyes on me as we stepped forward. My boots slipped on the frozen stone, the shimmer catching the light like it remembered everything.

The corridor narrowed again ahead, darker still, leading us down.

No guards. No hounds. No ferals clinging to the walls. Just silence, thick enough to crawl under your skin.

My steps slowed, blade tight in my grip. Every instinct screamed. This place was not unguarded. Never abandoned.

“Too quiet,” Grodyl muttered, his staff scraping softly against the stone. His firelight cast long, restless shadows through the corridor. “Far too quiet.”

Fen tilted her head, eyes bright, smirk sharp as ever. “Maybe they heard us coming and ran.”

Oz only growled low, not believing a word of it, his knuckles tightening on his axe.

I looked at each of them in turn, my chest heavy. “Stay here. I’ll check the cells.”

Gabriel stepped forward, voice taut. “Nio—”

“Stay.” My tone cut harder than I meant, but I couldn’t let them follow. Not into this. The hairs at the back of my neck rose with every breath. Suspicion was thick in the air, crawling down the spine like cold water.

Fen raised a brow, still grinning, though there was a flicker of unease behind it. “Go on then. But shout if they bite.”

I drew a deeper breath and stepped forward, each footfall echoing against the iron doors.

Something was wrong.

Very wrong.

The air grew colder the deeper I stepped, every breath damp with rust and mold. The others held back, their shapes barely lit in Grodyl’s glow. I didn’t look back.

Memory stitched itself back together, Amon’s grip, his pull through the dark, the scrape of chains, the stink of sweat and blood.

I let myself follow it, step by step, like a map carved into my bones.

Three doors on the left, two collapsed. The next —

There.

I slowed, every step lighter, quieter, as if the silence itself could break if I pressed too hard. The corridor listened. I didn’t dare give it more to hear.

My breath dragged shallow, my blade angled low.

The iron door loomed before me, its hinges eaten with rust. My hand tightened on the bars as I leaned close, the stink of mold and sweat thick in the air.

And then I saw him.

Arnbjorn.

Curled in the corner, chains still biting into his wrists, head slumped forward against his chest. His chest—

I couldn’t see it move.

For a heartbeat the world went silent.

No.

My grip rattled the bars, breath tearing fast, shallow. “Arnbjorn.” My voice cracked the way it hadn’t in years, raw and small.

I pressed closer, fingers white against the rust. His body didn’t stir. His shoulders didn’t rise. The thought carved through me like steel,

I’m too late.

“Arnbjorn!—” My voice broke, raw in my throat.

I forced my eyes shut for half a heartbeat, then snapped them open, spinning back toward the hallway.

“Gabriel!” The name ripped from me, harsher than I meant, cracked with fear. 

He was already moving, boots striking quick, the clink of his satchel bouncing against the stone. His crossbow swung behind his shoulder as he pushed past Fen and Grodyl without a word, eyes locked on me.

I didn’t wait. Couldn’t.

Cold surged hot through my veins as I grabbed the bars, frost blooming from my palms. The iron groaned, freezing solid in heartbeats, shards of ice crawling down its length. My chest heaved, breath white in the air, and then I kicked.

The door screamed, hinges snapping, rust and ice shattering together in a thundercrack. The whole frame buckled inward, clanging against the wall before collapsing in a spray of frost.

I stumbled through before the sound even faded, boots crunching over shards.

I dropped to my knees beside Arnbjorn, fingers trembling as I reached for his shoulder. He was cold. Too cold. His head lolled forward, chains rattling against the wall, and for one heartbeat the silence in his chest hollowed me out.

“No, no, no—” My voice tore raw, and I shook him harder, ice cracking beneath my grip. “Don’t you do this to me. Do you hear me? You don’t die here!”

Gabriel’s boots thudded in after me, the satchel already clinking as he tore it open.

“Step back. Let me see him.”

I couldn’t move. My body was stuck as if letting go would let the world swallow Arnbjorn whole.

Gabriel dropped beside me, satchel open, vials clinking faint as his hands moved quick and sure. He pressed fingers to Arnbjorn’s throat, leaned close, listening. His face was stone, unreadable in the half-light.

I couldn’t breathe.

What are we going to tell Astrid?

The thought hit harder than any blade. My chest seized, stomach twisting sharp. Astrid’s face, her voice, the weight of her trust crashed over me like a wave, drowning. If he was gone, if I had led us too late—

“She’ll never forgive me.” I rasped, words spilling too fast, too jagged.

My fingers gripped Arnbjorn’s arm, shaking him as if I could drag breath back into him by sheer will. His head only lolled, chains rattling dully against the stone.

I will never forgive me.

Gabriel’s jaw tightened as he shifted his hand, pressing harder against Arnbjorn’s throat, then to his chest, searching.

I leaned close, breath trembling, ice biting into my palms where they held him. “Don’t you dare leave me with her hatred.”

Boots pounded behind us. The others crowded into the cell, shadows filling the doorway.

Oz’s voice split the air like thunder.

“Brother!”

The word boomed from him, rough and desperate, echoing off the stone until the walls themselves seemed to shake. His axe clattered to the floor as he dropped to his knees beside Arnbjorn, massive hands hovering uselessly, shaking with fury and fear.

Fen slipped in close too, her smirk gone, eyes sharp and unsettled. “Shit…” she breathed, low, the word catching in her throat.

Grodyl lingered in the doorway, staff braced against the floor, his eyes narrowed in grim silence. Even he had no bite for this.

I clutched Arnbjorn tighter, my breath ragged. His head stayed bowed, his chest still.

Oz’s voice dropped, breaking. “Don’t you leave us, brother. Not like this.”

It’s my fault.

The thought sank in like a blade, twisting deeper with every heartbeat. If he’s dead, it’s because of me. I left him. I ran without him. I should have stayed. I should have dragged him out myself.

My breath faltered, chest tight, throat burning. The cold pressed down harder, crawling under my skin until I shook with it.

Gabriel’s hand pushed against my shoulder, grounding, steady. His other hovered above Arnbjorn’s chest, and light spilled from his fingers. Soft, pulsing green, it spread like veins of fire through the dark, crawling over torn skin, sinking into the broken weight of him.

I pressed my forehead to Arnbjorn’s shoulder, eyes shut against the burn, every nerve straining for a sign.

Don’t let it be me. Don’t let it be my fault.

Gabriel’s glow flared brighter, his jaw tight as he forced the magic deeper. Oz knelt close, fists clenched uselessly, his voice a low rumble of prayer or threat, I couldn’t tell which.

The world narrowed to that silence, that unbroken stillness.

Then Grodyl’s voice cut through, dry and taut.

“Something’s coming.”

It wasn’t loud, but it was enough to make the air snap cold.

Fen’s head whipped toward the corridor. Oz’s growl deepened, low and dangerous, as he reached for his axe with one massive hand. Even Gabriel’s glow flickered for a heartbeat, his eyes darting toward the doorway before he snapped them back on Arnbjorn.

My grip tightened on the chains. My heart slammed, panic swelling sharp and choking.

The scrape of claws echoed faint down the passage, too steady to be just rats. Armor shifted. A hiss slithered through the dark.

I forced myself up from Arnbjorn’s side, blood roaring in my ears. He still hadn’t stirred. The glow from Gabriel’s hands clung stubbornly to his chest, fighting to keep him tethered.

“Listen to me.” My voice cut hard through the tension, sharper than I felt inside. I pointed the blade at Oz. “You stay with him. Don’t let anything touch him.”

His head snapped toward me, scar catching the green glow. “You think I’d move?” His voice thundered, rough as stone. “Over my dead body.”

“Good.” My gaze snapped to Gabriel. He looked up, sweat streaking his brow, light still pulsing under his palm. “You guard them both. Keep them breathing.”

He gave a single, clipped nod, jaw tight.

I turned to Fen and Grodyl. Fen’s grin was already bright and feral, daggers gleaming in her hands. Grodyl’s staff burned steady, his eyes narrowed into the dark like he’d been waiting for this.

“They’ll come through that corridor,” I said, my chest heaving, the taste of rust and fear sharp on my tongue. “We meet them. Don’t let them reach the cell.”

Fen twirled a dagger, smirk curling. “Finally.”

Grodyl bared his teeth in something close to a smile.

The scrape of claws echoed closer, a dozen shadows shifting in the dark. I could almost feel their hunger pressing down the corridor toward us.

My grip tightened on the blade. I turned, sharp, to Grodyl.

“Let’s do that trick.”

His brows lifted, then his mouth curled thin. “Ah. That one.” He tapped his staff against the stone, runes blazing brighter. “With pleasure.”

I stepped forward, thrusting my palm toward the floor. Frost surged hot through my veins, blooming outward in a jagged sheet across the stone. Ice spread in seconds, crawling up the walls, sealing the corridor in a slick coat that glittered in his firelight.

“Now.” I snapped.

Grodyl slammed his staff down, fire roaring from its tip. The blaze tore across the ice in a single breath, a violent hiss splitting the air.

The corridor exploded into white. Steam burst upward, thick and rolling, a choking fog that swallowed stone and shadow alike.

Mist billowed through the passage, curling around the bars, spilling over us in waves. The snarls from ahead faltered, their footsteps clattering uncertain as the haze blinded them.

Fen’s grin flashed through the fog, daggers loose at her sides. “Beautiful.”

Shadows wavered in the haze, stretched thin, untrustworthy. The ferals hissed back, their claws skittering on stone as they slowed, snarls breaking uneasy.

“Where are they?” one rasped, voice cracking.

The answer came in blood.

Fen moved first, a blur in the mist, she sprang from the fog like a dagger given flesh. One blade punched into the hollow of a throat, the other severed a tendon at the knee. The vampire collapsed choking, limbs useless, its scream gurgling as she melted back into white.

Another stumbled, head snapping side to side, but I was already there. My blade slid beneath his ribs, through the lung, twisting as I pulled him into the fog with me. His blood hit the stone in a hot spray, swallowed whole by the mist.

Grodyl’s staff flared, not with fire, but with a low, ember glow. Just enough to cast false shadows through the haze, silhouettes dancing, multiplying. The ferals hissed and slashed at nothing, their claws raking only stone.

“Too easy!” Fen laughed, her voice darting sharp from somewhere ahead. Another cry rang out, and then silence.

I slipped forward again, every step muffled by the steam, every breath tight with copper. One vampire blundered too close, claws raised, I met him with steel across the belly, and Fen’s dagger flashed through the fog at the same moment, slitting his throat from the other side. We ripped free together, his body falling between us, blood painting the white mist red.

They never saw us. Only the glint of blades before death.

This was our element.

Shadows, silence, slaughter.

The fog was theirs to fear.

Another body hit the stone with a wet crack. Fen twirled her dagger in delight, grinning wild as her braid swung red. Grodyl’s staff flared low, shadows twisting false in the mist. My blade split through another throat, blood misting across my cheek.

And then—

A new voice, deep and rough, rolled through the corridor like thunder.

“Enough skulkin’, little rats.”

The mist seemed to still around the words. Heavy footsteps struck the stone, calm, unhurried.

Through the haze, a broad figure emerged, furs draped over armor black with dried blood, a greatsword strapped across his back. His eyes gleamed red as coals, teeth flashing sharp in a sneer.

Borald.

The Nord vampire’s voice carried that gravelled weight of Skyrim’s mountains, rough with disdain. “Was fun watchin’ you gut the weak ones… but the game ends here.”

He spread his arms wide, fog curling around him. The feral vampires that remained slunk back at his presence, their snarls dimming into uneasy hisses.

Fen licked blood from her lip, daggers twitching eager in her grip. “Finally. Someone worth cutting.”

Borald’s gauntlet slammed against the stone and the mist exploded into nothing, shredded away in a hiss of steam.

And he was there.

Before any of us could blink, Borald was in front of Fen. One heartbeat she grinned in triumph, the next his hand was locked around her throat, lifting her clean off the floor.

Her dagger slipped, clattering against the stone. Her boots kicked, scraping air, but his grip was iron, his sneer cruel.

“Still laughin’ now, girl?” he rumbled, voice deep as a mountain breaking. “Dance out o’ this.”

Fen gagged, blood-slick fingers clawing at his gauntlet as the rest of us closed in.

“Let her go!” Grodyl’s snarl split the air, staff snapping forward. A firebolt shrieked down the corridor, bright and searing—

—but a feral leapt into its path. The blast slammed into its chest, bursting it apart in fire and gore. It collapsed smoldering at Borald’s boots, and he didn’t even flinch.

His grip tightened on Fen’s throat, drawing her face close to his. His voice was a growl, breath cold against her skin.

“Maybe I should take a bite instead. Tear that laughter out of you.”

Fen’s eyes blazed, lips curling into a blood-bright grin despite the choke. Her voice rasped through clenched teeth, sharp as her daggers.

“Do it, motherfucker.”

Her laugh broke ragged in her throat, but it was still laughter. Defiant and daring.

Borald’s eyes gleamed bright crimson, his sneer curling into something crueler. His fangs bared, and before any of us could move, he struck.

They sank into Fen’s throat with a wet crunch.

Her body jolted hard in his grip, blood spilling down her collar as his mouth locked deep. The sound was sickening, a guttural pull, a feeding frenzy dressed in silence.

“Fen!” My voice ripped raw from my chest, useless in the air. I tried to move, but my boots felt rooted in stone, every muscle caught between fury and horror.

The potion. Father, please, let it work.

The growl in Borald’s chest broke into a gagging snarl, his body jerking as though fire had flooded his veins. His grip on Fen faltered, the strength in his hand shaking as he staggered.

Fen gagged, coughing blood, but her laugh broke sharp through it, wild and triumphant. “What’s the matter?” she rasped, eyes blazing. “Burn going down?”

Borald wrenched back, spitting crimson across the stone. His face twisted, crimson eyes flaring in rage, fangs still wet with her blood. He heaved like poison burned in his gut, snarling deep enough to shake the corridor.

“You—” he spat, voice breaking rough, “what did you feed her?”

Behind me, Grodyl’s voice rang steady, low and grim. “A gift. One you’ll choke on if you try again.”

Borald’s gaze snapped to him, fury bright as a blade.

Fen wrenched free, collapsing to her knees, her hand clamped tight to her bleeding throat. Even half-drowned in blood, she was grinning through the pain.

Borald spat blood onto the stone, the sound wet and vicious, then straightened to his full height. His gauntlet wiped his mouth slow, deliberate, as if the burn meant nothing.

With a roar he hurled Fen aside. She slammed into the wall, braid streaked red, sliding down in a smear. Even choking, she still grinned.

Borald didn’t look at her again. His crimson gaze fixed on Gabriel.

“You and your tricks,” he rumbled.

He drew his greatsword free with a hiss of steel, the blade gleaming as if it drank the firelight itself.

His lips curled back, calm now, cruel.

“Won’t matter. When I cut you open and drain you dry… I’ll wring every drop out of your veins till there’s nothin’ left to stand on.”

He rolled his shoulders once, casual, his sword resting easy in his grip like this wasn’t a fight, but an execution he’d already decided on.

“Then,” he growled, a savage grin flashing white, “we’ll see who’s left laughin’.”

I raised my blade, forcing my legs to steady, though every nerve screamed.

Borald’s greatsword slammed down, the force rattling through my arms as I caught it on my blade. Sparks hissed off steel, the weight of him pressing like a mountain.

My dagger flashed in my other hand, slipping low. I slashed for the gaps in his armor, fast, but he twisted, the edge grazing only leather before his gauntlet snapped out, backhanding the blow aside.

“I’ve got you!” Grodyl barked behind me. His staff cracked the stone. A shimmer of blue light flared across my armor, a ward wrapping over my skin just as Borald’s blade bore down.

The impact rang like a bell, sparks scattering as the ward held. My chest heaved, rage and fear choking me.

He surged forward, blade sweeping wide, meant to cleave me in two. I ducked under, the wind of it cutting close enough to tear my braid loose, and drove my dagger into his thigh. It bit shallow, scraping steel, but enough to make him snarl.

I spun, bringing my sword up in a vicious arc. Borald caught it on his own, steel clashing loud in the narrow hall, but my dagger was already darting for his ribs. He twisted again, gauntlet snapping down to grab my wrist, his grip crushing.

“You have spirit,” he growled, breath hot against my face as his strength bore down. “Shame it’ll spill out of you so easy.”

The ward at my chest shimmered, Grodyl snarling incantations behind me, fighting to keep the magic wrapped around me as Borald’s weight pushed harder.

My blade locked with his, my dagger straining against his grip. My breath came ragged, my teeth bared. “Try.”

Borald’s weight crashed against me, his greatsword grinding down on mine, my dagger straining useless in his iron grip. My arms shook, teeth clenched, every muscle burning just to keep from being split in half.

Behind me, Grodyl’s voice cracked through the chaos, sharp as a whip.

“Gabriel! On Fen — now!”

I risked a glance, Fen was slumped against the wall, one hand pressed to her throat, blood spilling between her fingers in steady streams. Her braid stuck to her cheek, her grin pale now, trembling, but still there.

Through the haze of steel and snarls, I saw Gabriel move. The glow over Arnbjorn faltered, dimming as he tore free from the cell. His satchel swung hard against his side, vials clinking as he sprinted across the corridor.

My heart lurched, but there was no time to think—

Borald’s blade crashed down against, my sword screaming under its weight. My dagger darted up, scraping across the plates at his side. He was faster than a mountain of steel had any right to be, his gauntlet snapping for my throat.

I twisted, barely dodging, catching the stink of blood and rot off his breath. My shoulders slammed the wall, my blade locking against his once more, the weight of him bearing down like a storm.

Behind him, Gabriel dropped to his knees beside Fen, the green glow of restoration already flaring in his hands. Her body slumped against the wall, blood spilling through her fingers.

Hold on, I thought, forcing the blade up through sheer will, sparks flaring as steel ground against steel.

Both of you, just hold on.

Borald’s weight pinned me against the wall, his blade grinding mine down inch by inch. His breath was hot with blood and rot, his words striking harder than his steel.

“Where’s your pet monster now, eh? Not here to pull you from the fire this time.” he sneered, lips curling back from his fangs. “Seems we were wrong. He didn’t tear you open, he just left you here to rot and ran. Like he always does.”

The words hollowed me out. My arms shook, blade slipping, my dagger useless in his crushing grip. Fen choking on her own blood. Arnbjorn cold and still. Gabriel split between them. All because of me. I should never have led them here.

My chest heaved, the panic clawing up my throat like chains tightening—

I failed. I failed them all.

The bile burned my throat. My arms shook like they were made of glass.

My knees buckled. Borald’s laughter thundered, cruel and triumphant.

Then the world shook.

A roar split the air, deep, feral, bone-shaking. The sound rattled the walls, sent dust raining from the ceiling.

The cell behind us exploded in a spray of stone and splintered iron.

And out of it surged a beast of muscle and fur, eyes burning like coals. A werewolf, massive, snarling, claws tearing grooves into the floor.

Arnbjorn?

No.

Thats was…

Oz.

His roar drowned Borald’s laughter in an instant. The great Nord vampire’s grin faltered as the wolf’s shadow fell across the corridor.

Fen coughed blood, but her grin sharpened. “Go on then, bite that.”

 

To be continued…

Notes:

If Fen’s fight scenes felt a little too much like a bloody, feral performance… blame “Just Dance” (cover by First to Eleven) blasting on repeat in the background while writing. This chapter is sponsored by chaos, daggers, and Gaga.

Chapter 80: Chapter 80

 

For one heartbeat my chest cracked open, relief and terror tangling sharp. Relief, because he wasn’t lost to us. Terror, because now he was something else entirely. A weapon none of us could hold back once it was loosed.

Borald’s strength wavered, just enough that I shoved free and staggered back, breath tearing hot and raw from my throat. My blade hung in front of me, but my eyes weren’t on him anymore. They were on Oz, massive shoulders heaving, eyes burning coal-bright.

And the ferals, they knew. Their snarls broke uneasy, some retreating a step as the shadow of him fell over the corridor.

For a single, ragged breath, everything stopped. Borald’s laughter swallowed in the roar still echoing through the stone. The scent of blood, fire, frost, and fur choking the air.

This wasn’t the fight anymore. This was the storm before it broke.

Borald’s sneer curled back into place, though I caught the twitch in his jaw, the way his crimson eyes flicked over the beast like he was measuring it.

“Well, well…” his voice rolled low, rough as gravel sliding down a cliff. “Didn’t think your little band had the balls to bring a wolf to heel.”

Oz’s answer was another roar, sharp enough to rattle the stone, spraying spittle across the floor as his claws tore deeper grooves into the rock.

And then he moved.

He launched forward in a blur of fur and muscle, claws outstretched, the sheer weight of him shaking the floor. Borald barely twisted in time, his greatsword swinging up to catch the swipe. The impact cracked like thunder, steel screaming under the weight of claw.

I surged in at Oz’s flank. My blade flashed for Borald’s ribs while the wolf kept him pinned. He blocked one strike, but not both, the edge of my dagger carved through leather at his side, black blood spraying hot against my arm.

Borald snarled, teeth bared, and shoved back hard. For a heartbeat the corridor was nothing but sparks and fury, claw against steel, my blade striking in the gaps Oz tore open.

Borald’s eyes darted past me, crimson fire catching the shadows. His sneer twisted into something crueler. “You think two against one will save you?” His voice rose, booming through the tunnel. “Come then, carrion! Tear them apart!”

The ferals shrieked, their hunger boiling over. Red eyes lit across the walls as they crawled forward on claws and teeth, filling the corridor with a rising chorus of snarls.

My chest seized.

Too many.

Oz spun, roaring at them, the sound reverberating like a battle horn. The ferals faltered, claws scraping stone, their bodies twitching at the weight of his presence, but Borald was already moving.

He broke toward them, greatsword slamming against the wall in a shower of sparks. “Now!” he bellowed, his command ripping through their frenzy like a whip.

The horde surged.

My eyes snapped past the wall of snarling fangs and claws, to where Gabriel crouched with Fen slumped against him. She was still laughing, still feral through the blood drowning her throat, but she was helpless. He was too, hands glowing green, desperate, his crossbow abandoned.

Defenseless.

“No.”

The word ripped raw from my chest. My hand slammed to the ground, frost surging hot through my veins. Ice burst outward in jagged shards, climbing the stone like living glass. In heartbeats the corridor split, a wall of frozen spines spiking from floor to ceiling, sealing Gabriel and Fen behind it.

Their faces vanished in the white shimmer, safe, cut off from the tide. The ferals shrieked as they smashed against the ice, claws screeching useless over the slick surface.

I dragged myself upright, breath tearing, blade ready in my fist. My heart hammered like I’d just ripped it from my chest and frozen it into the wall.

“Over my dead body.” I snarled, planting myself between them and the horde.

Oz roared beside me, massive body lunging into the first wave, claws raking through flesh and bone. Blood sprayed hot across the ice, steaming where it hit.

Borald’s laughter split the air again, cruel and booming. “Hide your little pets. It won’t matter. I’ll cut through you, and then I’ll feed them your pieces.”

He charged.

And the ferals followed, a tide of hunger crashing against steel, claw, and frost.

Blue light flared at my chest.

Grodyl’s ward snapped into place stronger, heatless fire wrapping my armor, taking the sting from Borald’s strikes. Behind me, bolts screamed into the mob, burning flesh, bursting bodies into heaps of ash and gore.

“Do not falter!” Grodyl barked, his staff cracking the stone as fire and ice split from its tip. Each blast tore ferals apart, painting the walls with smoke and blood. But for every one he dropped, two more skittered over the corpses, claws scraping closer.

One nearly broke through. Grodyl hissed, shoving the staff forward, fire bursting hot enough to sear it back. His jaw clenched. His teeth ground.

“Enough.”

The word was low, venomous. He planted the staff into the ground with a final slam and left it there.

His hands rose, bare fingers gleaming with runes that weren’t carved in wood but into his very skin. Magic bled from him in waves, brighter, hotter, sharper than anything the staff could hold. Fire arced across one palm, lightning crackled from the other, his cloak snapping in the storm he birthed.

The ferals hesitated. Even Borald glanced past me, eyes narrowing.

And then Grodyl’s hands snapped forward. Fire roared, lightning screamed, and the corridor became a furnace. The first wave of ferals exploded under the blast, blood and ash flung wide, the survivors shrieking as the storm ripped through them.

Borald’s greatsword came down in a brutal arc, sparks hissing as it bit against my blade. Oz slammed into him from the side, claws raking down his pauldron, tearing leather and steel like parchment. Borald staggered half a step, but twisted, his gauntlet smashing into Oz’s snout. The wolf reeled, snarling blood, but it only made him angrier.

I thrust my palm to the floor. Frost exploded outward in jagged veins, the stone hissing as ice slicked across it. The next wave of ferals skittered forward only to lose footing all at once, their claws screeching useless against the glaze. They crashed into each other in a heap, snarling and snapping.

“Stay down.” I spat, driving my hand up. Spikes of ice ripped out of the floor, impaling bodies in a spray of gore, pinning them to the wall like broken dolls.

Borald’s laugh echoed over the shrieks. “Clever girl!” He swung wide, forcing me back, but Oz was already on him again, massive arms locking around his torso, dragging him down into the ice-slick floor. Borald roared as the wolf’s jaws snapped at his throat, steel clashing in desperate arcs to keep the fangs at bay.

I slid in low, my boots skimming the slick frost. My blade carved across his thigh, the cut deep enough to spray black blood in a hot arc. Borald snarled, kicking me back hard enough to rattle my teeth.

The wolf surged again, claws hammering his chest, driving him onto the ice. For a heartbeat, Borald was pinned under fang and fury.

“Two beasts against me?” he spat, his grin savage. “I’ll split you both wide.”

I drew a breath sharp as glass, frost burning up my arms. Around us, more ferals spilled into the corridor. Their hunger outweighed fear now.

I snapped my wrist, ice fanned up the walls, jagged shards arcing into a cage. They shrieked as spikes lanced through limbs, pinning them in place, their blood steaming against the cold.

The corridor reeked of copper and rot, a slaughterhouse of frost.

Behind us, Grodyl’s voice thundered, not the usual dry snarl but a guttural chant that shook the stone. His hands blazed with fire and lightning both, storms tearing through the vampires still scrambling in the shadows. Every blast lit the corridor in violent flashes, silhouettes burning into the walls.

For a moment it felt like we might hold.

Then a shape darted through the haze, faster, hungrier than the rest. A feral vampire hurled itself over the ice-spikes, screeching, and landed full on Grodyl. The impact cracked loud against the stone. 

The ward around my chest flared once, then sputtered, guttering like a dying flame. Borald’s blade slammed down in that same instant, the shock rattling my arms, biting into my shoulder before I shoved it back.

“Grodyl!” I screamed, twisting away from another swing, panic tearing through me.

Through the corner of my eye, I caught him. Blood streaked across his cheek, the feral’s claws raking into his side as it snarled in his ear. But Grodyl only bared his teeth in fury. His hands snapped up, palms clamping either side of its skull.

“Burn.”

Flame erupted from his fingers, straight through bone. The feral’s scream split into nothing as its head caved in, bursting in fire and ash. Its body slumped against him, smoking, before he shoved it off with a ragged breath.

He staggered, blood seeping from his side, one hand pressed hard against the wound. Still, he lifted the other, blue light flaring, and my ward surged back across my chest with a jolt that nearly dropped me to my knees.

Oz roared beside me, claws raking down Borald’s pauldron again, forcing him back. My grip tightened on my blade, frost crawling down the hilt to my wrist.

He might be bleeding, but Grodyl still held us. And I would not let it break.

Borald’s blade slammed against mine again, but Oz was already there, his massive paw snapping around the steel and wrenching it aside. The wolf’s jaws snapped down, teeth sinking into Borald’s shoulder with a crunch that rattled the corridor.

Borald bellowed, black blood spraying across the stone. He staggered as I surged in low, my sword cutting across the back of his knee. His leg buckled, his greatsword clattering against the floor as Oz slammed him down onto the ice-slick stone.

For the first time, he was on his knees.

I drove my blade for his throat, only for his gauntlet to snap up, catching the steel in a grip like iron. His crimson eyes flared brighter, the snarl on his lips curling into something sharp.

“Enough games.”

The air itself snapped cold. Shadows poured off his armor like smoke, curling and writhing across the floor. His blood, still spilling, sizzled black against the ice, and the ferals shrieked in answer, pressing back into the walls.

Oz lunged again, claws ripping, but Borald’s body convulsed. Bone cracked loud enough to echo. His back arched, flesh tearing, wings of black membrane ripping free in a spray of gore. His roar shook the walls as his form swelled, armor warping, his teeth and claws lengthening into monstrous blades.

I staggered back, heart pounding, frost searing through my veins as I stared.

A Vampire Lord.

Borald rose to his full, towering height, wings blotting out the corridor, his greatsword discarded like a toy. His grin split wide, fangs glistening.

“You thought you’d hunt me?” His voice rolled, deeper, layered with something inhuman, shaking dust from the ceiling. “I’ll feast on you all.”

His claws slammed down, the ice floor shattering, shockwaves throwing us apart. Oz skidded into the wall, snarling, while I slammed against my own ice-spikes, the frost cracking under the force.

Borald’s roar rattled through the stone, his wings blotting out what little light we had. Oz hurled himself at him again, claws sinking in, teeth snapping at his throat, but Borald only laughed, a guttural sound that shook my bones. His claws tore across the wolf’s flank, blood spraying as Oz howled in fury and pain, still refusing to back down.

Fen’s laughter was fading, her blood painting Gabriel’s hands red as he pressed glowing palms against her throat. Arnbjorn, still chained, still motionless. Grodyl clutching his side, blood dripping between his fingers even as he tried to force spells through clenched teeth. And Oz, our brother in everything but blood, was throwing himself into a storm that would shred him to ribbons.

They’d die here. All of them.

Because of me.

The panic crashed into rage, into despair, curling sharp around my ribs until my chest ached with it. My blade shook in my hand as I staggered toward Grodyl. His eyes snapped to me, narrowed, breath ragged, still bleeding from the gash across his side.

“Open the portal,” I rasped. My voice cracked, raw and sharp. “Get them out.”

His brow furrowed, disbelief cutting through the pain. “What?”

“I’ll hold him,” I snapped, too fast, too jagged. “Just—just take them and go.”

His jaw clenched, blood staining his teeth as he spat, “You’ll be torn apart in seconds.”

Oz’s howl split the air behind us, cut short by a brutal slam that sent his body crashing against the stone. He staggered up again, snarling, limping, blood trailing from his side. He still launched himself at Borald anyway, leaping claws-first into the storm.

The Vampire Lord swatted him aside like nothing.

I felt the tremor in my bones, the spiral dragging me under.

“Please,” I rasped to Grodyl, my eyes burning. “If you stay, you’ll die. Just go. Let me buy you time.”

For half a heartbeat, Grodyl only stared at me, blood dripping from his chin, his ward light flickering at his fingertips. Then his hand snapped out, slamming hard onto my shoulder, hot with blood and fury.

“Shut up.”

The word cracked sharper than Borald’s roar.

His eyes blazed, not with fire or lightning, but with rage. “You think I’ve bled just to watch you throw yourself away?”

Behind us, Oz’s snarl split into a yelp as Borald’s claw raked across his flank again, sending the wolf staggering into the wall. Still, he rose. Still, he leapt.

Borald’s laughter echoed, booming.

“We are family.” Grodyl’s grip dug into me, shaking, his voice a roar of his own. “Do you hear me? I don’t abandon family. We live or we die, together.”

The ward flared brighter, wrapping my chest in a fresh blaze of blue just as Borald’s claws came sweeping down. The impact slammed into the shield, sparks and frost exploding in a blinding burst.

I staggered under it, but Grodyl’s hand stayed braced on me, bleeding, shaking, furious.

“You are my sister,” he snarled. “And I will drag you through Oblivion itself before I let you be a martyr.”

The word struck like a blade to the ribs.

Sister.

Inside, something cracked wide.

Family, all of them — and every one of them bleeding because of me.

This is what you do. You break them.

You drag them down with you.

My blade trembled in my hand, frost crawling over the hilt, but I forced my face to stay cold. No tears. No words. Nothing they could use to see the truth rot inside me.

A cough rattled the air, and I whipped my gaze sideways just as Fen shoved against Gabriel’s hold. She was on her feet, barely, blood still slick down her chest, her legs shaking, but her grin was back, sharp and reckless.

“Sit down, you’ll tear it open again!” Gabriel hissed, his arms locking around her waist. His glow still pressed at her wounds, desperate.

Fen only spat red, feral even through the weakness. “What, let you all have fun without me? Not a chance.” She tried to wrench free, and Gabriel swore, dragging her back with panic blazing in his eyes.

My chest clenched. She was hurt. And still she would rather grin through blood than leave me alone in this.

Borald’s wings stretched wider, his shadow spilling over us all. His laughter rolled, cruel, shaking the corridor.

Every one of them will die for you.

Fen staggered forward anyway, limping toward me and Oz as if her body wasn’t hanging on by threads. “Nio! You and the big wolf don’t get all the glory—”

“Don’t be fucking reckless, Fen!” Grodyl’s roar cut sharp over the chaos, his hand snapping out. The air shivered as his magic slammed into her, a blunt wave of force meant not to harm but to shove her back.

Fen stumbled, nearly thrown off her feet, her braid whipping as she caught herself against the wall. Her grin faltered for the first time, her eyes flashing hot with defiance.

“You think I’ll stand by while he tears her apart?” she spat, teeth bared.

Blood still streaked down her throat, her knees trembling under her, but she tried to lunge forward again. Gabriel caught her hard, his voice ragged with desperation. “You’ll die, Fen.”

Her laugh cracked, harsh and bloody. “Then let me die fighting.”

She slammed a hand against the ice wall, her forehead leaning to it, braid sticking wet to her cheek. Her breath fogged the frost as her eyes locked on mine through the shimmering blue.

“Let me, Nio.”

Her voice rasped raw, the plea cutting sharper than Borald’s claws. “Please. I won’t watch from behind while you drown out there alone.”

Gabriel was shaking his head, desperate. “No, you can’t—”

But she wasn’t looking at him. Only at me.

My throat burned. My hand ached with frost, the spell still alive in my veins. I felt it, the truth of it, that I could break the barrier in a breath, let her through, let her stand shoulder to shoulder again. Let her die beside me.

Her eyes gleamed, blood still slick on her lips, her grin trembling but real. “We’ve always fought together. Don’t you dare shut me out now.”

Her eyes begged me.

I didn’t see the shadow until it fell over me.

Borald’s voice rumbled low and cruel. “Weak!”

His clawed hand slammed down. The impact ripped through my ward, the flare of blue shattering in sparks and ice. Pain screamed across my ribs as the blow sent me flying into the stone, my breath bursting from my lungs.

I crumpled against the wall, the frost cracking around me. My blade clattered from my grip, blood burning hot in my mouth.

“Nio!” Fen’s scream split through the barrier, her fists slamming uselessly against the ice. Gabriel tried to drag her back, but she fought, eyes wild, teeth bared.

The Vampire Lord loomed, wings blotting out the light, his laughter booming over the sound of her cries.

I forced breath into my chest, my hand clawing for my blade as the world rang and blurred.

The ward cracked like glass, and his next strike cut clean.

Claws raked across my side, deep enough to tear through leather, deep enough that the heat of it didn’t even feel real at first. Then the pain screamed, white-hot, ripping a cry out of me as blood sprayed across the stone.

I staggered back, clutching at the wound. My knees nearly gave. The world swam red at the edges, every breath jagged with fire.

Borald’s shadow swallowed me as he advanced, wings brushing the stone, his sneer dripping with triumph. “Bleed for me, little rat.”

He swung again, claws singing through the air, only for Oz to crash into him from the side, a snarl ripping through the tunnel. The wolf’s claws raked deep into Borald’s chest, tearing leather and flesh, black ichor spraying.

Borald bellowed, stumbling a step, but his answer was savage. His wings snapped out, slamming Oz against the wall with bone-cracking force. The wolf’s yelp echoed sharp, his body sliding down the stone in a trail of blood. Still, Oz forced himself up, shaking, ribs heaving, one foreleg buckling beneath him.

He lunged again anyway.

Borald’s laughter rumbled deep, cruel and booming. “Broken mutt. Do you think you can save her?” His claws swung wide, catching Oz across the flank. Flesh split, blood spraying, and the wolf reeled but did not fall.

I pressed my back to the ice wall, clutching my side, fighting to hold my blade steady. Pain burned down my ribs with every breath, hot and wet between my fingers.

Fen’s fists pounded the ice behind me, her voice raw. “Nio!”

Borald’s gaze slid back to me, his crimson eyes gleaming. “You first. Then the rest.”

He raised his claws again.

My hand slipped from my side. Blood poured hot down my armor, pooling at my hip, dripping to the frost I’d made. I couldn’t feel the hilt in my grip anymore. My breath came ragged, shallow, rattling like my chest was caving in.

Is this it?

The thought flickered cold.

Am I dying here?

I saw it in flashes, Astrid’s tears, Fen’s wild grin, Arnbjorn’s bowed head, Amon’s voice whispering vows I’d never believe. Faces blurring into blood and shadow. All the people I’d failed.

All the ones I would still fail.

The frost under me cracked with the weight of it.

Maybe Grodyl’s right. Maybe family means we die together.

Maybe this is where it ends.

Borald’s roar rolled over me, cruel and thunderous.

I didn’t lift my blade. I couldn’t.

The claws descended—

And in that breath, memory swallowed me whole.

Green eyes, burning like firelight in the dark.

The moment I had surrendered once before, laid myself bare, waiting for death’s hand to close the book. His hands.

The silence, the stillness, the final peace I thought I’d chosen.

But it hadn’t been mine to choose.

Something in me had clawed back then, deeper than will, fiercer than reason.

Something that refused to let me die. That same current surged now, hot and violent through my veins, even as my body bled out.

The frost at my fingertips cracked, then, exploded.

Spikes burst from the floor, jagged and merciless, ripping up through stone and shadow. They tore through Borald’s wings, his arm, his side, pinning him in place in a spray of black ichor. His roar shook the corridor, but the ice held, spearing deeper, locking him to the wall in a cage of glimmering frost.

This wasn’t my frost anymore. It was something else. Something buried.

The ice wall at my back shattered, collapsing into shards, Fen and Gabriel spilling forward with cries sharp in my ears. But I barely heard them.

All I could see was Borald’s face, his crimson eyes wide, his fangs dripping with my blood. They flickered with a sudden falter, a shadow of doubt.

His voice cracked low, guttural. “What… are you?”

The frost steamed around me, my breath white in the air, my wounds burning as if fire lived inside the ice itself. My hands shook, my vision swam, but the spikes held him. For the first time, Borald was bound.

And I didn’t even know how I’d done it.

“Gabriel!” Fen’s voice cracked, raw, as she shoved forward, blood streaking her throat.

He was already moving, dragging his satchel close, green light flaring between his palms as he dropped to my side. I felt his hands press against the wound at my ribs, searing-hot, my body flinching under the sudden flood of magic. My breath tore ragged from my throat.

Borald writhed, speared through by jagged ice, his wings shredded, ichor spraying against the stone. His roar shook the corridor, but the frost held him fast.

And then, with a snarl, Gabriel ripped one hand away. His crossbow already in his grip, the glass chamber under its stock sloshing faint with the a potion he’d built into it. He’d kept it quiet, saved it for this.

“Burn, damn you.” he hissed.

The bolt screamed, trailing firelight, and buried itself in Borald’s shoulder with a burst of shattering glass. Flame erupted in his flesh, liquid fire spilling across, searing through to bone.

Borald bellowed, staggering, his wings snapping wide as black smoke poured off his skin. The smell of burning ichor filled the corridor.

Gabriel didn’t wait to see if it killed him. His crossbow clattered to the stone as he dropped back to me, both hands glowing green again, pressing into the gash at my side. His voice shook as he muttered low, “You’ll be fine. Just stay with me.”

Oz hurled himself through the fire, claws raking, jaws gaping wide. He slammed into Borald’s pinned body, his teeth snapping down for the monster’s throat, for his head—

—and bit through nothing.

Borald’s form broke apart in a rush of shadow, his body unraveling into thick black mist. The ice shattered around emptiness, the fire searing only smoke. His laugh echoed cruel, hollow, as the fog poured down the corridor and away into the dark.

Oz landed hard against stone, teeth clamping shut on air, his roar splitting the tunnel with fury. He whipped his head, eyes burning coals, but Borald was already gone.

The silence that followed was heavier than any roar. Just the drip of blood. The hiss of dying fire. Gabriel’s magic pressing against my ribs as I gasped, trying to breathe through the cold and the pain.

The last curl of black smoke vanished into the stone, leaving only silence behind. My chest heaved under Gabriel’s hands, the glow of his healing magic searing against the wound at my ribs. Oz’s panting filled the corridor, ragged and heavy, blood dripping thick from his fur. Fen still pressed herself upright, trembling, her grin faded now into something sharp and thin.

And Grodyl—

He staggered forward, one hand clutching his side, the other dragging his staff like it weighed a thousand pounds. He planted it hard against the floor, runes flaring wild and bright. The air cracked, tearing open with a flare of light as the portal carved itself into being.

The glow painted his face hollow, sweat and blood streaking down his jaw. His knees buckled, catching on the wood of his staff, and he dropped hard, barely holding himself upright as the spell finished with a hiss of burning air. A dark pool spread beneath him where his blood fell to the stone.

“Go,” he rasped, the word breaking raw from his throat. His knuckles whitened around the staff, every breath a fight. “While I can still hold it. Go.”

His eyes flicked once to me, just once, hard and unyielding even as his body swayed. “Move.”

I couldn’t breathe.

The portal’s glow rippled, unstable, casting long blue light down the blood-slick corridor.

Then a snarl cracked into a ragged gasp.

Oz staggered forward, his massive wolf-shape twisting, collapsing in a blur of fur and bone until he hit the ground on two knees. Human again. Barely. His body was a wreck, flank torn open, arm hanging raw and bloodied but he dragged a potion from his belt with shaking hands and downed it in a single swallow.

He forced himself upright, teeth gritted, and crossed the last steps to Grodyl. His arm hooked under the mage’s, hauling him up even as both of them nearly buckled.

“Brother,” Oz rasped, his voice rough as stone, sweat and blood streaking down his face.

Grodyl’s mouth twitched, blood spilling at the corner of his lips. For once, the sharpness was gone. Only a crooked smile flickered there, faint and pained.

“Door guard,” he murmured, almost a joke, almost a vow.

His knees threatened to give again, but Oz tightened his hold, keeping him standing as the portal’s light flared.

“It’s too late for me,” he muttered, breath hitching. His eyes cut toward me, sharp even through the haze. “You have to go.”

“No,” I forced, my voice breaking. My legs screamed, but I shoved myself upright, staggering across the frost until I reached him. “Don’t say that. Don’t you say that.”

Fen caught him as his knees buckled, her blood-stained hands clutching his robes. “Grodyl—!” Her voice cracked, feral grin long gone, only panic left in her eyes.

He swayed, his staff slipping from his grip, blood pooling faster beneath him. Gabriel shoved past us both, satchel clattering open. His hands moved quick, desperate, forcing a vial against Grodyl’s lips. “Don’t fight me. Drink!”

The glass tipped, the green liquid running over his chin before some of it slid between his teeth. He gagged, sputtering, eyes rolling back.

And that’s when Fen’s grip slipped on his robes.

The fabric tore back, revealing the truth we hadn’t wanted to see.

No.

His entire side was split open. The gash tore from ribs to hip, ragged and deep, spilling more than blood. Flesh gleamed wet, loops of torn viscera pulsed faint under the trembling glow. His guts were already half-hanging from the ruin of him.

For a heartbeat, none of us breathed.

And in that silence, the truth sank like a blade in my chest.

It was too late.

No healing spell, no potion, no promise could mend a wound like that. He was already slipping from us, his body unraveling faster than Gabriel’s hands could hold it together.

I wanted to deny it, to scream, to force the world back into place but the cold clarity cut deeper than my bleeding ribs. I had seen death too many times not to know its shape. And it was here, crouched low in the pools of his blood, waiting to take him.

The portal crackled at our backs. Grodyl sagged against Fen’s arms, his smile faint, blood still running from his lips.

“You… still owe me that knife-throwing lesson,” he rasped, voice thin as smoke.

Fen’s breath hitched. Her grip shook, tears burning through the blood on her cheeks. “Shut up. Don’t—”

But he smiled anyway, blood bubbling at the corner of his mouth, his voice breaking softer. “Said you’d teach me… when we got out.”

I could see the way those words tore her in two.

Fen shook her head violently, pressing her forehead to his, her braids streaking red against his face. “Then you hold on, you stubborn bastard. Hold on, and I’ll teach you every trick I know.”

Grodyl’s eyes slipped half-shut, his bloody smile lingering. His hand twitched weakly against hers. “Good… good girl.”

Oz staggered out of the shadows, Arnbjorn slung limp across his shoulder. Blood ran down his flank, his face pale with exhaustion, but he didn’t falter. He dragged his brother’s weight one step at a time toward the portal, jaw clenched, teeth gritted.

“Stay with me.” he muttered under his breath, though Arnbjorn didn’t stir.

My chest twisted. They were all falling apart, every one of them.

“You should go,” I rasped, my hand clutching at the wound in my side. The frost hissed under my fingers, trying to mend itself. “All of you. Get through the portal.”

“No,” Fen snapped, voice raw, her arms hooked under Grodyl’s as Gabriel lifted him from the other side. His blood soaked both their fronts, his staff clattering uselessly against the stone as they tried to haul him upright.

“Go.” My voice cracked, sharp and low, the words tearing me open. I looked straight at her, her face streaked in blood and tears, her grin gone. “Take Grodyl. Take Arnbjorn. And get the hell out. I’ll come back when this is done.”

Her jaw locked, her eyes blazing through the haze of blood. She shook her head hard. “I’m not leaving you.”

“You have to.”

Gabriel shoved a cluster of vials to me, his own glow still pressed against Grodyl’s torn side. “Take these.” His voice was flat, cold with urgency, but his eyes betrayed it, full of panic, full of grief.

Fen stared at me across the blur of blood and firelight, her grip tightening on Grodyl as he sagged heavier between them. Her lip trembled, but she bared her teeth all the same. “If you don’t come back…” Her voice cracked. “I’ll drag you out of the Void myself.”

The portal roared behind them, its light spilling wide, demanding, inevitable.

I swallowed against the burn in my throat, my hand tightening on the hilt slick with my own blood. “I’ll come back.”

The words left me flat, steady, though inside they felt like a lie carved in stone.

“I promise.” I forced out, sharper now, loud enough to cut through the roar of the portal.

Fen’s breath hitched. Her lips trembled, but she nodded once, jerking her head toward Gabriel. Together, they hauled Grodyl through the light.

Oz was already there, his back a wall of blood and scars as he dragged Arnbjorn into the glow. His gaze met mine, steady and grim. A single nod, then he was gone.

Fen was the last to vanish, her eyes never leaving me. “You better keep it.” she growled, her voice shaking with fury and grief. Then the light swallowed her too.

And I was alone.

The portal hummed, its pull fading with every heartbeat. The corridor stank of blood and ash, the silence crawling back in.

I set my jaw, the weight of my blade dragging my arm down. My breath steamed in the cold, my wound still bleeding hot down my side.

“I’ll come back.” I whispered again, though no one was left to hear it.

My chest heaved, every breath jagged, every heartbeat a hammer in my ears. I slumped against the wall, fingers fumbling at the weight of the satchel hanging from my shoulder.

I tore it open with shaking hands. Glass clinked, faint glows catching in the ward-light. Vials etched with Gabriel’s cramped handwriting. Fire. Frost. Stamina. Health.

My vision blurred, blood still pouring hot down my side. I didn’t think, didn’t weigh. I snatched the red-glowing vial marked Health and ripped the cork with my teeth.

The liquid burned down my throat like molten iron, choking, searing. For a breath I thought it would kill me outright. Then the heat spread through my chest, flooding outward, chasing the ache in jagged surges. My ribs knit enough to let breath back in. My grip steadied on the hilt slick with blood.

I spat red to the floor, swiping my mouth with the back of my hand. The other vials rattled faintly in the satchel.

Fire. Frost.

Tools for a fight I knew was far from over.

The air in the corridor shifted. The mist curled back in, slow and deliberate, coiling like it could taste my blood.

I straightened, blade lifting, frost hissing back into my veins.

I had to move. Had to climb.

The dungeon bled upward into collapsed stone, old stairwells broken to rubble. Torchlight flickered faint above, but there was no clear way. Just jagged ruin, cracks in the wall where roots had forced their way through damp stone.

I pressed my palm against the rock, frost hissing out in quick bursts, shaping holds where there were none. The potion in my veins burned steady, but every pull still tore at my wound. My breath shuddered with each step higher, muscles trembling as ice slicked beneath my boots.

Above, faint and distant, voices carried. Metal striking metal. A scream cut short. Then silence.

I froze, hanging against the wall, heart hammering.

Amon? Dawnguard? Volkihar? I couldn’t tell.

My fingers dug harder into the ice, climbing faster. Blood smeared across the frost where my grip slipped, but I didn’t stop. I couldn’t stop.

The ledge loomed closer, a broken arch spilling faint torchlight into the hollow. I dragged myself over, my chest heaving, and collapsed on the cold stone.

Castle Volkihar stretched before me in shadows and silence, its halls twisting, its doors endless. Somewhere in this maze, Amon and the Dawnguard were fighting their way deeper.

And I had to find them.

Before the castle swallowed me whole.

The upper floor stretched out in silence, its corridors yawning black and endless. Each arch bled into another, stairwells curling into shadow, doors cracked to chambers that stank of rot.

I pressed a hand to the wall, trying to steady my breath. My chest ached, the potion’s fire already fading. I couldn’t waste steps. I had to think.

The memory rose sharp, Amon leaning over the map, his eyes narrowed, one claw tapping hard against the parchment. Eastern wing.

I dragged my hand across the stone, forcing myself upright. I had to reach the eastern wing. That was where Serana would be. Where Amon and the Dawnguard would already be searching.

But the castle was a maze, its halls twisting like a trap. Every step risked leading me deeper into its gut. I couldn’t be sure if I was heading toward them or further into the Volkihar’s jaws.

I forced my legs forward, every step leaving blood on the floor, every corner a gamble. Somewhere ahead, faint in the cold air, I thought I heard it, the clash of steel, the echo of voices. Too distant to know whose. But enough to keep me moving.

I kept low, boots muffled on stone slick with damp. Shadows clung heavy along the walls, and I pressed myself into them as two thralls stumbled past, chains dragging between their hands. Their eyes glowed faint, feral, but their attention was elsewhere. They didn’t see me. Not this time.

My chest burned with each held breath, ribs aching under the half-healed wound. I counted their steps until they vanished, then slipped forward again.

But not all shadows stayed blind.

The snarl came first, above. A feral crawled across the ceiling, claws clicking against the stone as its head twisted, eyes burning red.

I froze.

Too late.

It shrieked, hurling itself down. My blade came up on instinct, punching through its throat mid-lunge. The impact slammed me to the floor, claws scraping at my chest, but I twisted hard and drove ice up through its spine. The body jerked, then went slack.

I shoved it off, dragging myself upright, breath ragged. Blood smeared across my hands, across the stone.

The eastern corridors narrowed, twisting tight, their walls damp with salt and shadow. My steps grew heavier, slower. The potion’s fire had dulled, leaving only ache and bleeding cloth at my side.

I pressed on anyway.

East. Always east.

The scrape of claws made my stomach seize.

Another feral crawled from the dark, lips peeled back from fangs slick with black ichor. Two more slithered from the opposite hall, their movements fast, too fast for my staggered steps.

My grip slipped on the hilt, blood-slick. Still, I raised my blade.

The first slammed into me, claws raking sparks across steel. My back hit the wall hard, pain jolting through my ribs. I twisted, shoving ice through its chest, but the second was already there, slashing across my arm, teeth snapping for my throat.

I stumbled, breath tearing, blade wavering. My vision blurred. One more strike and I’d be—

Hands.

Cold, unyielding, closing over my wrists. A grip that cut deeper than teeth, because I knew it.

Too well.

My body recognized him before my mind did.

The feral’s head snapped back with a crunch, its body flung against the wall like it weighed nothing. Another hissed, then choked as a clawed hand tore through its chest, ripping the heart free in a spray of black.

I staggered forward, caught before I could fall.

“Amon.”

The red and blue of his eyes burned down at me, both gleaming through the shadows. His mouth curled, sharp and cruel, though his grip on me was steady.

“You’re bleeding again,” he drawled, his voice low, velvet and venom both. “Can’t leave you alone for a moment, can I?”

 

To be continued…

Chapter 81: Chapter 81

4E, 196, Noon of The Final Trial

 

The forest swam around me, green and gray bleeding together until I could hardly breathe. My ears rang with the sound of Meldor’s skull splitting, with the wet patter of his blood dripping into the soil. The smell clung to the back of my throat, sharp and metallic, gagging me.

No.

This wasn’t real. It couldn’t be.

My hands curled into fists so tight my nails bit through skin, but the pain barely reached me. My body refused to move, as if the roots beneath the earth had climbed up and tangled through my legs. My mind clawed at reason, desperate for something to explain it away, an illusion, a trick, one of Raenal’s cruel games.

But Meldor’s body was still there. His chest didn’t rise. His eyes didn’t blink.

And Elamoril stood above him.

Blood painting his face, dripping from his jaw, gleaming on the axe still clutched in his hands.

The boy who used to laugh with me beneath the trees.

The boy who swore, whispered in the dark, that he’d always protect me.

My heart convulsed.

“El…” The name scraped out of me, thin and broken, before I could stop it.

He didn’t look at me. His eyes stayed on the axe, on the dark fluid sliding down its edge. His breathing was ragged, each exhale heavy like it burned his lungs. And then slowly, too slowly, his head lifted.

Green eyes, but not his. Not the boy’s. They burned wrong, too sharp, too hollow, as if something else had crawled behind them and taken root.

I staggered back a step. My spine hit the trunk of a tree, rough bark scraping my shoulders.

“This isn’t—” The words tangled, refusing to fit together. My chest tightened, panic clawing at the edges of my ribs. “You can’t… you wouldn’t—”

But the blood was still there.

My throat constricted. My vision blurred. I wanted to scream, but the only sound that broke free was a hoarse whisper,

“What did you do, Elamoril?”

He dragged the back of his hand across his mouth, smearing the blood instead of cleaning it, then scraped the axe clean against the bark of a tree. The sound was sickening, steel grating against wood.

“Let’s go.” he said simply, as if nothing had happened. His voice was flat, almost bored. He turned his back on Meldor’s corpse and started toward the trees, like he expected me to follow.

The world tilted, leaves and earth and blood blurring together. My feet stayed rooted where they were, trembling.

“Let’s go?” The words cracked out of me, raw, breaking into a jagged laugh that hurt my throat. “You just—you killed him, and you want me to just—” I gestured wildly at the body, at the gore, at the axe still dripping in his hand.

“What the hell is this?”

He didn’t answer. Just kept walking, the axe hanging loose in his hand, his boots careless in the undergrowth as if the ground wasn’t still wet with blood.

My chest tightened until I could barely breathe. The forest blurred at the edges, and I lurched a step after him, words breaking raw from my throat.

“We were supposed to fight the dangers of the forest!” My voice cracked, sharp and hollow, but he didn’t slow. “Not—” My breath hitched. “Not each other.”

He moved like he hadn’t even heard me.

Tears stung my eyes before I realized they’d gathered. My fists trembled at my sides, useless. “He was our friend, Elamoril.” My voice fell softer, choked. “He was our friend…”

He stopped.

The sudden stillness rooted me harder than any spell. My breath caught, ragged, and for a heartbeat I thought he might turn back into himself, the boy I’d known, the boy I’d loved.

Then he turned.

“Dangers of the forest?” His lips curved, slow, deliberate.

A smile.

That smile was wrong.

Too calm, too easy, stretched across a face still painted in blood. My heart cracked sharp inside my chest, because I remembered that smile, once soft and real, and now it was a mask I didn’t recognize.

“You don’t get it, do you?” he said, voice low, almost tender.

My mouth opened, but no sound came. My throat felt torn, scraped raw by a word I couldn’t form. “What?” I finally managed, hoarse, trembling.

He stepped closer. The axe dangled forgotten in his other hand, but his fingers reached for me, gentle in a way that made my stomach twist. His palm brushed my cheek, warm where it should have been blood-stained, and I flinched despite myself.

“You don’t feel it.” he murmured, thumb tracing lightly over my skin, tender, almost reverent. His eyes searched mine with a hunger I didn’t understand, green and sharp, as if the world around us had fallen away and only this moment mattered.

My chest constricted. The tears threatened to spill, but I forced the words out anyway. “Feel… what?”

His gaze locked on mine, burning.

“The hunger.” he whispered.

I didn’t understand, didn’t want to.

His smile deepened, tender and terrible all at once. “Starvation,” he breathed, almost like a confession. “Slow, but it won’t be for long. The hunt will change us.” His thumb brushed my cheek again, soft as a lover’s touch. “But you wouldn’t know.”

“What are you saying?” My voice cracked as I caught his wrist, clinging like an anchor, like I could hold him still long enough to make sense of this. My fingers shook over his skin, desperate. “Elamoril—what are you saying?”

His hand shifted under mine, fingers turning to lace with my own, like he meant to steady me.

“You were never truly of us,” he said softly, almost tender, though the words cut sharper than any blade. His thumb pressed against my trembling hand, holding me there as if to make me hear every syllable. “Never truly from us.”

The world tilted. My breath caught, jagged, my insides knotted hard enough to hurt. I didn’t understand, I couldn’t. The boy I knew, the boy I loved, was gone, and in his place stood someone who looked at me like he knew something I didn’t. Something I wasn’t ready to face.

“The forest holds no danger, Nio.”

His breath brushed my skin as he leaned in, close enough that I felt the warmth of him where I should have felt only blood and fear.

His lips hovered just shy of mine, so close it felt like a kiss, and yet, when he spoke, his whisper split me open.

“It’s us,” he murmured, voice almost a growl, “We are the monsters.”

 

To be continued…

Chapter 82: Chapter 82

 

His fingers were iron around my wrists and I didn’t shake free.

For half a heartbeat my body simply… leaned. Not into the wall, not into the blade, into him. The leather at his chest was cold and slick with someone else’s blood; his breath touched my temple, steady where mine wasn’t. The corridor swayed, black at the edges, and the only thing that didn’t move was the mismatch of his eyes, one ember, one winter, both locked on me like anchors.

I heard my own voice like it was far away. “Don’t—”

Don’t what?

Don’t let go.

Don’t say my name.

Don’t look at me like you can pull the pieces back together just because you want to.

The word died. My fingers had already closed in his coat, not a grip for leverage, just a hold. Shame burned through the fog of pain; it didn’t make me pull away.

Something flickered across his face, quick and raw, like a blade catching firelight: surprise, then something that stripped the poison out of his mouth.

“Where are they?” Not a question, the demand made soft. His hands slid from my wrists to my upper arms, not pinning, bracing.

“Gone,” I rasped. The word tore like old cloth. “Portal. Grodyl… he—” My throat locked. The image came back whole, the torn side, Fen’s hands slick to the elbows and the air was suddenly too thin for lungs.

His voice stayed low, braced against the tremor in mine. “What happened?”

I dragged in a jagged breath, and only one word clawed its way past my lips.

“Borald.”

Something flickered in his eyes, recognition, anger, a shadow of something older. But his hold didn’t shift. He steadied me as if that name alone told him everything.

The usual curve of cruelty didn’t come. He bent, just enough that we were level, his forehead nearly touching mine. I felt the cold of him, the way he always ran colder than the room, and for once it steadied me.

“Breathe,” he said, quiet and edged with command only because he didn’t know how to say it any other way. “Nio—look at me. Breathe.”

I did, because I couldn’t seem to do anything else. One breath. Another. My vision steadied enough to see him properly. There was blood on his jaw that wasn’t mine, black spattered up the side of his neck, and under all of that… worry. It sat strange on his face, as if he’d borrowed it and wasn’t sure whether it fit.

“They were dying,” slipped out before I could stop it. “Because of me.” My fingers tightened in his coat, knuckles aching. “Grodyl—” The name was a scrape of glass. “He opened the portal. I sent them through. I told them I’d come back.”

Amon stilled. Very carefully, he pried one of my hands off his chest, not to remove it, to turn it palm-up. His thumb traced the tremor along the base of my fingers, a touch light as ash. Control. Always control with him. Only now it wasn’t about me; it was about him, not letting something in his throat become a snarl.

“Good,” he said at last, and the word carried all the weight of an oath. “You kept them alive.” His eyes cut briefly past me, to the smear of bodies cooling on the stone. When they came back, they were hard, but the hardness was for the castle, not for me. “Tell me where you hurt.”

I barked a humorless sound that wanted to be a laugh. “Everywhere.”

“Specifics.” His hand found my side without being told. I flinched despite myself. He lifted the hem of leather and cloth, efficient, impersonal, stopping only once, when the gash showed fresh through Gabriel’s glow and the potion’s ugly knit. For one heartbeat he closed his eyes. When he opened them, the red and the blue were both colder.

“Hold.” He stripped a length of clean linen from somewhere inside his coat, set his mouth, and pressed. Darkness crowded the edges of my sight; I caught his shoulder again and didn’t pretend it was for balance. He felt it, of course he did. He didn’t say a thing. “If you faint,” he said very gently, “I will carry you. If you fight me, I will still carry you.”

“You’re smug,” I tried, out of habit, but the bite wasn’t there. It fell dull between us.

His mouth almost twitched. “Not right now.”

The corridor rippled with a distant clang of steel. Something screamed far down the hall and cut off mid-breath. My body remembered the map, his claw tapping the parchment. East. “Serana,” I said. “Her chambers—”

“I know.” He bound the last knot one-handed, deft, then let his palm settle over the wrap a final moment. I felt the faintest hum under my skin, not a spell, not charisma; the simple steadiness of someone forcing their own fear into bone and making it stay there, so mine had somewhere else to live for a breath.

He eased me upright. I hated how much I leaned. I hated how it didn’t feel like failure to do it.

“Dawnguard?” I asked.

“Alive,” he said. “I left them breathing and angry. They will stay that way if you do not bleed out on the floor.” His gaze cut to the shadowed arches ahead, then back. “Can you walk?”

“Yes.” The word was stubborn. True enough.

He let it stand. “Then we move.”

He didn’t take my hand. He gave me his shoulder, a clear offering, and waited to see if I’d take it. The old me, an hour ago, a lifetime, would have refused just to spite him. The present me put my palm to the ridge of him and let a portion of my weight set there. He set his body around that decision like a brace sliding into place, seamless.

The castle breathed salt and rot through its seams, a damp chill rising from the stone that crept under the skin. We kept to the walls. He moved like water over blade, without hurry, without sound. Twice he tugged me back by the wrist and the feral that would have landed on my spine hit empty air instead and fell into his hands. Those were not fights. They were endings. A crack of bone, a wet whisper, silence. Each time, afterward, his eyes returned to my face like he was taking inventory.

“You will see them again,” Amon said, no flourish, no gilding. “Fen, Gabriel, all of them. We will see them again.” He didn’t add if they survived. The unspoken hung there, heavy as a blade. He must have felt my breath hitch. “Listen to me.” Quietly, without threat. “You did not drag them under. You are the reason any of them can crawl out. Hold to that.”

“Don’t—” I tried, but the word broke. “Don’t make it pretty, Amon.”

His mouth tilted in something that wasn’t a smile. “I do not know how to make things pretty.”

“No,” I said, and my voice almost steadied. “You don’t.”

The corridor beyond tightened, stone sweating, roots shouldering through the ceilings in pale, knotted veins. When the first pair of thralls rounded the bend, he didn’t let me lift my sword. He stepped into them, one palm to a sternum, one to a throat, and set them down like two candles being snuffed. It was almost gentle, if you didn’t look at the angle of their necks when they stopped moving.

Then steel rang ahead, sharp and furious. Voices shouted. Boots pounded against the floor. 

Dawnguard.

We rounded the arch just as the first body skidded across the stone in a spray of black ichor. Six men drove forward through the smoke, their crossbows snapping fire-bolts, silvered blades flashing bright. At their head was Celann, his jaw set, his shield splitting a thrall’s skull against the wall with a brutal crack.

“By the gods—there you are!” one of the men barked when his eyes caught mine. “We thought—” He cut himself short as another thrall lunged, and his bolt buried itself between its eyes.

Celann’s gaze locked past me, past the blood on my armor and the wrap binding my ribs. His eyes flicked once to the hand I still had braced on Amon’s shoulder, then back to my face. His shield arm didn’t falter, but his expression sharpened.

“You’re late,” he said flat, voice like iron scraping. “And half-dead.” His sword shoved a thrall back two steps, its body bursting into ash under the glow of his silver edge. “What in Oblivion happened down there?”

I swallowed against the burn in my ribs. The words clawed up but broke before I could shape them.

Celann’s eyes narrowed, but he didn’t press. Instead, he tore a vial from his belt pouch and shoved it into my free hand. The glass was thick, scratched, the liquid inside glowing a murky red-gold, like embers trapped in wine.

“Not as fine as what your alchemist brews,” he muttered. “But it’ll do for Dawnguard blood. Fire in your gut, steel in your spine. Enough to keep you fighting.”

The cork was half-loose already. I yanked it free with my teeth and threw the vial back. The taste hit like flame and ash, bitter enough to make me gag. It burned down my throat like swallowing molten iron, heat spreading raw through my chest until it set my veins alight.

I gasped, clutching at my ribs as the burn clawed outward. It wasn’t clean, not smooth like Gabriel’s glow, not gentle like a true healer’s touch. This was different. Violent. It didn’t knit the wound so much as cauterize it from the inside, flooding me with fire until pain blurred into fury.

My knees steadied under me. My lungs opened wider than before. And beneath it all, a strange clarity, courage, humming through my blood, reckless and sharp, as if fear itself had been burned out of me.

Celann grunted, satisfied when he saw the color return to my face. His shield arm drove another thrall into the wall, the crunch echoing. “Don’t waste it,” he warned. “It won’t last long.”

I wiped my mouth, breath still rough. The fire burned in my chest, sharp and reckless, when I caught Amon’s eyes on me. The red and the blue studied the faint glow beneath my skin, the way my breath steadied, the way I didn’t waver anymore. His mouth curved, not quite a smile.

“Crude,” he murmured, almost to himself. “Typical Dawnguard. If you can’t mend the wound, drown it in fire and call it courage.”

One of Celann’s men shot him a glare, but Amon didn’t look away from me.

Celann barked a sharp order, and his men re-formed ranks, blades and crossbows ready. He jerked his chin down the hall. “We move.“

Amon was already ahead, his stride quiet, confident. He didn’t wait for agreement, just slipped into the shadowed corridors like he belonged there, his head tilting as though the stone itself whispered to him. The Dawnguard hesitated, but the path he cut was certain enough they followed. And I, fire still burning in my blood, stayed close at his side.

The halls stretched endless, cold damp clinging to stone. Velvet rotted on the walls, doors sagged off hinges, roots split the ceiling beams. Every sound echoed sharp, the scrape of boots, the faint drip of water, the rasp of distant claws retreating before us. Amon led without falter, each turn taken as if the castle’s heart was mapped in his bones.

At last he stopped before a tall set of double doors bound in iron. The wood was warped with age, but faint light bled beneath the seam. He pressed one clawed hand against the stone beside the frame, his mismatched eyes narrowing.

“Here.” His voice was low, certain. “Her chambers.”

Celann shoved forward, shield raised, his men closing ranks. He pushed the door hard enough that it groaned on its hinges and crashed inward.

The chamber yawned wide, vaulted ceiling, a long bed draped in mildew-rotted silk, broken shelves heavy with dust. Cold air stirred the curtains, carrying the stench of old blood and damp stone. I scanned the corners, waiting for movement, for the shape of her pale figure.

Empty.

Only silence.

Celann’s jaw tightened as he scanned the chamber. “Spread out,” he ordered, voice low but firm. “Check the corners. Look for signs she’s been here.”

The Dawnguard moved at once, two men toward the bed, one toward the balcony, another toward the shelves lining the wall. Their boots scuffed against old dust. The firelight from their bolts pushed back the shadows in restless, jittering shapes.

Amon had already slipped deeper into the room, his eyes roaming the walls with that uncanny stillness, like he could smell the truth hidden in stone. His mismatched gaze swept the ceiling beams, the torn velvet drapes, the cracked hearth where ash still clung faint.

I forced myself forward, my palm braced against the doorframe, then the dresser, then the wall.

Where is she?

Then a sound cut sharp across the room.

Not a scrape of boot or breath.

Stone. Cracking.

I whipped my head up.

The gargoyle in the corner, half-slumped like old decoration, was moving. Its stone chest groaned as it rose, fissures glowing faint ember-red from within. Dust sloughed off its wings as they unfolded wide, the scrape loud as bone dragged against bone.

“Statues—!” one of the Dawnguard men shouted, but the warning came too late.

The second gargoyle tore itself free from the wall, claws raking stone in a shower of sparks. Its eyes flared molten orange, locked on us.

The first moved faster. Its stone wings snapped open in a gust of dust and ash, the sweep knocking the closest Dawnguard sprawling. Before he could rise, the gargoyle was on him.

Claws like black iron punched through armor and ribs in one brutal strike. His scream cut short as the beast lifted him from the floor, body kicking once before the claws tore free. He crumpled to the stones, blood slicking the cracks.

For a heartbeat the whole room froze, just the echo of steel, the stink of blood.

Then everything broke at once.

Celann roared, shield snapping up as he drove his blade into the first gargoyle’s flank. The beast reeled but did not fall, stone flesh sparking under the silvered edge.

“Hold the line!” He barked, dragging his blade free in a spray of dust and ichor.

My chest heaved, ribs burning, but the fire potion seared away the fear. I surged forward, frost racing down my blade, Amon a dark shadow slipping faster than sight to meet the monsters head-on.

Fire-bolts lit the room in violent flashes, each impact blasting chips of stone and molten dust from the beasts. But the monsters didn’t stagger the way flesh would. They absorbed it, like the pain didn’t matter, their molten eyes fixed only on us.

The second gargoyle swept its wing across the floor, sending two men tumbling. One fired from his back, his bolt cracking into the beast’s jaw; the other scrambled to his feet, shield up, bracing against claws that came down hard enough to dent steel.

I forced myself forward, blade alive with frost. Pain screamed at every movement, but I drowned it under the fire in my veins. The first gargoyle reeled against Celann’s shield; I drove in low, my sword biting deep into a glowing seam at its thigh. Frost exploded outward, freezing the stone in a jagged bloom.

It roared, a grinding shriek of stone and ash. Its wing snapped wide, catching me across the ribs. The breath punched out of me, my body flung across the chamber. I hit the floor hard, blood burning at my side, but the potion made me stagger up again, snarling.

Reckless.

Alive.

A shadow blurred past me. Amon met the gargoyle’s roar with his own, claws sinking deep into the frozen seam I’d left. He tore stone free in a brutal spray, dust and ichor raining down as the beast howled. His mismatched eyes burned bright as he ripped its arm from its socket, flinging it aside like a broken toy.

The other gargoyle barreled into the Dawnguard ranks, claws tearing sparks from shields. One man screamed as its jaws clamped down on his shoulder, teeth puncturing mail and flesh alike. Celann didn’t falter, he slammed his shield into the beast’s face and shoved hard, his men thrusting their blades into its flank in quick, practiced strikes.

“Now! Drive it back!”

They fought as one, coordinated, disciplined. Every time the gargoyle turned, silvered edges struck from another side, bolts slamming into its joints. It staggered, snarling, but still lashed out with wings and claws that smashed men into walls.

I staggered toward them, frost crawling down my arm, my vision swimming. I swung high, frost-edged steel slamming into the gargoyle’s wing. The blow cracked stone wide open, ice racing along the fracture.

It screeched, jerking back. Celann seized the opening, his sword plunging into its throat. The blade split fissures wide, light spilling out like molten fire. With a final, grinding roar, the gargoyle collapsed, shattering into stone shards that smoked against the floor.

The chamber rang with heavy breathing, the Dawnguard regrouping, shields raised, eyes snapping to the last gargoyle still thrashing against Amon.

He had it by the jaw, claws digging into stone as if it were flesh. His teeth bared in a feral snarl, his other hand ripping chunks free as the beast writhed. It slammed him into the wall, wings beating, but he didn’t let go. With one final, brutal wrench, he tore the creature’s head clean off. The body convulsed once, then crumbled into rubble at his feet.

Silence fell, broken only by the rasp of breath, the drip of blood.

One Dawnguard lay dead, sprawled in a pool of red. Another was nursing a mangled shoulder, his face gray, but alive. The rest stood grim, weapons ready, eyes darting over the chamber like they expected the statues to keep moving.

Celann’s eyes lingered on the fallen man. His jaw locked, the line of his throat working once, hard, as if he swallowed something heavier than breath. For a heartbeat his shield dipped, grief flashing raw beneath the iron discipline then he wrenched it back into place.

He planted his shield against the floor, panting. His gaze swept over me, my blood-slick armor, the fire still burning faint in my skin. “We hold here,” he muttered, more to himself than to us. His jaw clenched. “But this place is bleeding us dry.”

I leaned heavy against the doorframe, “She was supposed to be here,” I rasped. My voice sounded too raw in the quiet.

Amon prowled ahead of me, his eyes sweeping the room. He stopped at the bed. For a moment he was still. Then he crouched, claws brushing across the floor.

There, faint, dying light crawled along lines etched into the stone beneath the rotting carpet. Runes, cracked and fraying, but still humming with an ugly afterglow.

Celann’s jaw tightened when he saw them. “That’s no ward for rest.”

Amon’s mouth curved, sharp but without mockery this time. “Binding magic. They caged her here.” His gaze lingered on the broken runes, then shifted to the scuff marks smeared in dust, the drag of boot-heels and claw scratches across the floor. He followed them to the doorframe, where the trail vanished into the black hall.

He rose, expression tightening. “They moved her.”

Celann braced his shield against the floor. “Where?”

For once, Amon didn’t hesitate. “There’s only one chamber in this castle fit for a ritual like this. The place where she was made.”

Celann’s eyes narrowed, his voice rough. “You dragged us here on your word. We bled for it. I lost a man because of you.” His shield slammed into the floor with a crack that shook dust from the rafters. “And now you stand there telling me you were wrong?” His teeth bared, the words a snarl. “You think we’ll keep chasing your guesses while my men die on your leash?”

The Dawnguard stiffened behind him, crossbows half-raised. The chamber stank of fear, sharp and metallic, sharper even than the blood soaking the stones.

Amon didn’t flinch. He only tilted his head, the faintest curve at his mouth like Celann’s fury amused him. When he spoke, his voice was velvet cut with iron, smooth enough to crawl under the skin.

“You’ve already been following my leash,” he murmured, low, steady. “And you’re still breathing because of it.”

He stepped forward once, slow. The air seemed to pull colder around him, that strange pressure that was more than presence, less than spell. His eyes burned in the torchlight, red and blue, predator and abyss.

“Remember where you are,” he went on, voice soft enough to make every word land like a blade-point. “This castle doesn’t bow to your silver, or your faith. It knows me. Fears me. That is why you’re still on your feet.”

The men shifted uneasily. One swallowed hard, bolt trembling in his crossbow.

Amon’s smile thinned, cruel and certain. “So snarl at me all you like, Commander. It makes no difference. Every step that gets you closer to her depends on me.”

Celann’s jaw clenched so hard the muscles in his neck corded. For a moment I thought he might swing anyway, just to bury his blade in that smile. But instead he tore his glare away, shoulders tight under the weight of command.

“Form up,” he barked. His voice was raw, stripped of anything but order. “We move.”

The Dawnguard shifted back into ranks, silvered steel and fire-bolts ready, grim and silent. Celann’s eyes flicked to the man cradling his shoulder, blood seeping fresh between the plates of his armor.

“You still with me Hadrin?” Celann demanded.

The soldier straightened with effort, jaw tight, one hand pressed firm to the wound. “Yes, sir.” His voice rasped but didn’t falter.

Celann gave a sharp nod. “Then hold. Nobody falls behind.” His shield slammed back into place as he turned for the door.

They fell into step, boots echoing against the stone as the chamber swallowed us back into shadow. The air grew colder with every corridor, the walls closer, the roots splitting wider through the ceilings like veins. It felt like walking deeper into something alive, something waiting.

Amon led without looking back, his stride steady, as if he’d walked these halls a hundred times. And though Celann’s men bristled at every step behind him, they followed.

Boots scuffed behind me, Dawnguard steady in formation, Celann’s shield gleaming dull in the torchlight. His fist snapped up suddenly, halting the line.

Shapes moved ahead. Thin, gaunt bodies slinking out of the dark, thralls, their eyes hollow with the glow of chains not their own. They filled the corridor in silence, shuffling forward, claws twitching, lips pulled back from cracked teeth.

“Ready,” Celann hissed. His men lifted their crossbows in a single motion, bolts flaring bright.

But before the first string loosed, Amon raised one hand. “Wait.”

Celann’s head whipped toward him, a snarl rising. “What in—”

The thralls froze, every one of them. Their glowing eyes fixed, unblinking, not on Celann, not on the Dawnguard’s silvered steel, but on Amon.

The corridor seemed to hold its breath. Water dripped faint from the ceiling, each sound too loud in the silence.

Then, from the front of the pack, one broke. A man, gaunt, half-starved, his chest bare under ragged cloth, skin scored with bite marks that never healed. His eyes glowed faint, wet with something too much like… longing.

His voice cracked out raw, reverent.

“Master… Amon?”

The Dawnguard shifted uneasily, their bolts trembling.

Amon’s mouth curled. The red and the blue of his eyes gleamed bright, twin flames burning steady. His voice poured out velvet and venom both, smooth enough to slip straight under the skin.

“Yes,” he breathed. “Mine.”

The thrall swayed as if the word itself struck him. His lips parted, a small, broken gasp.

Amon stepped closer, slow, deliberate, like a predator taking his time. The air seemed to lean toward him, thick with something that made my ribs clench. When he reached the thrall, he lifted one clawed hand, tilting the man’s chin up with a single finger.

The thrall shuddered at the touch, eyes fluttering half-shut, like worship and hunger were the same thing. Amon’s thumb traced the sharp line of his jaw, his gaze drinking in the man’s face as if it were a chalice lifted in offering.

“You remember,” he murmured, low and intimate, close enough his breath brushed the thrall’s lips. “You always do.”

The man trembled, chest rising hard, ragged, a moan catching at the back of his throat.

Amon’s smile sharpened, his thumb pressing firmer into bone. “Good boy.” A breath softer, hungrier, “Why don’t you burn for me?”

The thrall’s eyes rolled back as though the words were command and prayer both. His hands clawed at his own chest, skin smoking where nails dug deep. Fire burst outward in a rush, consuming him whole, his body writhing not in pain but ecstasy. His moan cracked into flame, and then ash scattered at Amon’s feet.

The others did not break ranks. They followed. One by one, gaunt bodies swayed toward him, bare chests streaked with old wounds and chains of scars. Their glowing eyes fixed only on Amon as if nothing else existed in the corridor.

He didn’t speak again. He didn’t have to.

Hands clawed at their own flesh, nails raking deep furrows. Smoke curled up, then flame, hungry and bright, racing over their skin. They burned without screams, only gasps, only the wet sound of moans torn from hollow throats. One collapsed against the wall, writhing as fire cracked his body into glowing ash. Another fell to his knees before him like a supplicant, face lifted as his skin split open in embers.

And Amon just… watched. Calm. Eyes burning, lips curved faint, as if he were admiring a painting.

Ash piled thick, the stench of burnt flesh crawling under the shield of the Dawnguard fire-bolts. None of them fired. None of them moved. They only watched as thrall after thrall gave themselves up, one after another, until silence closed back in and the last ember hissed out.

My stomach twisted. My ribs screamed, but worse was the thought that split sharper than any claw.

Would I have been the same?

The way his voice had slipped into me, the way he pressed until I almost—

He had tried.

What if it had worked? What if one day he spoke and I—

What if I burned too?

Gladly.

Moaning.

A shiver cut through the fire-potion heat, cold enough that my grip nearly slipped on the hilt.

And then he turned. Slowly, as if he felt the thought itself crawl through me. His head tilted, his eyes found mine. Red and blue.

Desire and grave.

His mouth curved, faint and merciless. As if my fear had been his all along.

To be continued…

Chapter 83: Chapter 83

For a heartbeat I thought he might say my name. He didn’t. He only looked at me like he’d heard the thought I hadn’t let form, and liked it.

Celann shoved past before the moment could finish sharpening. His shield clipped my shoulder, hard enough to jolt the potion-fire in my ribs. “Move,” he snapped, voice ground down to iron. “We don’t linger in this filth.”

The Dawnguard stepped around the ash. Not through it. Around. Small mercy or small superstition, I couldn’t say. Hadrin limped, jaw clenched, one hand pressed to his mangled shoulder. No one offered to take his weight. That was how men like them prayed: keep moving or die.

Amon’s eyes slid off me, slow as a blade sheathed. He turned into the dark like the hall had been carved for him, not built. We followed. We had to.

The corridor bent tighter. Root-veins pushed through the ceiling, pale and slick, dripping cold onto stone that drank it like old teeth drinking blood. Somewhere far off, sea wind howled against the cliff, thin and high, a wire pulled to screaming. The castle breathed with it.

My fire started to fade.

Not all at once. First in the hands; a tremor under the hilt. Then in the lungs; breaths that scraped instead of filling. Last in the ribs, where the heat had drowned the wound so clean I could pretend it was gone, until it wasn’t. Ache returned in careful steps, polite at first. Promising worse.

“Keep up.” Celann said without looking back.

“I am.” Stubborn. True enough.

Amon’s head tilted, the way wolves listen. He lifted one hand, palm down. The line halted in a rattle of chain and breath. He didn’t speak. He breathed in, slow, like he could taste mortar. Then he touched the wall.

Runes woke under his claws. Not light. Something colder, a bruise-colored shimmer, the after-image of power already gone. His mouth curved without humor.

“Binds,” he said. “Sloppy. Someone ripped them open and dragged the weight through.” 

“Dragged her.” I whispered.

Amon’s thumb came away gray with old mortar. He tasted the dust like a sommelier, eyes narrowing as if the stone told secrets when it lay on his tongue. Then he angled his head, listening to the castle’s breath. “Down.” he said.

The corridor ran out of torchlight, then out of ceiling, roots shouldered into a cleft stair that sank like a throat. Cold climbed as we descended. I could smell iron before I saw it. Not rust, blood married to metal so long the two had learned each other’s names.

The stair spat us into a hall that felt older than stone. The ceiling lifted into a black dome where no torch could reach, and at the far wall loomed a statue with horns like spears and teeth bared wide, its shadow cast longer than the body that made it.

Bal.

At its feet crouched a basin bristling with iron spikes, the kind meant for wrists and ankles, rings worn smooth by too much use. The stone around it gleamed slick where knees had knelt. I didn’t need to know the history to know it was wrong. The whole place breathed wrong.

Two figures waited in the shadow of the statue.

One was a Dunmer, robes neat as if dust didn’t dare touch them, hands folded like he’d been waiting for us a long while. His face was still, his red eyes sharper. The other was a woman, Breton perhaps, pale, her leathers stained with dark use, a satchel of glass vials at her hip. She stood easy, weight on one leg, a hunter’s patience in her posture. Both watched us, not startled. Expecting.

The Dunmer’s mouth curved faint, and his gaze slid past Celann’s shield, past the Dawnguard, fixed on Amon.

“So the ghost walks after all.” he said, voice smooth as glass.

The woman’s eyes narrowed. “Not much of a ghost,” she murmured. “Ghosts don’t bleed.”

My hand tightened on the hilt. They knew him. Not from whispers or rumor. Like old acquaintances meeting in the dark.

“They do if they owe.” Dunmer murmured.

Amon’s mouth tilted, almost pleasant. “Marethi,” he said, using the Dunmer’s name like a knife he’d kept sharp. “Still polishing chains and calling it counsel?”

“Someone must remind the King of Shadows when to savor and when to swallow.” Marethi’s gaze flicked once to me, cataloguing blood, stance, the way I kept my blade down but not away. “You bring pets now.”

“Careful,” Celann said, voice flat, shield braced. “The last man who called me a pet is the smear on your stairs.”

The woman’s smile showed a single crooked canine. “Then you won’t mind dying quick. Less fuss.”

Amon stepped so that the Dawnguard’s line had him between their bolts and the Volkihar pair. Not shielding the vampires, shaping the field.

“We’re not here for theater,” I said. My voice spidered across the vaulted stone. “Where is she?”

Woman’s eyes shifted to the font. “Closer than you’ll like.”

Marethi’s look was almost gentle. “You’ve missed the worst of it. Take comfort in that small mercy.” His gaze touched the leather strap at my ribs, the jag of breath I couldn’t hide anymore. “Though I doubt you take comfort well.”

“Open the way,” Celann ordered. “By the gods or by your corpse, I don’t care which.”

“That’s the Dawnguard I remember.” Dunmer sighed delicately. “Always two doors. Both bricked.”

Amon’s patience thinned. The air remembered what it owed him. “Move.” he said. A word like a hand on the back of the neck.

Marethi inclined his head instead, as if to a host finally arrived. “We were told,” he said softly, “that you would come. He said the Keep would bring you down, one way or another.”

The woman cocked her head. “He said you’d be grinning.”

“I’ve always liked a prediction that flatters me.” Amon replied.

Woman’s grip settled on her knife. “He also said to cut your smile off.”

Not a step, not even a blur. One breath she was at the statue, the next she was in front of Amon, so close the leather of her chest brushed his coat.

Her hand rose, two fingers almost touching the line of his jaw. “I missed you,” she said, low and lilting, voice like smoke. Her smile bared teeth that weren’t meant to be kind. “It’s a shame I’ll have to kill you.”

Behind me, Celann hissed a curse. The Dawnguard braced, crossbows trembling for a shot they couldn’t take without hitting me too.

Amon didn’t flinch. He tilted his head a fraction. His smile was small, patient, infuriating. “You’ve always been dramatic.” he murmured.

Dunmer lifted one long-fingered hand. “Hestla. Please. We don’t paint the shrine with… improvisation.” He looked to the statue, then to the font. “This chamber remembers other music.”

He stepped aside a fraction. Not surrender, invitation. “Bring your candles into the dark, Dawnguard. Let’s see if they smoke.”

Celann didn’t take bait. “Hold line. Hadrin, left. Marin, eyes on the basin—anything moves you break it.”

“On your word.” I told Amon, without looking away from Marethi.

His voice came soft enough to crawl under my skin. “Then listen closely.” 

The room moved as if it had been waiting for the cue.

Hestla flicked a vial low even as she lunged. It burst against the flagstones at our feet, coagulant-stink, cold and cloying. The spill flashed from liquid to rigid crystal in a breath, slicking the floor in a frost-slick glaze that grabbed ankles and made footing treacherous. 

Dawnguard bolts sang; Marethi’s hand wrote a sigil in the air and half the volley bent midflight, kissing the stone harmlessly. The other half struck him and hissed uselessly where his wards clung thin as smoke.

I moved for Hestla. She came in low, blade to my thigh, not my throat, she’d watched me limp and decided to end the leg. I dropped my weight, let the slick take me into a slide that carried me under her cut instead of through it, and slashed up. My frost bit leather and then skin; she hissed, not in pain, in interest.

“Good,” Hestla breathed. “Again.”

Her blade came again, faster this time, a feint at my ribs before she whipped low. I barely caught the arc on my steel, sparks spitting where silver kissed iron. My arms shook with the force of it; the fire potion’s courage was almost gone, leaving nothing but raw will.

Hestla leaned close over the lock of our blades, her smile too wide. “You’re prettier broken.” she whispered. Her breath was cold, a damp cellar reek, and it slid down my neck like a hand.

I shoved off her weight, cut for her side. She twisted, let the blade take her leathers open at the hip, and laughed as blood welled dark against the pale line of skin. 

The chamber thundered with another clash, Celann’s shield slamming the Dunmer into the font’s steps, Dawnguard bolts flaring bright against wards that bent like glass but didn’t break. 

Hestla struck again. Her knife angled for my shoulder this time. I caught her wrist in a desperate lock, frost crawling from my grip into her skin. She gasped, not in pain, in delight, head tipping back as if she wanted more.

“You’ll freeze me through,” she breathed, lips parting. “Do it.” Her eyes flicked past me, locking on the figure behind. “He always liked me cold.”

The words sliced sharper than her blade. My stomach lurched even as my frost deepened, teeth grinding until I thought they’d break.

I ripped free before the wrongness of it could take root. She blurred forward with that same inhuman speed, and I barely twisted aside. Her blade snagged leather, opening another line across my ribs where wraps barely held. Heat poured down my side.

Pain wanted me to fold. The frost in my arm answered otherwise, numbing the edge, forcing me to move or die. I spun with the momentum, let the blade drag, and carved low. My steel split the back of her knee.

Her smile stayed even as blood streamed from her nose. She staggered, propped herself on her knife, and grinned wider, teeth wet.

Behind her the Dunmer’s voice carried, sharp through the clash: “She’s wasting you. I’d have kept you whole.” His ward flared under another Dawnguard volley. “But then, he never could stand to share his toys.”

Amon’s answer didn’t come as words at first. It came as pressure, air sucked thin, the iron basin at the statue’s feet shuddering against its bolts. His voice followed, low enough to crawl into the marrow.

“You should worry less about my toys,” he murmured, “and more about the lock you built in your god’s house.”

He cut his wrist with one claw and let the blood fall into the basin. The font drank it, not with smoke but with silence, the kind that made the runes underfoot stir like snakes. The chamber groaned, stone splitting hairline, as if the castle itself tried to turn its face away.

The Dunmer’s composure faltered at last. “You can’t open that,” he hissed, ward buckling under Celann’s shield. “It isn’t yours.”

Amon smiled with his teeth, eyes burning red and blue. “It was never yours either.” He pressed his hand flat against the iron and whispered something I couldn’t understand, a sound like glass cracking under ice.

The font answered. Runes lit in sickly blue along the floor, veins that spread outward toward the hidden gate. Chains rattled deep in the stone, something shifting awake beyond the statue.

Hestla’s laugh rose sharp behind me. “Of course he’s bleeding for her,” she sang, voice ragged with glee. “He always did have a taste for daughters.”

She lunged, her knife flashing low, and before I could twist away a shadow moved faster than sight.

Amon’s hand closed around her throat.

He didn’t slam her back. He didn’t need to. He lifted, slow, deliberate, until her boots left the floor and her body arched against the grip like a puppet tugged on the wrong strings.

Her dagger clattered to the stone. Her hands clawed at his wrist, but not to break it. To hold it there. Her head tipped back, a laugh bubbling raw and wet through his grip.

“Oh,” she rasped, voice shredding. Her eyes shone fever-bright, lips curling around the choke. “I knew you missed me.” Her knees bent as if to wrap around him, a lover’s clutch that turned my stomach.

Amon’s gaze didn’t flicker. Red and blue burned steady as he squeezed just enough to cut her next word to a gurgle.

“Still dramatic,” he said softly, almost bored. “Still begging.”

She shuddered in his grip, not in fear. Her smile cracked wide, blood on her teeth. “And you… still beautiful… when you’re cruel.”

The words dug under my skin sharper than her dagger had.

Something twisted in my chest, ugly and hot, a curl of nausea that had nothing to do with the blood drying on my ribs. I hated the way she looked at him, like his cruelty was a gift, like the choke of his hand was worth worship. 

It shouldn’t matter. And yet my grip on the hilt ached white because the thought wouldn’t let go. 

She wanted him. 

Wanted him bloody, feral, merciless. 

Wanted what he gave too freely, what I had sworn I would never take.

Amon’s smile didn’t shift, not for her, not for me, but his gaze slid sideways for the briefest breath. Just long enough that I felt pinned as surely as the hand at her throat.

My stomach lurched. I hated her laugh. I hated the heat that rose in my face more.

Celann’s voice cracked over the clash like a whip. “Marin, Hadrin—on the mer! Shields up, drive him back!”

The Dawnguard surged past, bolts sparking against the Dunmer’s wards. Steel rang sharp in the background, a dozen strikes crashing against invisible glass. The chamber turned into a storm of voices and metal, but all I could see was Amon’s hand on her throat.

Hestla laughed again, a wet, broken sound, blood bubbling down her chin. Her eyes stayed fixed on him like worship. “Yes,” she choked, breath clawing past his grip. “Don’t stop. Show them. Show her—”

The words burned through me worse than the wound in my side.

Amon didn’t let her finish. His fingers tightened, sharp and deliberate, and the snap was as clean as a branch breaking in frost. Her body jerked once, then hung slack in his grip.

For a breath he simply held her there, head lolled, lips still curved faint in the ghost of a smile. Then he let her fall. Her body hit the stones with a dull thud, limbs slack, mouth still fixed in that broken smile.

My stomach rolled. I wanted to spit, to gag, but nothing came, only the shame that some small part of me was glad she was gone.

Then a bolt hissed through the air.

It struck her square in the chest, fire blooming bright. Flesh cracked before it could pale, black smoke curling sharp. The smell hit first, burnt hair, scorched leather, the sweet-sick reek of cooking marrow. She convulsed once, a twitch, then collapsed into flame. By the time the smoke cleared there was nothing left but char, bone flaking in the heat.

The Dawnguard who’d loosed it lowered his crossbow, helm hiding his face. Celann didn’t miss a beat.

“Good instinct, V!” he barked, voice raw but steady, forcing order back into the line.

The soldier gave a short nod, already notching another bolt. No celebration, no triumph. Just the next shot waiting.

Ash scattered across Amon’s boots. He didn’t step back. Didn’t look down. His eyes lifted, catching mine through the haze as if to say, see how quickly what you envy burns?

Envy? 

I didn’t. 

I didn’t. 

The smoke of Hestla’s body hadn’t even cleared when the Dunmer’s voice cut through the din, smooth as silk drawn over a knife.

“Clumsy.” he murmured, and flicked his hand.

The ward that had been holding collapsed inward, not shattered, redirected. The bolt meant for his chest snapped sideways like a dog on a chain and buried itself in Hadrin’s throat. The Dawnguard choked, fingers clawing at the shaft as fire chewed him from the inside. He dropped before anyone could shout his name.

Marin roared, silver blade raised high. He came in hard, shield first, but the Dunmer only shifted a step aside, elegant as a dancer. His blade whispered once, just once, across Marin’s waist.

The man staggered, confusion flashing in his eyes before blood spilled black down his greaves. Then the second cut came, fast and low, opening him hip to rib. Marin folded in half, breath breaking wet, his body collapsing at Celann’s feet.

It happened too quickly for warning. Too quickly for me to do anything but watch.

The Dunmer straightened, robe unstained, only his eyes burning bright. “Children with candles,” he said quietly, as if to himself. “You shouldn’t be here.”

Celann’s shout cracked the chamber raw. “Hold line!” His shield slammed forward again, rage blotting out grief in a heartbeat. The other Dawnguard roared with him, fury sparking off steel.

Hadrin twitched once, then stilled, his crossbow clattering from numb fingers.

Two gone. Just like that.

The Dunmer’s smile lingered, thin as smoke. My grip shook with fury, with fire fading to nothing but stubbornness. I raised my blade and let the frost surge down its length, cold so sharp it made the air scream.

“Enough.” I hissed, and cut.

The ice leapt, a jagged bloom of blue-white shards ripping across the floor, racing for his legs. For a breath I thought I had him, thought I saw the frost bite leather, seize the hem of his robe—

He was already gone.

One step, two, and he was past it, moving with a speed no mortal body could carry, my frost snapping shut on nothing but shadow. He glanced back once, calm, red eyes gleaming. “Pretty tricks.” he said. 

Behind him the font screamed. Runes cracked wide along the floor, light spilling up the walls like veins bursting. The statue’s shadow split down the middle and the stone at its base began to shift, grinding outward in slow, jagged breaths.

The hidden gate clawed itself wider, cold rushing out so sharp it stripped the heat from my lungs.

Celann slammed his shield against the floor, sparks flying as he planted himself between the Dunmer and the gate. His jaw was iron, his voice a raw command. “Go! Get her!” His eyes cut to me, then Amon. “We hold him here, you bring her out.”

The Dunmer’s blade licked silver light as he raised it, patient, certain, but Celann didn’t flinch. Neither did his men.

The passage spat us into a chamber that felt wrong the moment my boots touched stone.

It was larger than I expected, vaulted high, air thick with mildew and iron. Torches guttered low in brackets along the walls, their flames clawing shadows instead of pushing them back. At the far side stood a bed, heavy, iron-framed.

It was wrong. That was all I could think at first. Too large, too heavy, its iron posts sunk into the stone as if the chamber had been carved around it. Shackles still dangled from each corner, black with rust and stains too dark to be only rust. The sheets were rotted silk, but I could imagine them once, rich, expensive, laid not for comfort but for ceremony.

I didn’t want to think about what rite had been made here, though every stone stank of it.

Serana lay chained across that bed.

Her arms were stretched above her head, irons biting her wrists. Her ankles were bound the same. Her hair spilled black over the pillow, veiling half her face. She turned toward me when we entered, and her eyes, red, faintly glowing through exhaustion, opened enough to meet mine.

There was no fear in them. Only loathing. Not at me, not at Amon, but at the room itself.

Amon’s gaze roamed the walls, the channels cut into stone, the bed like an altar in its wrong place. His mouth curved, not with humor. “Harkon knows how to wound.”

Her laugh was a dry scrape. Her wrists twisted in the irons; they rattled sharp against the bedframe. “He knows I can never lie in this room without remembering.”

My chest tightened. I didn’t ask. I didn’t need to. The air carried enough of the answer. 

She was a daughter of Coldharbor. 

The place where she was made, was right here. 

Amon stepped closer, his eyes narrowing as they fell on the shackles. “Cruelty even older than he is.”

Serana bared her teeth, thin and sharp. “Don’t sound impressed.”

He gripped the iron at Serana’s wrists and tore. Rust shrieked, links snapped like brittle bone, and her hands fell free. She hissed at the sudden blood rushing back into them, flexing her fingers with a grimace, then lifted her chin toward her ankles. He broke those too, the old chains clattering to the floor in useless coils.

She sat up slowly and for a moment she just looked at me, eyes glowing faint in the gloom. Not the glare I expected. Something sharper. 

Something softer.

“You came back.” Her voice cracked, but the words were steady. “For me.”

Heat stung my face. I opened my mouth and found nothing but air.

For Arnbjorn.

And for her. 

She tilted her head, studying me with something like wonder, then her mouth curved. “You look like shit, though.”

My snort came out ragged. “So do you.”

For the first time since I’d stepped into the castle, something eased in my chest.

She reached for me before I could step back, her hand cool against my arm, and whispered a word under her breath. Light spread from her palm, not fire but something gentler, golden-white bleeding across my ribs where the wound burned. Heat stitched bone and sinew back together, not violent like the Dawnguard’s draught, not jagged like Amon’s bindings but clean, careful.

The ache dulled. My breath came easier. 

Shame prickled behind my eyes, “Thank you.” 

Serana pushed herself off the bed, shaky for a breath before her stride steadied. The glow had gone from her hand, but her eyes still burned faint. She drew her tongue across cracked lips, gaze flicking to the shadows where boots scuffed and steel clashed faint beyond the sealed door.

“I’m hungry.” she said flatly. No apology. Just fact.

Amon’s laugh was low, humorless. “Don’t bite the first thing you see.” His mismatched eyes slid toward the chamber door where the Dawnguard still fought. “One taste and you’ll be the one choking.”

Serana’s head snapped toward him, brows drawing tight. “What—?”

I didn’t let her finish. The door shuddered under a blow from outside, steel on steel ringing sharp, men shouting through the stone. The sound crawled down my ribs like a warning.

“They can’t hold him much longer,” I rasped, pushing off the bed. My legs nearly buckled, but I forced them steady. “We have to go. Now.”

Serana’s eyes flicked to mine, something unreadable there as she steadied herself on the wall. Amon was already moving, his stride unhurried, as if the castle itself had been waiting for his step.

We spilled back into the hall. Two Dawnguard remained upright, bloodied but still braced in formation. Celann stood at their front, shield dented, blade rimmed with ichor. His face was iron, fury grinding every line of him.

And the Dunmer turned at the sound of the door.

His red eyes landed on Serana.

For a heartbeat, everything stilled.

The wards around Marethi’s hands guttered, nearly faltering, as if the sight of her unbound had stolen the spell from his throat.

Serana’s lips parted, fangs catching the light. Recognition flashed in her gaze, colder than ice. “You.”

Celann didn’t waste the pause. He slammed forward with his shield, snarling, “Now! While he’s open!”

His shield crashed forward, but Serana was already moving.

Marethi’s eyes were still fixed on her, spelllight guttering in his palm. “My lady—” he began, soft, reverent—

Her hand snapped up and the words froze in his throat.

Darkness surged, a raw pull that rattled the torches in their brackets. His body jerked as if yanked by invisible chains, dragged off his footing and slammed hard against the wall. The ward shattered with a hiss.

“You don’t get to say that,” Serana whispered. Her voice was low, shaking, but the power behind it was anything but weak.

Marethi gasped, blood flecking his lip, still staring at her like worship even as her magic pinned him. “You are—”

“Don’t.” Her hand tightened. The stone at his back cracked with the force, his body bowing under it. She stepped closer, slow and deliberate, until she was nearly nose to nose with him. Her fangs bared in a smile that had nothing of humor.

“You had centuries to call me that,” she hissed. “Now you get silence.”

The spell constricted. His chest caved with a wet crack. His scream died before it reached the air.

When she let go, what was left of him slid down the wall in a smear of blood and black dust.

The Dawnguard stood frozen, Celann’s shield still raised but his face cut through with something I couldn’t name, awe maybe, or a flicker of fear.

Serana’s eyes swept the wreckage once, then caught on the man still braced at the front of the line, dented shield raised, blood running down his temple.

For a heartbeat, her expression softened.

“You came all this way for me, Celann?” Her voice was hoarse, but there was something in it, wonder tangled with disbelief. The faintest curve tugged her mouth. “I’m impressed.”

Celann’s shield dipped half an inch, just enough to show the weight in his arms. His mouth worked, jaw tight, voice rough.

“We came for the scroll.” 

But the words faltered at the end, like he’d tripped over them. His gaze slid over her once, quick and sharp, the chains at her wrists, the strength still simmering behind her exhaustion and for a heartbeat something unreadable cracked through the iron discipline.

He snapped the shield back into place, teeth gritting. “Do you know where it is? The scroll?”

Serana blinked at him, then gave a short, rasping laugh. “Really? After all this, you want to chat about parchment?” She shook her head, hair falling across her face. “No time for chit-chat.”

Her mouth curved, sharp and weary all at once. “I almost wish Isran were here. At least his grim sermons came with a point.”

Celann’s head snapped toward her, eyes hard under the blood streaking his temple. “Do not speak his name like a jest.” His voice was raw, scoured down to iron. “I’ve lost three men tonight to drag you out of that hole, and I’ll lose more before we’re through if we waste another breath.”

The shield in his fist slammed against the floor, the crack ringing through the chamber. “The scroll. Where is it?”

Her smile froze.

For a moment she just stared at Celann, the weight in his words cutting sharper than his blade ever could. I saw the thought flicker across her face, the cost, the waste, and for once she didn’t have a barb ready.

Silence stretched, broken only by the ragged clang of steel somewhere deeper in the halls.

“If he wanted to hide it, he’d bury it in the vaults. If he wanted to protect it, he’d lock it under wards none of you could break.” She lifted her head, red eyes narrowing. “But if he wanted to gloat…”

Her mouth curved, bitter as iron.

“He’d put it in a place that only our blood can unseal.”

The words hung heavy, dragging the silence with them. Even Celann, shield still braced against his shoulder, didn’t push.

Amon’s gaze glinted faintly in the torchlight. “Then it isn’t hidden.”

Serana’s jaw clenched. “No. It’s waiting.”

 

To be continued…

 

 

 

Chapter 84: Chapter 84

The hall still smelled of battle. Burnt marrow, old blood, the sharp bite of wards collapsing into smoke. The Dawnguard had dragged their dead to the wall, a grim row of steel and silence. Celann barked orders in a voice ground down to gravel, but even he couldn’t scrape the weariness from it.

I sat apart, spine pressed to cold stone, every breath tight against the ribs Serana had stitched back together. Her magic dulled the pain, but it hadn’t touched the bone-deep exhaustion clawing through me. My hands wouldn’t stop trembling. Every blink threatened sleep, and every breath dragged me back awake again.

The others gave me space. Maybe out of respect, maybe because I looked too close to breaking. Serana leaned against the far wall, pale even by torchlight, her eyes still bright with the echo of the power that had cracked Marethi’s ribs. The Dawnguard muttered low, checking their bolts, trying not to look at the bodies cooling a few paces away.

And him.

His shadow fell long across the stone until it touched my boots. I didn’t have to look up to feel him staring.

“I can hear you cracking.” Amon murmured.

The words scraped under my skin like claws. I forced my chin up, breath hitching raw. “Then close your ears. Or better, your mouth.”

For a heartbeat he only watched me, eyes catching the torchlight. Then his hand moved to hold out a flask.

“I was only going to offer water.”

Heat stung my face before I could smother it. I snatched the flask too quickly, the swallow burning down my throat colder than any frost.

When I lowered it, he’d already lowered himself too, sitting beside me as if the space had always been his. His shoulder brushed the wall near mine, close enough that the air changed.

I shifted an inch, as if distance could dull the weight of his presence.

The water steadied my throat but not my hands. I set the flask down harder than I meant to, the sound echoing in the stone. My ribs still ached where Serana’s light had stitched them shut, but the ache was dulled, not gone. Closed wounds still throbbed.

And the thought came unbidden, cruel as a knife turned inwards.

Did Astrid feel it too?

When steel cut me, when frost numbed me, when blood spilled hot against my skin, did it spill for her as well? Or had the bond snapped clean, like she said?

“I was so sure.”

I couldn’t bear to think of her bleeding with me, the same wound mirrored in her flesh, the same fire dragging through her bones.

“Your soul, it left.”

The bond was broken.

It was.

Was it? 

Ash still clung to the flagstones near our boots, black flecks scattered like a warning. I found myself staring at them longer than I should have.

My mouth moved before my better sense caught it.

“Do we have to wade through more of your castoffs before we reach the scroll?”

The words landed colder than I meant them to, bitter wrapped in jest.

Amon chuckled, low and unhurried. His eyes lingered on me, “Careful. Jealousy makes you sound almost like them.”

My jaw clenched. The laugh crawled under my skin worse than Hestla’s had. “And you like it, don’t you?” I bit out. “People dying for you. Smiling when you choke the life out of them. That’s what you want, isn’t it?”

His head tilted, slow as if weighing the accusation. For a heartbeat his smile was gone, replaced by something unreadable, a shadow that almost felt like truth.

“That’s where you differ.”

My breath snagged. His eyes didn’t waver, red and blue burning steady as if the words themselves were proof.

“You don’t beg,” he said simply. “That’s why you last.”

The words sank in, cold and heavy. My teeth clenched before the retort tore out.

“Is that why you tried to charm me?”

For the first time, he stilled. No smirk. No quip. Just silence, eyes fixed on mine, something unreadable flickering beneath.

Before he could shape it into an answer, Celann’s voice cracked through the dark.

“Enough rest. We move.”

Chains rattled, boots shifted, the moment shoved aside by iron and order.

I pulled myself upright before the silence could strangle me too. My legs still ached but I forced them steady.

The Dawnguard were already in formation, shields braced, eyes hard, bolts notched and waiting. Celann stood at their front, jaw locked, the iron in his voice still echoing. Serana lingered beside them, pale and poised.

I fell into step, fingers white on my hilt. Better the rhythm of boots and steel than the press of Amon’s eyes still burning at my back.

We drew together beneath the vaulting stone, a knot of steel and blood in the dark. The Dawnguard tightened their line, shields locking like teeth. Celann’s eyes raked across us all, measuring what was left and whether it was enough.

Serana’s gaze swept the battered hall, sharp despite the bruises at her wrists. “The sanctum is buried deep in the heart of the castle. If we march in like this, half the coven will smell blood before we reach the door. We won’t make it three steps unseen.”

Celann’s mouth thinned. “Then what do you suggest?”

Her eyes cut to Amon, then back to us. “We make them believe I’m not escaping at all.”

The words settled like stone.

Amon’s smile came slow, teeth flashing faint in the torchlight. “I walk her in on a chain, and the rest of you crawl in after, thralls too desperate to be anything but pathetic.” His gaze slid over Celann, deliberate. “It’s a role you wear well.”

I shifted, unease scraping raw in my chest. “And what happens if it’s not just anyone we meet?” My eyes caught hers, then Amon’s. “If it’s Vingalmo? Or Borald?”

For the first time, Serana’s voice faltered. “Then we pray they want theater more than truth.”

Amon’s mouth curved, cold and amused. “And if not—” his mismatched eyes lingered on me a moment too long, “—then we see what burns first. Their patience, or the castle itself.”

Celann’s shield creaked under his grip. “I don’t like it.” His voice was iron, low enough to grind against the stone. “Walking in like dogs on a leash. It stinks of folly.”

“I don’t like it either.” I muttered, heat rising sharp in my throat.

Serana’s gaze flicked between us, hard and unyielding. “You don’t have to like it. You just have to survive it. This is the only way we reach the scroll before this place swallows us whole.”

Silence pressed close.

At last Celann exhaled, short and ragged, and slammed the butt of his shield against the flagstones. “Fine. But the moment it fails, we break them. No hesitation.”

“Agreed.” Serana said.

Amon didn’t speak. One moment he stood empty-handed, the next he was gone in a blur of motion, across the hall, into the shadows near the shrine. When he returned, iron links hung coiled from his fist, dark with rust and age, their clatter loud in the silence.

Serana didn’t flinch. She only lifted her wrists. The lock snapped shut with a crack that rang off the stone. For a moment the sight of her bound again made my ribs ache like the wound was tearing open fresh.

Amon’s hand lingered on the chain a heartbeat longer than needed, eyes narrowing as if testing the weight.

Serana’s gaze snapped to his, red eyes burning. “Don’t fucking enjoy this.” she hissed.

His smile was slight, infuriating, neither denial nor confession. He only turned toward the stair, chain coiled in his fist.

Celann’s voice broke the hush, sharp as a blade. “Dawnguard!” His men straightened at once, shields raised, crossbows braced. “No matter what you see, no matter what he does, you hold.”

The men nodded, grim and silent.

I fell into step, every clink of chain grinding louder than breath, louder than thought.

The stair wound higher, each step steeper, dragging us toward the heart of the Castle Volkihar. Torchlight licked the walls in uneven bars, voices echoing faint above, muttering, the shuffle of boots, the scrape of steel. They were close.

The Dawnguard fell into a hushed rhythm, shields pressed, crossbows low, every face set to stone. Celann’s order still hung over us like iron, no matter what you see, you hold.

I tried to hold too. But every clink of Serana’s chains clawed deeper, each rattle dragging old ghosts up my spine. To walk behind them was too easy. Muscle memory. My body remembered the posture before I did.

My breath quickened.

What if it looks real?

What if some part of me slipped back into that role and stayed there?

Chains rattled ahead as Amon gave Serana the faintest pull, unhurried, practiced. She matched the movement with a glare sharp enough to cut him, but still she walked.

Was this all I was again?

A body trailing a shadow, someone else’s leash in my throat?

The stair spilled us into a new world before my thoughts could eat me, a world that hardly belonged to the same castle. Below, the stone had been damp, root-choked, reeking of iron and mildew. Here, the walls were dressed in crimson banners heavy with dust but still rich, velvet catching torchlight like congealed blood. Iron sconces lined the hall, flames burning steady in glass bowls shaped like chalices.

The air no longer smelled of rot alone, it carried spiced oil, incense smoldering somewhere unseen, sweet enough to coat the tongue.

Statues broke the corners, not saints or kings, but beasts, wolves, bats, dragons, all carved with teeth bared and eyes faceted with garnets. The floor shone in patches where old polish had not yet dulled, black stone veined with silver, reflecting torchlight in fractured gleams.

And it was lively. Not the silence of cells or the hiss of roots breaking stone, but voices, low conversation, the clink of goblets, the shuffle of thralls bearing trays draped in cloths that hid the stains. Somewhere deeper, a harp thrummed a slow, eerie melody, as if even music here had been bent toward hunger.

The difference was suffocating. Below had been death’s cellar, here was its feast hall. One meant to impress, to remind intruders that cruelty could dress itself in finery and call it civilization.

The music and murmurs thinned as a shape slid from the shadows ahead.

A tall woman glided into the light, robes spattered, mouth dark as if she’d only just fed. Her eyes found Serana first, chained and silent, and then snapped to Amon.

“Amon?” Her voice was sharp, incredulous, too loud in the hall. “You… how is this possible? Vingalmo swore you’d turned traitor.”

Every thrall in earshot stiffened, trays rattling in their hands. Even the vampires at the edges leaned closer, eyes brightening at the name.

Amon didn’t flinch. His head tilted, that slow, infuriating smile curling back into place. “Vingalmo does love his stories. I thought it kinder to let him believe it. In truth…” His gaze slid to Serana, then back to the woman, deliberate. “I was the one bringing her home.”

He tugged the chain, drawing Serana half a step forward. She met his pull with a glare sharp enough to cut, lips curling but still silent.

Woman’s shock softened into something else, a slow, delighted smile. Her gaze flicked to Serana, “Vingalmo will choke on his pride when he sees this.”

Amon dipped his head slightly, the curve of his mouth smooth, practiced, almost flirtatious. “Let him. Harkon will see the truth soon enough.”

Woman’s eyes narrowed, cutting to the rest of us trailing behind. Her nose wrinkled faintly, as if scenting something sour. “And these?”

Amon’s smile didn’t shift. “Clumsy little heroes. They thought to free her. Managed to make a mess of things. Took down poor Hestla, even Marethi, before I found them.” His voice thinned, colder. “I had to thin their number to get her back. A waste of good blood.”

The Dawnguard bristled behind me, but Celann’s barked breath kept them frozen in place.

That seemed to satisfy her, at least, enough that her eyes began to wander. They slid past Serana, past Celann’s men straining to stand still, until they landed on me.

Her grin widened. “And what’s this?”

She moved closer, skirts whispering against stone, until I could smell her, copper and rot, heavy and sweet. Her hand lifted, pale fingers brushing a stray lock of my hair back as though I were something delicate.

“Prettier than most you drag in.” she mused aloud. Her other hand ghosted to my waist, resting there lightly, claiming, while her eyes stayed locked on mine.

My chest clenched. Every instinct screamed to jerk away, to strike, to do something but thralls didn’t move. Thralls didn’t resist. I forced my body still, my gaze lowered, every muscle burning with the effort of silence.

Her thumb traced my cheek once, slow and lingering. “Let me keep this one.” she said, her voice thick with amusement.

Behind her, Amon’s chuckle slipped smooth into the air, quiet and edged. “Careful, Fura. Some ornaments cut when you touch them wrong.”

Fura’s laughter rang sharp, pleased, as though he’d given her a compliment. She patted my cheek once before pulling back, fingers sliding from my waist like she was reluctant to let go.

“Well,” she said, turning back toward the hall, “go on then. Don’t keep our lord waiting.”

We moved deeper into the castle’s corridors, where torches burned pale and the air thickened with perfume and rot. Every step echoed, every chain rattle drew eyes.

Serana’s shoulders were rigid, her jaw clenched so tight I thought her teeth might crack. She leaned just enough for her voice to slip out, low and sharp, meant for him alone.

“Stop enjoying this,” she hissed. “Or I’ll rip the smile off your face.”

Amon didn’t break stride. His grip on the chain stayed steady, his expression unreadable save for the faintest curve at the corner of his mouth.

“I don’t smile,” he said softly. “I endure.”

The vaulted corridor widened into a gallery where courtiers clustered in twos and threes, goblets in hand, eyes glinting as we passed. Their whispers slipped through the air like knives drawn half-silent.

“Poor Borald,” one voice murmured, almost pitying. “Still bleeding. Struck near to death…”

Their whispers tangled with the clink of goblets, but then another voice cut sharper, incredulous:

“Is that… Amon?”

The words rippled through the gallery like a spark dropped in dry grass. Heads turned, murmurs rising—he was gone, he was hunting, he was dead, no one returns once Harkon sends them away.

I kept my eyes down, thrall-still, but my skin crawled under the weight of their stares.

Amon didn’t slow. His hand tugged the chain again, measured, as if Serana’s capture explained everything. His expression was carved from ice, no hint of triumph, no defense. Just the certainty of someone who belonged here more than the rest of them.

Chains rattled as Serana shifted, her voice low but steady. “We’re close.” she whispered, eyes flicking toward the far bend of the corridor.

We turned the corner.

The hall opened wide before us, a chamber grander than the crypts below, the stone polished dark and veined with silver, braziers burning with cold blue fire. Banners of Volkihar red hung from the high beams, their sigils stark against the glow. At the center, beyond pillars carved with snarling wolves and writhing bats, stood the doors, tall, ironbound, etched with runes that shimmered faint at Serana’s approach.

The vault.

Even with the weight of the keep pressing down, I could feel the air shift around it, heavy with wards, waiting to be broken by nothing but her blood.

Serana’s steps slowed as they neared the doors, the chains rattling in her hands now slack. Her eyes narrowed on the runes cut deep into the iron. They pulsed faintly, like veins under skin.

She drew a sharp breath, then pressed her palm against the cold metal.

The ward flared. Blue fire streaked from sigil to sigil, racing in jagged lines, searing the air with the smell of ozone and iron. The chains in her grip quivered, then fell loose with a dull clatter on the stones. The doors groaned, the runes splitting wide like eyes forced open.

The chamber beyond swallowed us whole.

The ceiling soared high, lost in shadows threaded with hanging braziers. The walls were lined with pillars carved into leering faces, their mouths spilling firelight across floors veined with red marble. Chalices lay scattered on black tables, some upright, some overturned, the wine within too thick to be only wine.

At the far end, a tall window rose almost to the ceiling, beyond the panes, the balcony jutted into night but not fully. A pale thread edged the horizon, the first hint of dawn trying to press through the warded glass.

The light didn’t pierce, only smeared against the surface like blood under ice, but it was enough to paint the chamber colder.

For a heartbeat no one moved. Then, as if pulled by the same cord, we all exhaled at once Dawnguard, Serana, even me. Relief rasped out in a single breath, too sharp to feel safe, too brief to last.

Amon’s voice cut it short. “We don’t have much time.”

Celann’s shield scraped as he stepped forward, jaw tight, eyes already scanning the shadowed chamber. “Search the room.”

The Dawnguard spread out, checking pillars, braziers, the corners where shadow pressed thickest. Celann barked orders low and sharp, his shield never lowering, eyes flicking to every movement.

Serana ignored them all. Her steps drew her toward the far wall, where iron safes were sunk into the stone, their faces marked with wards and old locks. Dust lay thick on some, others gleamed faint with recent touch. She brushed her fingers over the runes, lips moving soundlessly, searching for the one that would answer her blood.

Chains rattled faint at her wrist as she crouched by a safe etched deep with sigils that pulsed sickly blue. Her jaw tightened.

“This one.” she murmured, almost to herself.

Celann came up beside her, shield still braced. His eyes narrowed at the glowing runes. “How do we open it? Do we need a spell?”

I swallowed, leaning against the stone to steady myself. “Or blood… maybe a key?”

Serana’s mouth curved, sharp and humorless. “Or,” she said, and drove her boot into the iron.

The safe screeched, wards sparking blue for a heartbeat before splintering like glass. The door cracked inward with a sound that rattled through the chamber, then sagged open, smoke hissing out from its seams.

She exhaled, brushing dust from her hands as if it were nothing. “Sometimes subtlety’s overrated.”

Boots clattered faint on the other side of the vault door. Muffled voices carried through the stone.

“We saw him go into this corridor—”

“Master Vingalmo, this way.”

My stomach dropped.

“Times up.” I rasped.

The Dawnguard tightened formation without a word. Celann’s shield lifted, eyes fixed on the vault door as if willing it to hold.

Serana pulled the Elder Scroll free. The safe groaned like it had been strangled shut for centuries, wards sputtering out in pale sparks. For one fragile breath, the chamber exhaled with us. Relief tasted bitter but real.

Then the vault door shuddered. Iron bolts ground loose on the other side, the heavy scrape of intrusion.

The first bolt hissed before the hinges had finished screaming.

It punched through the Dawnguard soldier’s throat. His body toppled with a clatter, blood slicking stone.

I whipped around, too late.

The second bolt slammed into Amon’s chest.

The sound was thick like ribs snapping under ice. His body arched back, eyes flaring wide in shock before narrowing with fire.

The third followed almost instantly, straight through the heart. His coat blossomed red. He staggered, breath a ragged rasp, blood running over his lips. He looked at me, only me, then faltered, knees nearly buckling.

My scream caught in my chest, useless.

“V!” Celann’s roar cracked the air, disbelief choking it. “What in Oblivion are you—”

The fourth bolt answered. It drove into his shoulder, spinning him hard into the wall. His shield clanged, dented but still clutched tight. Rage and betrayal cut raw across his face.

And then I saw.

The silvered Dawnguard helm, blank and pitiless, hiding the face I’d trusted.

Why?

The vault door banged wider. Voices shouted through the frame: “This way!”

I staggered back, hand jerking to my blade, but it was too late.

V’s grip clamped around my arm like a vise, crushing bone and leather together. My blade slipped useless in my shaking fingers.

“No—” The word tore from me, high, strangled. I clawed at his wrist, kicked, but the mask didn’t even tilt. No word, no breath.

Only silence.

And then the world shattered.

Glass burst around us as he ripped me through the window. Black panes exploded outward, shards biting my skin, spinning with the dawn’s first light. Cold air knifed my lungs.

For an instant, the world fractured into frozen images, Serana clutching the scroll, eyes blazing like coals in the dark. Celann braced in fury, blood pouring down his arm, shield raised to strike. Amon, doubled over in crimson, blood trailing from his mouth as his eyes locked on me, fire burning even as it dimmed.

“No!”

And then… nothing.

The stone vanished beneath us. Air howled, the sea rushing up like a maw.

V never loosened his grip. Not for a heartbeat.

My body convulsed against his, terror and disbelief tangling so sharp it felt unreal.

This isn’t happening.

It can’t be happening.

But the cold bite of wind, the salt sting on my face, the roar of waves clawing closer—

It was real.

I was falling. 

To be continued… 

Chapter 85: Chapter 85

 

1 E, 200

 

The chamber reeked of salt and iron.

Below the cliffs, the Sea of Ghosts beat itself to pieces, each wave striking stone with the sound of bones splitting. The walls carried it up into the castle, into this room, into the bed where bodies lay strewn in a heap of pale limbs and stained silks.

Some of the thralls still breathed. Barely. Their lungs rattled in shallow pulls, eyes glassy, their veins emptied to the edge of death. Others were motionless, cooling into meat. The sheets beneath them were soaked through, dark patches spreading where blood had pooled, tacky to the touch.

Hestla lay half across him, her skin hot with stolen life, her hair matted dark where it brushed against his chest. She stretched like a cat in sun she would never see, one bare leg hooked over a corpse, one hand drawing idle lines across Amon’s ribs. The curve of her mouth carried satisfaction.

He stared past her, up at the ceiling. Stone vaults heavy with centuries pressed down on him, and the cold draft rolling from the cracks carried the stink of the sea. The bed was full, yet he had never felt more alone.

It was not that the act itself displeased him. His body responded, as it was made to, as any body would under teeth and flesh and heat. But there was no true spark in it. No joy, no surrender. Only the motion of something expected of him, a performance of appetite. He could tangle himself in a dozen lovers, drown in a thousand gasps, and still come away hollow.

Perhaps that was the mark of what he was, a stray son of a god, born of something larger than this, smaller than this. Or perhaps it was just the voice of his father, a low growl still in his marrow.

You were not made for this.

The thought almost made him smile. Sai’s rage was half the reason he stayed. To see him furious. To feel the distance widen, to know every drop of blood Amon drank was another thread cut. He had chosen this path, not as a slave to hunger, but as an act of defiance.

Beside him, Hestla shifted, propping herself on an elbow. Her eyes were bright, her lips wet, her grin unrepentant. She watched him with that sharp amusement she always carried, as though she alone could see through his stillness.

“You don’t sigh like the others,” she murmured. Her nails traced lazy patterns across his stomach, circling lower, never in a hurry. “No bliss, no trembling, no collapse. You rise, you fall, but never the afterglow. Makes me wonder if you’re even built for it.”

Amon turned his head, meeting her gaze with that flat, mismatched stare, one ember, one winter. His voice, when it came, was low and without heat.

“Pleasure is for mortals.”

She laughed. A bright, cruel sound that echoed off the stone. Around them, a thrall whimpered faintly, then went silent.

Hestla’s hand drifted upward, abandoning its lazy circles. Her fingertips brushed his cheek, then slid beneath the red eye first, slow, deliberate, as if testing whether it would burn her. The other hand followed, cold nails ghosting under the pale blue.

“Even Molag’s gift couldn’t strip it away,” she whispered. Her tone was thick with satisfaction, yet edged with something like reverence. “Still divine. Still untouchable.”

His hand shot up, faster than her laughter, closing around her wrist.

For an instant, her grin only deepened, she thought it was a game, another turn in their dance of teeth and claws. But his grip tightened, iron threading through bone, until her smile faltered. He tore her hand from his face and shoved her aside, the movement sending her sprawling across the silks, her back colliding with a half-dead thrall who gave a weak gasp.

Amon swung his legs from the bed, rising in one fluid motion. Blood-stiff sheets clung to his skin, peeling away as he stood. The air was colder off the mattress, the draft from the sea cutting sharper, almost clean. He dragged a hand across his mouth, smearing red down his chin, as though trying to wipe the taste of her words away.

“You don’t speak of that.” he said. His voice was low, but there was a weight to it that hushed even the thralls’ whimpers.

Hestla licked her lip where his shove had cut it, blood bright against her teeth, and laughed again, softer, more dangerous.

“Ah,” she purred. “So I touched something real after all.”

He didn’t answer. He turned his back to her instead, stripping the bloodied sheets from his skin as he stood. 

Behind him, she shifted lazily among the bodies, unbothered by his anger, unbothered by the stench. “Run from it if you like,” she called after him. “It’ll still be written in your eyes.”

His hand curled into a fist at his side, nails biting his palm. He didn’t give her the satisfaction of an answer. Instead, he turned on her, eyes hard, voice cutting low and final:

“Out.”

The word cracked through the chamber like a lash.

For a moment she only stared, lips parted in disbelief. Then she smiled, delighted, as if his fury pleased her more than all the blood in the bed. She swung her legs off the mattress, unconcerned with her nakedness, and rose in a stretch that was all mockery.

“Careful, counselor,” she purred, her smile glinting as she tied her robe. “The colder you are, the prettier you look.”

She left laughing, the sound trailing down the corridor like perfume, sweet and sharp all at once.

Silence pressed in after her. Only the sea remained, its endless hammering against the cliffs below, steady as a heartbeat.

Amon pulled his trousers high, fastened the leather jerkin across his chest, each motion clipped and deliberate. His hands moved with precision, but inside, he was still seething, not at her, not even at the taunt, but at himself. At the truth buried in it.

The mirror in the corner caught his reflection as he straightened the collar: one eye red, burning with the curse Harkon had forced into his veins; the other pale blue, cold as his father’s judgment. 

Vampire and god. 

Pet and son. 

Neither, and both.

He smoothed the last buckle closed.

The halls of Castle Volkihar were never silent. Whispers crawled between the stones, the shuffle of thralls, the scratch of rats, the distant cries of something chained too deep to name.

Amon strode through them with the steady precision of ritual. Each buckle sat firm across his chest, each step carried weight. He wore his fury close, polished into composure, so that by the time the heavy doors of the council chamber loomed ahead, there was no trace left of the bed’s chaos clinging to him.

He nearly missed them at first: two figures half-shadowed by a curve in the corridor.

Serana looked up as he passed, red eyes catching torchlight, her expression sharp, curious, always measuring. At her side stood Valerica, and unlike her daughter, she didn’t mask what she carried. Concern furrowed her brow, drawn tight enough to carve lines through the beauty she wore like armor. Her voice had just fallen silent when Amon came within earshot, but the look she gave him was enough.

A look that did not belong in Volkihar.

Something closer to fear.

He slowed. “Lady Valerica.”

She inclined her head, the gesture clipped, polite, but her gaze slid past him toward the council doors as though measuring how long she had before she was called inside. Serana tilted her head, lips curving faintly.

“You’re late,” she said. Not accusation but amusement. “They’ll notice.”

Amon ignored her. His eyes stayed on Valerica, who at last seemed to gather herself, pulling her robe tighter across her chest. Whatever shadow she carried, she wrapped it close again.

“Counselor,” she said smoothly, the mask returned. “Best not to keep him waiting.”

She moved past him before he could press her. Serana lingered a heartbeat longer, her smile sharp enough to draw blood.

The doors to the council chamber yawned open, and the sound struck him first: voices, low and sibilant, layered one over another like coils of smoke. The chamber smelled of old stone and older blood. Tapestries sagged on the walls, their threads faded into shapes that might once have been banners, now only stains.

A dozen eyes turned as Amon entered.

Harkon sat at the head of the long table, his form cut against the torchlight like a figure carved from shadow. His presence alone pressed against the air, a weight that demanded silence without lifting a hand. 

Around him clustered the court: Garan Marethi, Borald, Vingalmo, a scattering of others who had bled their way to favor. Their faces were pale masks, unreadable, but their stares lingered on Amon longer than courtesy allowed.

Valerica took her seat without word, eyes lowered though not in deference. More as if she were hiding something she had no intention of sharing.

Harkon’s eyes slid over the table, lingering last on him. The faintest curl of a smile tugged at the Vampire Lord’s mouth.

“Good,” Harkon said. His voice filled the stone vaults, carrying like a hymn. “All are present.”

Valerica’s hands rested folded before her. To the others, she looked poised, serene. But Amon caught the twitch of her fingers against the wood, the way her gaze never quite met Harkon’s.

Vingalmo’s voice cut through the idle murmurs, silken and edged. “The world of mortals stirs. Nords gnash at each other like dogs, their jarls too proud to bow, too weak to rule. And south, in Cyrodiil, the elves keep their Nedes on chains, but chains rattle louder with every season.”

Rargal grunted, leaning back in his chair. “Let the Nords squabble. Let the Nedes starve. Cattle is cattle. What matter is whose hand drives them?”

Borald’s laugh rumbled deep. “What matter indeed. Ayleids, Nords, Chimer… all alike once they’re bled dry.”

Marethi’s tone was smoother, sly. “Not all alike. The Chimer still sing to their Princes in daylight, unashamed. And the Ayleids build towers to pierce the sky. Mortals with ambition are dangerous. They burn too brightly. Too quickly.”

That drew a low ripple of agreement, some amused, some wary.

Vingalmo’s gaze swept the table, needle-sharp. “Bright or dim, their empires rise. And fall. But I ask you, how many must we watch before one dares reach for us?”

He had only just finished his sharp litany of mortal squabbles when Harkon rose from his chair. His presence alone drew silence, not demanded, not ordered, but commanded, as though the air itself bent to his will.

“You worry of men and their petty thrones,” he said. His voice rolled smooth and cold, a hymn spoken in stone. “Jarls. Chieftains. Ayleids in their glass towers. All of them gnawing scraps of power, clawing at crowns that turn to ash in the span of a mortal breath.”

He let the silence stretch before continuing, his hand lifting to the parchments spread before him. Torn vellum, stained with age, spidery glyphs across the surface. Even Amon, who had never studied the tongues of the Ayleids, could feel the weight of them, like looking upon bones too ancient to name.

“This,” Harkon said, laying his hand across the fragments, “was carried north by a slave, fleeing the Ayleids’ cruelty. He ran with death at his heels, clutching what he could not read. He did not live to see this hall. But his burden did.”

A stir of whispers fluttered around the table, curiosity, hunger.

Harkon’s gaze slid down the table, landing on Valerica. “She untangled it. My consort, keeper of our lore, patient enough to weave sense from riddles.”

Amon’s eyes caught the flicker in hers: a faint tightening of her lips, the stiffness in her shoulders. Valerica inclined her head, not low enough to mimic deference, but enough to mark acknowledgment.

“She has read what others would have dismissed as madness. She has seen the prophecy hidden in the weave.”

His voice grew brighter, fever shining in his words. “It speaks not of thrones of men, not of towers of elves, but of the tyrant above us all. The sun.”

The chamber hushed, darker than before. 

“The great tyrant that scorches our flesh, chains us to shadow, mocks our eternity. The scrolls foretell a day when that tyranny may end. When the curse that binds us to night will be broken. When we shall walk Tamriel unafraid. When mortals will kneel not to emperors, but to us.”

The words carried like fire through dry grass. Marethi’s lips curved into a smile. Borald laughed, low and heavy, muttering of “an age of feasting.” Vingalmo leaned forward, his eyes burning bright.

Valerica sat composed, hands folded. Only her eyes betrayed her, a flicker of unease, quickly shuttered.

Amon watched, silent, the words circling him like smoke. He understood their hunger. He did not yet understand her fear.

A prophecy.

The word burned through him like fever. A prophecy that would end the weakness he bore, they all bore. The curse of skin that blistered at dawn, of steps chained to shadow, of eternity spent skulking beneath stone.

To walk unbroken. 

To stride the world without fear of light. 

To no longer cower, no longer burn.

The thought clawed through his mind, sharp as hunger.

His eyes dropped to the parchment on the table, glyphs writhing in the torchlight. And beneath them, he felt it, the pull, the weight, the taste on his tongue he had known since birth. 

Luck. 

The same luck that had followed him into every court and every ruin. 

The same luck that had made his father curse him as much as bless him.

He saw it clear as if the stones themselves whispered it, the slave had run, the scroll had crossed half a continent, and they had not stopped until they reached him.

Because he was the son of Luck. 

Because he carried it in his veins.

He had brought it here.

He was the doorway through which prophecy entered Volkihar. He was the reason the sun’s tyranny might end.

The thought pressed against his ribs, crushing, exalting.

When the tyranny of the sun ends…

The weakness would end.

The spiral dragged him down. One eye burning red with the curse he had chosen, the other pale blue with the god he could never escape. 

Both staring at the same prophecy. 

Both bound to it.

 

To be continued…

Chapter 86: Chapter 86

 

The water hit like stone. For one breathless instant it was impact, not depth. My body striking the sea so hard the pain cracked through bone and marrow before it swallowed me whole.

Then cold took everything.

It ripped the air from my chest, forced salt into my throat, burned down my lungs until I couldn’t tell if I was breathing or drowning.

Glass still clung to me, jagged threads of pain scoring my skin as the current dragged them away. My ribs screamed as the sea wrapped tighter, pulling me down, down into black. Instinct clawed upward, but his grip held fast, iron fingers locked around my arm, dragging me with him. Every kick, every desperate twist only sank me deeper. My lungs convulsed, mouth tearing open on nothing, the water rushing in until even the thought of air was agony.

The world blurred silver and shadow, bubbles streaking past like sparks, light bending in ragged streaks. My chest seized, my body jerked once, and then—nothing.

Darkness rose, thick as a tide.

 

Sound returned like a hammer. Not voices at first, but the ocean itself, a dull roar battering my skull, the pulse of waves breaking somewhere above me. My body shifted, jostled, scraped along stone. Cold air touched my cheek, shallow and thin, but it didn’t reach my lungs. I was being moved, carried, weightless but bound, leather pressed hard into my ribs.

I tried to open my eyes. The world swam pale and crooked, a smear of torchlight, or moonlight, flickering over blurred stone. My head lolled against armor, the smell of brine and steel choking me as surely as the water had. My limbs refused me. I willed my hand to close, to claw, to strike, but only the faintest twitch answered.

The dark claimed me again.

 

I surfaced to a gasp that tore me raw. Air, wet and ragged, scraped down my throat. It hurt almost worse than the sea. My chest heaved, convulsing, every breath a knife through bruised ribs. Voices threaded the haze, low, muttering, muffled as if spoken through walls. I couldn’t make out the words. My body jolted, lifted higher, pain lancing through my shoulder as his grip tightened. The arm he held throbbed so deep it felt carved into the bone itself.

Alive.

Somehow alive.

The thought burned as cruel as it was merciful. My mind staggered toward memory, toward the last thing I’d seen before the fall, eyes, one ember red, one winter blue, wide with shock as blood spread across his chest.

Amon, pierced through, staggering under silver bolts. The image flared so bright it blinded me all over again.

I tried to reach for it, for him, but the weight of my body betrayed me. My pulse stumbled, my head sagged, the air I’d fought for slipped shallow. The world tilted, swayed, blurred into indistinct stone and shadow. The grip on me never faltered, dragging me forward like possession, as if my body belonged to him now, not me.

Darkness pressed in once more, soft as a hand closing over my eyes.

 

My body surfaced slow, like it was being dragged through layers of tar. First came sound, the low groan of wood shifting in the wind. Then smell, damp earth, smoke long extinguished, brine clinging sharp to every breath.

I forced my eyes open. The ceiling swam above me, rough beams blackened with age. For a moment I couldn’t tell if it was a dream, if the dark had merely traded one prison for another.

My chest ached, every breath rasping shallow, ribs throbbing with each rise and fall. I tried to sit, but my body fought me, limbs heavy and trembling, like they belonged to someone else.

Sheets, thin and coarse, slid against my skin. Too smooth. Wrong. My hand shot down, clutching at the fabric covering me.

A tunic. Roughspun, dry, clinging to skin that only hours ago had been soaked with salt and blood. My armor was gone. My leathers. My blades. Even my boots.

My pulse spiked so fast the edges of the room blurred. I dragged myself upright with a ragged breath, spine curling forward, hair falling damp across my face. The tunic’s collar gaped enough to show bruises staining my throat, dark fingerprints branding where his grip had been.

Panic clawed high in my chest, sharp and choking. Someone had stripped me. Dressed me. Laid me here as though I were a corpse waiting for rites.

I pressed a hand to my ribs, steadying myself, though it did little to still the tremors rippling through me. My eyes searched the room, bare boards, a table shoved against one wall, the faint glow of a fire burned down to ash.

No sea. No crash of waves against rock. Only silence, too heavy, broken now and then by the sigh of wind through the cracks.

Wherever I was, he had carried me far enough that the sea had vanished behind him.

The thought curled cold in my gut.

Memory struck like a blade drawn quick, the vault, bolts snapping bone, Amon folding crimson, Celann’s roar choked off by steel.

And him. The Dawnguard helm splitting the moment apart, faceless as it turned toward me, grip closing like a vise.

A soldier who had stood in line beside me, sworn shield raised, voice steady with Celann’s. The one who had dragged me through glass and sky, never faltering even as the sea swallowed us.

My stomach twisted. My breath stuttered so hard it scraped.

The traitor.

The walls seemed closer for it, the beams leaning inward, the whole shack pressing me down.

Fear surged sharp and bitter, a taste that coated my tongue, copper and bile. I wasn’t bound now, but the tunic, the stripped bed, the silence, everything in this place screamed that I was still captive.

And worse than captive. I was alone with him.

The thought of his face, or the absence of one behind that helm, sent a shiver crawling down my spine. I forced my legs beneath me, though they threatened to buckle with every shift of weight. The room tilted, dark spots pricking my vision, but I pushed up anyway.

I couldn’t lie here waiting. Not stripped of steel. Not helpless.

Not this. Not again.

My bare feet hit the boards, cold biting through the soles. I staggered once, caught myself on the edge of the bed, then dragged my gaze across the shack. There had to be something.

A weapon.

Anything.

I reached inward on instinct, clawing for the spark that had never failed me before frost coiled in the marrow, flame curled in the blood. But nothing stirred. Only emptiness, hollow and cold, like the sea had swallowed it too.

Even my magic had turned its face from me.

Not again. Please.

The room was small, little more than four walls and a roof held together by salt and time. A warped table sagged near the shuttered window, a stool kicked half-sideways beneath it. A rusted pot crouched in the corner, stinking faint of ash. On the wall, a hook still held the shape of rope long since cut away.

Nothing sharp. Nothing true.

But the stool’s leg looked loose.

I staggered forward, palms scraping rough wood as I leaned into it, yanking until the joint groaned. It gave with a crack, splinters biting into my hand. Crude, heavy, but weight enough to break bone if I struck first.

I clutched it close, breath ragged, forcing strength into hands that still trembled.

He would come back.

And when he did, when the traitor stepped through that door, I would not be waiting still.

The stool leg shook faintly in my grip, sweat slicking the splinters into my palm. I forced my breath steady, each inhale scraping against bruised ribs. My ears strained against the silence, hunting for any crack, any warning.

It came.

The soft drag of boots across packed earth. Slow, measured. Too deliberate to be chance. My stomach knotted so tight it hurt.

The latch groaned.

I froze where I stood, weapon clenched so hard my knuckles whitened. The door creaked open, spilling a bar of gray light across the floorboards.

He stepped into the fire’s faint glow, and for a heartbeat I thought my mind was breaking.

Not faceless.

Dark hair clung damp against his brow, eyes a deep, steady green that caught me and held me fast. And there, a scar, running vertical through his lip, pale against his skin, splitting his mouth in a way that should have marred him, but didn’t. It only made his expression sharper, more unforgettable.

And the way he looked at me—

Not as prey.

Not even as prisoner.

Like I was the first warmth he had seen in years. Like the very sight of me burned through shadow.

Sunshine.

Stars.

My chest seized, breath ragged as I raised the stool leg higher, desperate to bring it down before he moved, before he spoke—

“Niolen?”

The word cracked the air, soft, disbelieving. His voice broke around it, like it had been locked in his throat too long.

The weapon trembled in my grip, heavy suddenly, useless. My heart slammed so loud I thought it might shake the walls apart.

Niolen.

The name slid through the air like a blade through old bindings.

My name.

The one I hadn’t heard since—

My throat closed around the memory.

Solstheim’s trees, voices that belonged to another life, laughter that felt like it belonged to someone else’s bones.

The stool leg shook in my hands, heavier with every heartbeat.

His eyes softened, green burning bright, locked on me as if he feared I’d vanish if he blinked. “It’s you,” he breathed, wonder breaking the words apart. His lips parted over the scar that split them, a tremor edging his voice. “It really is you.”

He took a step toward me. Slow, deliberate, not as a captor but as though the ground itself might shatter if he moved too fast.

I flinched, the stool leg jerking up again between us as if wood could hold back the weight of him, of his voice, of everything he was dragging out of me.

No.

No, this isn’t real.

He was the one who had loosed those bolts, who had driven Amon to his knees in blood, who had torn me through glass and sky without a word.

A traitor’s hand, a traitor’s grip.

And yet, my name.

The sound of it scraped at doors I’d nailed shut long ago, threatening to splinter them open.

Faces flickered at the edge of thought: boys in the forest, voices calling in the dusk, laughter carried through green leaves. My chest ached with it.

I forced my brows hard, tight, angry, anything to stop the pull of it. “Stay back.” I rasped, though my voice was thin, shaking.

His steps slowed, but the wonder never left his face. Green eyes still locked on me, desperate, reverent.

“You… you don’t remember me?” he asked, voice breaking low, as if the thought itself wounded him deeper than any blade.

My mind rebelled, clawing for distance, but it slipped anyway, trailing back where I had sworn never to go. Faces I thought I’d buried pressed through the dark.

Orenthil’s wide grin, Eraslion’s steady hands, the warmth of a fire in a village far away.

And another.

Always there, just a step behind me in the trees, sharper-eyed than the rest, voice rough from shouting my name when I strayed too far.

Green eyes that caught the light through leaves, a scar torn open by a bear’s swipe that split his lip and never quite healed smooth.

The stool leg sagged in my grip. My breath broke, thin and uneven, and his name slipped out before I could stop it.

“…Valrien.”

His whole body stilled. The awe in his face deepened, as if the name had been a prayer answered, as if hearing it from me was the only proof he’d ever needed.

My arm shook, the stool leg sinking toward the floor as the pieces rammed themselves together whether I willed it or not.

V.

The Dawnguard helm. The silver bolts. The hand that never let me go, even as the sea tried to tear me from him.

My chest heaved, too shallow, too sharp. “V,” I whispered, as if saying it out loud might split the world again. My brows furrowed so hard it hurt. “It was you.”

His face softened further, a tremor catching in the scar at his lip, but he didn’t deny it. Didn’t even try.

“It’s me…” His voice trembled, the scar at his lip tugging with the effort of speaking.

“Your brother.”

The words struck harder than any fall, sharper than any blade. For a moment I forgot how to breathe.

Brother.

The room tilted around me, the beams bowing inward, air too thin to fill my lungs. My chest heaved, ribs tearing with each shallow breath. Bile surged sharp at the back of my throat, salt and copper.

Tears burned hot at the corners of my eyes—treacherous, unwanted. I forced them back, teeth grinding until my jaw ached.

His voice lingered, low and breaking, shaping me into Niolen again, dragging me back to fires long cold, to laughter that felt like it belonged to another lifetime.

Valrien.

My fingers slackened. The stool leg slipped from my hand, thudding hollow against the floor.

My brother.

To be continued…

Chapter 87: Chapter 87

 

He moved before I could stop him.

One step. Another. And then his arms closed around me.

The stool leg clattered forgotten to the floor as his grip pulled me in, not crushing, not violent but warm, unsteady, almost reverent. His chest heaved against mine, breath breaking as if he’d carried the weight of years only to set them down here, now, with me.

I stood frozen. My hands hovered, useless, caught between shoving him away and clinging back. My body refused both.

Tears burned free before I realized they had broken loose, hot trails down my cheeks. I bit them back too late.

Brother.

The word echoed and splintered in my skull.

How?

I had told myself for years that they lived on without me. That somewhere in Solstheim’s forests, my family had carried on, hearth still burning, voices still rising in song, lives still whole. I had let that lie soothe the nights when blood smeared my hands, when the Thalmor’s leash cut my throat, when the Brotherhood made me silence laughter with steel.

They lived.

And because they lived, I never returned. I couldn’t bear it. Couldn’t let them see what I had become.

My body shook, wracked with sobs I swallowed before they could tear free. My hands hung limp at my sides, fingers curling into fists against the fabric of his tunic, shaking.

How is this possible?

Valrien’s voice broke soft at my ear, reverent, unbelieving. “I thought I’d lost you forever. You don’t know what it’s been like without you.”

I couldn’t speak. My throat locked tight, every breath hitching against the sobs I refused to give voice.

Valrien pulled back just enough to see me, his green eyes searching my face as if memorizing every line the years had carved into me. His hand rose, rough palm shaking as it brushed hair from my cheek.

“Y’ffre kept you,” he whispered, voice thick, breaking. “All this time, the Storyteller kept you for me.”

Fingers traced my jaw, reverent, almost fearful, before sliding up to cradle my face. The warmth of his touch seared against my cold skin, a tenderness I didn’t know how to bear.

And then his lips pressed to my temple, featherlight, quivering. Another to my brow. Another, lower, to the trail of tears staining my cheek.

I stayed frozen. Stiff, unbreathing, as if one wrong move would shatter the fragile miracle and the nightmare beneath it both.

My tears fell harder. Silent, unbidden.

Because this was my brother.

And this was my betrayer.

His mouth brushed tear after tear from my skin, as if he could erase the years with kisses, as if he could write me back into a story I had long abandoned. I stood rigid beneath it, drowning in the weight of him, unable to breathe, unable to choose.

But my body chose for me.

A tremor started in my hands, so small I thought I could still them. I couldn’t. My fingers twitched, then lifted, hovering in the air between us as if caught by some pull older than memory.

And then I gave in.

My arms closed around him, halting, broken, then tighter as the sob I had strangled finally broke free. The sound ripped through me, raw, unguarded, dragging everything with it.

His embrace crushed me closer, warm, unsteady, and for a heartbeat it felt like nothing had changed. Like the years had folded away. Like our home’s hearth still burned and the forest still sheltered us.

It felt like home.

My face pressed into his shoulder, wet with both our tears, and I clung as if I had never learned how to let go.

“How… how are you here?” The words shook out of me, thin as a thread, barely holding.

Valrien’s arms tightened, his breath breaking against my hair. When he drew back, his face looked carved from grief, every line in it etched deep.

His voice rasped like it scraped his throat raw to say it. “The village… everyone. Mother. Father...” His gaze faltered, pain flaring sharp, but he forced the words anyway. “There was nothing left to save.”

The air collapsed in my chest.

His eyes burned, green and broken, but he didn’t say more. Didn’t speak of fire or steel or name the hands that had torn it all apart. It was enough to crush him just to give me this.

“Everything is gone,” he said, lower, final, as though the words themselves were a weight he couldn’t put down.

My knees threatened to give way. I clung to Valrien harder, cries breaking loose despite my teeth grinding against them. The shack swam with tears, blurred wood and shadow, while his arms closed tight around me, both of us shaking like children lost.

Everyone.

Everything.

Gone.

The word carved itself into me, leaving no room for anything else.

So they hadn’t lived through it?

Without me?

Had I been wrong the whole time?

If they lived, then I hadn’t failed them. If they lived, I could go on.

But now, gone. Mother, father…

Had I been clinging to ghosts all along? A dream I’d made to keep breathing?

My chest seized, throat raw, a sound clawing to escape, every tear cutting deeper as Valrien held me tighter, his own grief breaking against mine.

And the thought came, cruel and hollow—

If everything was gone, then what was I left for?

My breath hitched between the jagged edges of grief, names breaking out before I could stop them. “Orenthil? Eraslion? Where are they? What happened?”

Valrien froze. His arms held me for a moment longer, then loosened, slowly, until the embrace fell away. He stepped back just enough that I could see his face, and it nearly broke me worse than the words that followed.

“Only the children were spared,” he said at last, voice hollow, raw. “Why… I don’t know. The village was ash by dawn.”

My chest constricted so hard it felt like my ribs might crack.

Valrien’s eyes squeezed shut, as though the words alone could wound him. His voice rasped low. “Orenthil didn’t last. The first wolf that found us in the woods…” He shook his head once, sharp, as if he could sever the memory. “He was the youngest. He couldn’t keep up.”

The floor tilted beneath me. My legs nearly buckled. Orenthil, my bright-eyed brother, laughing, always the one to run too far ahead… torn down by fangs before the world had even given him the chance to grow.

I swayed where I stood, bile and grief clawing up my throat. My hands curled uselessly at my sides, reaching for something that wasn’t there.

“All of them…” Valrien whispered, eyes opening to meet mine. “except me. And Eraslion.”

My lips trembled around the next name, my voice breaking like glass.

“Where is Eraslion then?”

Valrien’s gaze faltered. He turned from me, shoulders stiff, and busied his hands with the fire’s ashes, pushing charred wood as if it mattered. The silence stretched long before he spoke.

“We… separated.” His voice was low, rasped thin. “He was older and stronger. The Legion offered him a place, food, a bed, a chance to be more than a wandering orphan. He took it.”

He scraped the ash once more, then let his hand fall still against the hearthstone. “I never saw him again.”

The words dropped heavy between us, too final.

“Maybe he died,” Valrien murmured, eyes fixed on the dead embers. “Maybe he’s still out there somewhere, buried under an Imperial name.” His jaw tightened, the scar at his lip pulling taut. “If he lives, I couldn’t find him.”

My throat closed around the name. Eraslion, my oldest brother, the one who steadied me when I stumbled, who scolded Valrien for running too fast. The image of him in Legion red rose unbidden, clashing sharp with the ashes Valrien stirred.

Valrien finally turned back, his eyes raw, almost pleading. “I tried, Niolen. Y’ffre witness me, I tried.”

My throat was raw, but the question tore out anyway.

“How… how did you end up with the Dawnguard?”

Valrien drew a slow breath, his hand dragging once more through the dead ash before he straightened. His gaze flicked toward the shuttered window, the wind pressing faint through the cracks.

“I was nothing after we lost it all,” he said quietly. “I begged. Stole. Took whatever work the fishers at the Rift would give me. Nets, boats, hauling catches till my back broke.” A faint, hollow laugh escaped him. “I almost thought that would be it. My life. Just surviving.”

His voice shifted then, the softness hardening like steel drawn across a whetstone. His green eyes caught the light, sharp and steady.

“But then word came. The Dawnguard were reforming.” His jaw clenched, the scar at his lip tightening with it. “It wasn’t a choice, Niolen. It was inevitable.”

The weight of his tone pressed through me. Something in it was jagged, bitter, and it struck too close to the wound he wouldn’t name.

His gaze found mine again, fierce despite the grief in it. “Someone had to fight them. Someone had to stop the monsters before they destroyed anyone else’s home.”

“Vampires destroyed our home?” The words cracked raw from my throat, barely more than a whisper.

Something flickered across his face, too quick, too sharp, as if grief had cracked to let something darker through. His mouth twitched, not quite a smile, not quite a grimace.

The air between us throbbed with silence, my own breath loud in it. His jaw worked once, as though he might speak, then shut again.

I waited. But the brother I remembered didn’t answer.

When his eyes opened, something in them had changed, grief hollowed out, leaving only the blaze behind.

“It doesn’t matter now,” he said, voice low, unyielding. He stepped closer, hands lifting to frame my face as if to hold me in place. His eyes locked on mine, blazing, desperate. “I found you. After all these years, I found you.”

His thumbs brushed my cheeks, rough and unsteady. “I have you, Niolen. And I will never let you go. I will never leave you again.”

The words pressed hard, vow and cage in one, and his grip tightened as if the thought of release was unbearable.

But all I could see was silver.

Bolts hissing through the vault.

And Valrien, faceless behind it all.

My breath hitched, panic knifing through. I shook my head, words spilling before I could stop them.

“You didn’t have to do it.”

My voice cracked against him, raw and desperate. “You didn’t have to do it. Celann, the others—they trusted you. You didn’t have to—”

“Shhh.”

Valrien’s smile spread slow, unsettling, as his arms crushed me tighter, pulling me so close I could hardly breathe. His green eyes burned with a fevered light, his scar tugging as his mouth trembled around words that tumbled fast, unevenly.

“All I could think—when I saw you, when I heard your name—was to take you. Away.”

His laugh cracked, half-sob, half-madness.

“To be with you again. To have you back. My sister. My family.”

His forehead pressed against mine, breath ragged, his hands clutching as though I might vanish if he loosened them. “Brotherhood? The Thalmor?” He shook his head sharply, teeth gritting with a manic edge. “No. None of that matters. It’s me. It’s us. Just us.”

“I will protect you,” he whispered fiercely, as if he could carve the promise into my skin with his voice alone. “I’ll do anything for you. Anything.”

His grip trembled with the force of it, but he never let me go, smile carved in place, love and madness tangled so tight I couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began.

I froze.

Every muscle locked, every breath caught. My tears dried hard on my skin, terror sealing them in place.

This wasn’t the brother I remembered shouting my name through the trees, chasing me with laughter on his lips. This was someone else, someone whose love had curdled into something sharp and dangerous.

Part of me recoiled, every instinct screaming of danger, of madness, of a grip that would never let go. But another part, the broken part, wavered.

What if he is right?

What if there could be peace in this? To let the weight fall from my shoulders, to stop fighting every chain, every shadow. To be Niolen again, not Silencer, not assassin, not weapon. Just a sister.

Just home.

My body ached with the thought. My ribs, still torn with bruises, pressed against him and for one treacherous heartbeat it almost felt like safety. Like the forest hearth was still burning, like Orenthil might come tumbling in laughing, like nothing had ever been lost.

A sliver of home.

A lie maybe, but gods, even a lie felt softer than the truth.

I closed my eyes, tears burning fresh, clinging to him because I didn’t know how else to stand.

His breath was hot against my hair, his voice a tremor of worship and fever.

“Y’ffre returned you to me. My sister, my blood, my heart. I’ll keep you.”

He tipped my face up, green eyes blazing into mine,

“I’ll keep you forever.”

 

To be continued…

 

 

 

Chapter 88: Chapter 88

 

His gaze dropped, and for the first time since he’d pulled me close, his grip eased.

Fingers brushed the line of my throat, where bruises had already begun to bloom. His jaw tightened.

“You should rest.” he said quietly. No demand in it, only a statement, as though the bed behind me had been waiting for this moment all along.

I should have refused. I should have stood my ground, demanded answers. But the weight of the night pressed down heavier than his arms ever could. My body swayed with it. Exhaustion roared louder than reason.

He gestured, a tilt of his head toward the bed. “Come. Sit.”

I obeyed before I could think, lowering myself onto the mattress. The sheets smelled faintly of smoke and steel, dust ground into the linen, but it might as well have been down and silk for how quickly my muscles sagged. My limbs ached as if they no longer belonged to me.

For a moment I thought he would leave it at that. That he would watch from the chair, or the floor, or the shadows as I gave in to sleep.

But the mattress dipped again, the frame groaning under a second weight pressing close. The linen whispered as it shifted, carrying the faint tang of smoke and steel. Heat radiated from him, thick in the narrow space, until the air itself seemed to close in.

I stiffened. He had climbed in beside me, lying back as though nothing were amiss, his eyes already half-lidded, fixed only on me.

“Valrien—”

His hand slid to my wrist, tethering me there. His voice was softer, nearly a murmur.

“Sleep. I’ll keep you safe. Just like before.”

His face hovered just across from mine, the faint rustle of linen shifting with every twitch of his chest, eyes fixed on me as if blinking might make me vanish.

Memory tore loose without mercy. Nights when frost clawed through the shutters and we piled together on one straw mattress, four children in a heap. Eraslion’s arm slung wide, Orenthil’s breath hot against my neck, Valrien pressed between us. We shivered ourselves to sleep in a knot of limbs and whispers, safe only because we were together.

That had been innocent. That had been home.

But this—

The boards creaked faintly with the rise and fall of his chest, as if even the wood felt the strain of closeness. His hand hovered at my wrist, holding without strength, refusing to release. His gaze scoured me in the dark, bright and fevered, drinking in every blink, every tremor.

My throat locked. I didn’t move. Exhaustion dragged me toward the mattress, but the nearness of him sent my nerves sparking. It should have been nothing.

It felt like everything.

“You hated the dark.” he whispered, voice breaking on the memory. “To be alone.”

The words twisted inside me, sick and sweet.

I remember.

But not like this.

Not with his gaze burning through me. Not with my own heartbeat racing at the distance between his mouth and mine.

“I won’t let you go again.” His whisper shivered across my cheek. “Not in this life. Not in any other.”

His forehead leaned close until it brushed mine, and still he didn’t close his eyes. He lay there wide-awake, counting the frantic drum of my pulse.

I told myself not to move, not to yield an inch. But the longer he lay there, the louder my thoughts clawed.

It had been years since anyone slept this close to me.

Even in the Brotherhood, I had refused the common quarters. Too many bodies, too much warmth, too much chance of touch. I had wanted silence, solitude, my own bed, even when it meant freezing through the night.

Because to lie beside someone was to risk letting go. To risk being seen.

And now—

Here he was, breath to breath, the warmth of him seeping through every inch of space until it filled the hollows I’d carved around myself. Even when he stilled, the heat of his hand lingered on my skin, ghosting a brand I couldn’t shake.

Exhaustion tore at me, whispering that I could close my eyes, that I could let this be what it once was, closeness, safety, warmth.

But it wasn’t.

It couldn’t be.

Still, I didn’t move.

And neither did he.

I woke when light pressed through the cracks in the shutters, sharp and gold, chasing shadows back into the corners. For a moment I couldn’t breathe. The bed was empty, sheets cool where his weight had been. The air was still heavy with him, smoke and sweat, but it was fading, leaving only the dust and the cold.

I lay still, staring at the ceiling beams until they blurred. No weight beside me. No hand holding me. Only the echo of it, ghosting down my skin.

The hollow where he’d been seemed carved into me, an imprint deeper than the mattress itself. I reached for the space without thinking, fingertips brushing nothing but cold linen. Empty. Already fading.

For a moment I let myself drown in that absence, the silence ringing louder than breath, louder than thought. It felt unreal, a dream already rotting at the edges, yet my chest ached as if it had been realer than anything.

Only when the ache threatened to split me open did I push upright, blinking hard. Dust motes spun in the daylight, lazy, indifferent, the world unchanged.

Then my stomach growled, sharp enough to cut through the haze. Hunger was simple. Hunger I could fix.

But the moment steadied, the rest of it surged back.

The Dawnguard.

Celann’s face flashed before me, then the other one. Gone now, cut down not by vampires but by the one who had sworn himself to their cause.

My brother.

Valrien.

And Amon, the look in his eyes before —

Serana, torn from my side before I could reach her.

What would Isran see, when word reached him? His soldiers dead, his mission broken, the Scroll not yet in his grasp. Who would he blame for the ruin? The stranger in his ranks, the assassin who had no reason to be there at all.

His ally.

Me?

Or the Brotherhood?

Astrid had sent me on one task, and I’d tangled myself in another, one that wasn’t even mine to claim. How could I face her? How could I face any of them?

The questions burned hotter than hunger, searing through the fragile quiet of morning.

I swung my legs to the floor at last. The boards were cold, grounding. My body ached less than it had the night before, the bruises still flared along my throat and torso, but the rest of me felt almost unburdened, as if sleep had shaken some of the weight loose.

The bed creaked as I rose. My legs were unsteady, the linen rough against my skin where it clung.

The shack was silent, empty.

For a long moment I just stood, arms wrapped over myself. The quiet pressed strange in my ears.

How can I return home?

This was home.

No.

I moved, bare feet against cold boards, and unlatched the door. Light spilled over me as I stepped outside, sharp air, the smell of pine, the world wider than four walls.

I didn’t take more than a single breath before his voice cracked across it.

“Niolen!”

Valrien came running, shouting as if I’d struck him. In the next heartbeat his hands were on me, shoving me back inside, the door slammed, his body blocking it.

“What were you doing?” His words broke on panic, louder, harsher than before. “What if they saw you?”

His pupils blown wide, chest rising and falling as though he had sprinted miles.

It wasn’t anger. Not the kind I’d known too well. This was something else.

Fear.

A terror so raw it shook through him into me.

“You can’t,” he gasped, voice breaking. “You can’t just walk out there. They’ll see you.” His chest heaved, eyes wild. “They’ll take you.” A beat, ragged, before the last word ripped free: “I’ll lose you again.”

Again.

The word rang sharp, splitting me open.

Was that what all this was? Just the memory of being children torn apart, and him clutching so hard now because he couldn’t bear to let the world do it again.

His fingers dug deep into my shoulders, pain blooming sharp down my arms.

I could take him. The thought cut clean through the panic, cold and precise, the way Nazir had drilled into me. Pivot the hip, twist the wrist, drive my elbow up under his chin. His neck would snap like dry wood.

I had been trained for this. His grip was nothing.

And yet—

I didn’t move.

Because his heartbeat hammered through his grip, feral against my skin, too close, too hot. Because his hands trembled with desperation.

Devotion.

Possession.

All the same.

“You’re hurting me.” I whispered.

His whole body jerked, as though I’d driven steel into him. His hands tore back instantly, leaving my shoulders raw, his breath catching in his throat.

“No—no, I’d never—” His voice cracked. His palms hovered in the air like he didn’t know what to do with them, like touching me might break me, like not touching me might make me disappear. “I’d never hurt you. Not you. Not ever.”

But the fear in his eyes didn’t fade. It sharpened, spiraling tighter. He looked at me as if I were glass, as if I might shatter, or be stolen, at any second.

And then his hands closed again, clutching not to harm but to anchor.

“I can’t lose you,” he gasped, the words raw as a wound. “Don’t make me lose you.”

Every instinct screamed to twist away, to break his hold, to silence him as I’d silenced a thousand others. But his eyes, my brother’s eyes, burning like I was the only thing left holding him to the world, hollowed me out.

“Valrien,” I breathed, softer than I meant to, my voice breaking on the name. My hand lifted, trembling, to touch his arm. “I’m here.”

He flinched at the touch like it burned, then leaned into it all at once, trembling harder beneath my fingers. His chest shook against mine, a sob caught between his ribs.

“They’ll come, Niolen.” His forehead pressed to mine hard enough it hurt. Silence swelled, broken only by his breath. Then, hoarse, almost pleading: “They’ll come for you the moment you leave me. Don’t you see?”

His grip shuddered tighter. His eyes burned, fever-bright.

Pity tore through me like a blade. He wasn’t just clinging, he was drowning, the terror of losing me again twisting him into something unrecognizable.

“Mine,” he whispered, as if the word itself could chain me to him. “You’re mine to keep.”

Mine.

The word throbbed in my skull, Astrid’s voice, the Thalmor’s, every chain I’d ever worn.

My stomach lurched. My mind split between the assassin’s instinct to break him and the sister’s heart that still remembered the boy curled against me in the cold.

Darkness claimed me too.

So did blood.

And fate most of all.

What was I, if not everyone’s possession?

Mine.

The word was a chain. And I didn’t break it.

 

To be continued…

Chapter 89: Chapter 89

 

It had been hours since Valrien left the shack.

The silence was a noose, every creak of timber tightening it around my throat. Dust gathered in the corners, pale threads of it trembling with the draft, and still I sat in the middle of it all, waiting. For what, I didn’t know. For him to return. For the world outside to break through the door. For something to end this chokehold of stillness.

My bruises had darkened, sore maps across my throat and ribs. I traced them with my fingertips the way I used to trace scars, as if pain might keep me anchored. But there was no anchor in here, only walls that felt closer each breath, only shadows that seemed to crawl when I blinked.

I should have run the moment the door shut behind him. Should have vanished into the trees, taken my chances with the dark. But I hadn’t moved. I hadn’t even breathed too deeply.

“They’ll take you. I’ll lose you again.”

Maybe he was right.

But beneath the echo of his voice was another face, another memory I couldn’t shake.

Amon.

The image struck as vividly as if I were still there, the bolts hitting him square in the chest, one after the other, slamming him back, blood threading down from the corner of his mouth. His eyes fixed on mine with that maddening calm, as if he had known it would come to this all along.

I saw it every time I blinked. The twitch of his lips as though he meant to speak, the stain spreading across his leathers, the sound of his breath breaking.

Was he dead? Could even he have survived that?

I pressed my palm hard to my chest, as if I could still feel the impact there, phantom bolts sinking into me instead.

I told myself that his death, if it had come, shouldn’t matter to me. But the thought of those eyes closing forever tore jagged down my spine. He had been monster, shield, liar—yet he had been there.

And if he was gone…

I exhaled hard, as if the breath alone could drive him out of me. The memory clung stubborn as blood in the snow, but I shoved it back, shoved him back, before it hollowed me out further.

I pushed myself to my feet, knees unsteady, and crossed to the hearth. The stones were cold, ash long dead. My hands trembled as I gathered kindling from the corner, splinters biting into my skin. It was something to do, something simple, something that didn’t require thought.

Flint struck, sparks leaping and fading, until one caught and licked at the dry twigs. Smoke curled up, sharp and acrid, stinging my eyes. I welcomed the sting. Better smoke than the sting of memory.

The fire cracked slowly to life, a reluctant glow against the shack’s shadows. I crouched before it, watching the flames take, swallowing wood with slow hunger. My chest eased, just barely.

But even there, crouched in the warmth, I felt it, that emptiness at my side where he had stood, where blood had painted his mouth.

I pressed my palms closer to the fire, willing the heat to burn him out of me.

The flames had only just begun to take when the door banged open.

Cold air slashed through the shack, scattering smoke and ash, and Valrien filled the doorway, breath steaming, hair wild from the wind. His bow was slung across his shoulder, one hand gripping a brace of limp hares by their feet.

His eyes found me first, and then slid to the fire. Relief broke across his face like sunlight through storm clouds, too bright, too raw.

“You stayed.” he breathed, as though the walls themselves might have told him otherwise.

The door thudded shut behind him, and the shack was small again, too small for the weight he carried with him. He set the hares down on the table, unstrung the bow with practiced ease, and leaned it within reach. Then he turned back to me, shoulders still heaving with the rhythm of the hunt.

For a moment, he only stared. Smoke clung to me, the fire snapping between us, but it was as though he needed to convince himself I hadn’t vanished in the hours he’d been gone. His fingers twitched, restless, as if aching to seize me again, to hold me where he could see me.

“You’ll eat,” he said, too sharp to be gentle, too soft to be command. “You need strength.”

My stomach betrayed me first, growling loud enough to echo over the fire’s crackle. I pushed to my feet, the warmth sliding off my skin like a second loss, and crossed to the table. The hares dangled there, limp and waiting. My hands reached for the nearest one, already bracing for the familiar bite of the knife.

But Valrien was there before I could touch it.

“No.” His hand caught my wrist, unyielding. His bow-callused fingers burned against my skin. His voice softened, almost pleading. “Let me.”

“I can skin a hare.” I muttered, pulling lightly against his grip. It should have been nothing, a task I’d done a thousand times in darker woods than these.

“I know.” His eyes searched mine, too bright, too desperate. “I know you can. But you don’t have to. Not anymore. Not while I’m here.”

He eased the knife from my hand before I could protest and set the carcass against the board. His shoulders curled around the work, but his gaze flicked back to me again and again, as though afraid I might vanish if he blinked too long.

“You’ve carried enough blood on your hands,” he murmured, almost too low for me to hear. “Let me carry it now.”

The fire popped behind me, shadows jerking against the walls, but all I could see was him. His head bent over the hare, dark hair falling loose against his cheek, knife working in steady, careful strokes.

And his eyes, when they lifted to me for a breath, were our mother’s. The same shade of green, flecked with gold at the center, bright even in the gloom. I hadn’t thought of them in years, hadn’t dared, but now they looked back at me from my brother’s face, and it hollowed me out.

I swallowed hard, throat raw.

“Valrien,” I whispered, and the name cut me as it left me. “Back at the village… that day—”

The knife stilled. Just for a heartbeat.

My mouth closed.

The hare dangled half-skinned, blood dripping slow onto the wood. His fingers tightened on the handle, knuckles pale, and the tremor ran through him before he forced the blade down again, steady, practiced.

“Does it matter?” His voice was quiet, tight as the draw of a bowstring. “We survived.”

The knife worked faster, harder, the rhythm too sharp, too precise. He didn’t look at me again.

“It matters.”

The words came out rough, heavier than I meant. My fists clenched at my sides, nails biting into skin. “Don’t tell me it doesn’t. All these years I thought our family was out there. Alive. And now you won’t even tell me what happened?”

The knife slowed, hide tearing uneven where his hand faltered. His jaw worked as if grinding stone.

“Niolen—”

“No.” My voice cut sharp, brittle. “I clung to a story that kept me from shattering. But you—you were there.”

His breath hitched, uneven, and the knife froze. Blood dripped from the hare in a steady patter, each drop loud as a drumbeat in the silence. His shoulders hunched, his whole body drawn taut as a bow.

“I can’t—” His voice cracked, thin, breaking. He forced the blade forward again, but the tremor wouldn’t leave his hand. The hide tore jagged, sloppy now, nothing like the clean precision of moments ago.

“Valrien.” My voice broke on his name. “Look at me.”

And he did.

Mother’s eyes stared back at me, wide and wild, swimming with something I couldn’t name.

“You don’t want the truth,” he rasped, barely louder than the fire’s crackle. “You think you do, but you don’t. It’ll break you. It’ll break everything.”

The knife clattered against the board, his breath coming hard and ragged, and still he didn’t look away from me.

His words burrowed under my skin and split me open.

If he couldn’t speak it, if his hands trembled to silence, then whatever had happened at the village ended more than I could bear to name. And the years I’d spent telling myself otherwise only made the wound rot deeper.

Valrien bent low over the table, shoulders rounded, back turned to me. He set the knife aside and reached for the hares, his movements stiff, mechanical. He carved away what little meat there was, dropped it into the pan, and leaned into the sizzle like it could drown me out.

The smell of blood and smoke thickened the air. He stirred, poked at the meat, shifted the pan closer to the flame, anything to keep his hands moving. Anything to keep from looking at me.

I wanted to scream, to shake him, to force the words from his throat. But he hid inside the hiss of fat and fire, and all I could do was sit there, spiraling, watching the smoke curl around us like the ghosts we never buried.

He moved the pan from the fire, steam rising with the smell of char and fat. The meat was rough, unevenly cut, but he handled it as though it were a feast. He speared a strip with his knife, held it up between us, the grease shining.

“Legs were always your favorite,” he said softly, almost smiling, like he could pretend we were children again around a hearth that no longer burned. He brought the bite toward me. “Here. Eat.”

I stared at the knife, at the trembling curl of steam. My stomach twisted with hunger, but the thought of opening my mouth while he watched made me cold.

“I can feed myself.” I muttered, reaching for the plate.

But his hand pulled back, knife still lifted, eyes burning into mine. “You don’t need to. Not anymore.” His voice broke low, quiet, aching. “Not while I’m here.”

Heat crowded my chest, part fury, part something I couldn’t name. I pressed forward anyway, hand stretched out. “Valrien. I can do it.”

For a moment the firelight caught between us, flickering on his face, on the sharp line of the blade held just too close. His hand shook, just barely, but he didn’t lower it.

“Please.” I whispered, the word torn from me, though I wasn’t sure if it was for the food or for him to stop.

He lifted the knife again, closer this time, the strip of meat trembling at the end of the blade.

“Open.” he said, voice gentler than command, but no less binding.

I shook my head, lips pressed tight. “Valrien, I—”

His free hand came up, fingers brushing my chin, tilting it the way one might coax a child. “Niolen,” he murmured, almost breaking on my name. “Just… let me take care of you.”

Hunger roared inside me, but pride and fury rose sharper still.

Then his thumb pressed at the edge of my mouth, coaxing, prying, and I felt the tremor in his hand. His eyes burned into mine, pleading and desperate all at once.

“Open.” he whispered again, and this time I did. Not from surrender, just because the weight of his gaze pinned me until resistance shattered.

He slid the bite past my lips, watching every twitch of my throat as I chewed. My stomach twisted with the taste, with the humiliation, with the way he drank in the sight like it was salvation.

When I swallowed, his breath caught. Relief washed his face, wild and raw, and the words slipped out before he could stop them.

“Good girl.”

I should have ripped the knife from his hand, should have spit the food back into the fire, should have broken his wrist. Instead I froze, every muscle taut, every breath a battle.

He didn’t see the spiral in my eyes, he saw only the bite swallowed, the proof that I’d let him in, that I hadn’t slipped from his grasp. His mouth curved, not in cruelty, but in something worse. Relief.

Worship.

“You see?” Valrien murmured, leaning closer, as though sharing a secret. “You don’t have to carry anything alone now. Not hunger. Not fear. I’ll take it all. Always.”

The fire roared, heat crawling up my skin, but inside me it was ice. I wanted to shatter the walls, to break free. Instead I sat rigid, smoke stinging my eyes, and let the silence coil tight as a garrote.

His hand didn’t fall away after the knife. Instead, fingers lingered at my jaw, trembling as though afraid I’d vanish if he let go. Then slowly, carefully, he slid them up, brushing a strand of hair from my cheek and tucking it back behind my ear.

“You hated it in your face,” he murmured, voice breaking on a smile that never reached his eyes. “Mother used to braid it for you, remember? Kept it neat.”

The breath caught in my chest.

I remember.

Her hands, gentle and sure, weaving strands while Orenthil teased and Eraslion sang nonsense under his breath.

A life still whole.

But her hands were gone. And his were not hers.

Valrien’s thumb lingered against my temple, soft as a vow. “I could do it for you now. Would you like that?“

The words wrapped around me, sick and sweet, chaining memory to the present until I couldn’t breathe.

My breath snagged. All I could feel were her fingers tugging gently at my hair as she hummed under her breath.

Home.

No.

This wasn’t that. But my mind clawed against itself, refusing, denying, until I didn’t know where memory ended and this moment began.

My pulse hammered at my throat.

Say no.

Tell him to stop.

But my lips wouldn’t move. My chest locked tight, and the word that should have come never left me.

His eyes searched mine, wide and wild, waiting, pleading as though my silence might destroy him. And before I could stop myself, before reason could pull me back—

I nodded.

Just once.

His breath shuddered free, a sound between relief and worship. His hand slipped from my temple, fingers combing gently through my hair.

“I knew you’d remember.” he whispered, voice breaking.

The fire popped, ash falling like bone dust, and I sat frozen in the hollow of my own betrayal, wishing I’d never moved at all.

His hand lingered, curling a strand around his finger, and he smiled, aching, almost boyish.

“…Your hair’s gotten longer.” he murmured, as though nothing else in the world mattered.

Then, without asking, he shifted behind me. The floor creaked under his weight, his warmth crowding the small space until the fire itself seemed to fade.

The silence thickened. Only the fire moved, shadows twitching along the walls. He lingered close, knife set aside, hands hovering like he didn’t know what to do with them.

I almost wished he’d leave them there in the air, trembling.

Fingers brushed the side of my throat, slow, deliberate, grazing collarbone before sliding back. My skin prickled under the touch, every nerve taut as wire. He gathered my hair in both hands, drawing it away from my shoulders with a care that felt almost reverent.

“You always wore it like this.” he murmured, the words feathering against my ear.

His hands moved with practiced ease, weaving the strands into a braid, soft and steady, as though the years between us had never passed. Each tug anchored me tighter, not to safety, but to him, binding me in memory I couldn’t escape.

I sat frozen, the fire crackling low, while his breath warmed the crown of my head and his fingers worked methodically down my hair, threading me into a past that no longer existed.

It should have felt like home.

It didn’t.

 

 

To be continued…

 

Chapter 90: Chapter 90

 

The braid had never loosened.

Days had bled one into the next, dawn into dusk, and still his hands clung to me through that single tether. Each morning I woke with the strands tight against my scalp, pulled and knotted the way he had left them. A prison disguised as care.

Valrien came and went with the hunt, slipping through the door with wind in his hair and blood on his hands. Sometimes he brought game, sometimes nothing. But always he returned. Always his eyes sought me first, as though to confirm I hadn’t dissolved in his absence.

We didn’t speak much anymore. Words were replaced by the scratch of his knife against bone, the hiss of meat over the fire, the steady scrape of his boots across the shack floor. And when I thought about it, what was there even to say?

Our memories?

They hurt too much to touch.

Our lives? His as the boy left behind, orphaned, desperate. Mine, an assassin, blades for blood, nothing but shadows.

What could we make of that now? Brother and sister stitched together by grief, bound by nothing but loss?

The silence stretched because there was nowhere safe for words to land.

His arm always found me in the dark, heavy as a shackle across my ribs. If I shifted, he stirred. If I breathed too sharply, his grip tightened until I lay still again. He mumbled in his sleep sometimes, words I couldn’t always catch. My name. A plea. A vow.

Each day stretched longer, tighter, until I felt my lungs bruise with the weight of it. The endless circling of his shadow bound me until I could barely remember air beyond these walls.

I told myself it wouldn’t break me. That I had survived worse cages. But this one was different. This one smiled when it closed the door.

He was cooking again. The smell of blood and fat clung thick in the smoke, wrapping the room until it turned my stomach. His back was to me, shoulders hunched, knife moving in the rhythm I’d learned too well. He stirred, scraped, shifted the pan closer to the flame, and for a moment I thought he might hum, the way our mother once did.

I pressed my hands to my knees to keep them from trembling. My thoughts clawed at the walls as my chest tightened with a single truth, sharper than hunger, sharper than fear:

I had to get out.

Even for a moment.

Before the braid strangled me from the inside.

I watched him bend over the pan, knife scraping, shoulders shifting as though this shack and its fire were enough to build a life from.

Maybe they were, for him.

But not for me.

”Brother,”

The word caught sharp in my throat, different now, heavier. I’d said it a thousand times before in the Brotherhood as an oath, a title, nothing more than ritual. But this time it was real. My real brother. Flesh and blood.

Valrien froze. His knife slipped against the meat, nearly falling from his hand. His whole body went taut, breath breaking as though I’d cut him open.

I forced myself to keep going, steadying my voice even as shame coiled hot under my ribs. “Will you take me to the river? Just outside the walls. To wash. I can’t breathe in this smoke anymore.”

His eyes lifted, wild, worshipful.

“Do you remember Solstheim’s rivers?” I asked, softer now. “Cold even in summer. You always pushed me in first. Laughed until your teeth chattered, until Orenthil dove in just to prove he was braver.”

His lips trembled. He looked at me like I had given him something holy.

“I want that again,” I whispered. “Even just once. Please… brother.”

He moved before I could draw breath.

The knife clattered to the board, forgotten, and then he was in front of me, too close, the fire throwing his shadow long across the walls. His hand came up, trembling, and cupped my cheek as though I were.

“You’re dirty,” he murmured, voice low, almost breaking. His thumb brushed against my skin, slow, deliberate, tracing the line of ash at my jaw. “Smoke in your hair, soot on your skin. I can smell it on you.”

His eyes devoured me, wide and raw, and the tenderness in them was worse than cruelty.

“Yes.” I whispered, hating how the word scraped out of me, hating how the heat of his palm burned against my face.

For a moment he only stared, breathing me in, his thumb still stroking my cheek. Then he bent closer, the words feathering against my skin.

“I’ll wash it all away.” he said, almost reverent. “Like before.”

Hope flared sharp in my chest, so sudden it hurt. The walls seemed to loosen for a heartbeat, air rushing in where there had been none. I almost tasted the cold river on my lips, almost felt the bite of water against my skin.

Freedom.

Even for a moment.

He drew back, the firelight catching on the shine in his eyes, and when he spoke again his voice had shifted, calm, as if the last breath had never happened.

“Now,” he said, turning back to the pan, “you should eat.”

The knife scraped against the board again, meat sizzling as he stirred it, his back bent to the work. His words were gentle, almost casual, but the door behind him loomed larger than the fire, the key I’d thought I’d glimpsed slipping from reach.

My throat closed, the braid tugging tight at my scalp, pulling me back down into the shack’s small dark.

Valrien ladled meat from the pan, the grease hissing as it hit the plate. He brought it over and crouched in front of me, too close, his knees brushing mine.

“Here,” he said softly, spearing a strip with his knife. The blade hovered between us, steam curling from the meat. “Eat.”

I pressed my lips tight, but his hand was steady, patient. 

His eyes searched mine, “Tell me something,” he murmured, almost gentle. “That boy that they took.”

My breath caught.

“Elamoril,” he said, tasting the name as though it stung. “His mother wept for him. The whole day and night. I thought she’d never stop.”

His eyes burned into mine, wide and searching, as if the answer lived in me still. “Did he… survive?”

The fire spat, shadows twisting sharp against the walls. My mouth stayed shut. I wouldn’t let his name break here, not in this smoke, not with the knife at my lips.

Valrien’s gaze flickered, a tremor of frustration breaking through his tenderness. Still, he didn’t pull the knife away. “Eat,” he whispered again. “Then you can tell me.”

My chest burned, and every memory clawed up from the dark, his voice, his hand in mine, the last look before he —

I opened my mouth.

Not to speak, but to take the bite from the knife.

The grease burned my tongue. My stomach twisted, but I chewed, swallowed, forcing it down like ash.

When I finally swallowed, his breath shuddered out, relief breaking across his face like sunlight through storm.

But he didn’t move away. His gaze lingered, as if something else had been tugged loose by the name he’d spoken.

“He used to climb the trees by the stream, remember?” he said again, softer this time, almost distant. His eyes unfocused, searching backward. “Higher than any of us dared. Mother would scream herself hoarse, but he’d only laugh. Said the view was worth the fall.”

The image struck me like a blow. Elamoril’s small hands scrabbling at bark, his grin flashing through the leaves, his voice ringing bright in the green air. The boy I’d loved before I even had words for it.

The boy I’d lost.

My eyes burned hot, tears gathering before I could blink them back.

Valrien’s gaze sharpened again, catching the shine at my lashes. “You remember too,” he whispered, almost worshipful. “I knew you did.”

The tears slipped before I could stop them. I turned my face, but his hand caught me, forcing me back. His eyes locked on mine, wild, searching deeper.

“What was he to you?”

The question pierced, sudden and sharp, tearing the moment in two. His voice was low, but edged with something dangerous.

His grip tilted my chin higher, his gaze burning through the tears as if he could drag the truth out of me. “A friend? More?”

My breath hitched, jagged. My pulse hammered against his palm.

I couldn’t answer. Not like this. The truth would kill me, and the lie would only feed him.

So I said nothing.

But inside, the words clawed and tore.

Everything.

He was everything.

Everything I had ever wanted.

Everything I could never have again.

My tears betrayed me, sliding hot and silent down my cheeks, while Valrien searched them as though my silence were answer enough.

His breath hitched, eyes widening as the truth settled in. “He’s gone,” he whispered, almost in awe. “You loved him… and he’s gone.”

The words hollowed me out, left nothing but the echo of what I had lost.

His breath shuddered out, heavy against my skin. “I envy him.”

I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t even swallow past the splinter in my throat. It felt like my body had learned, in an instant, how to die without him all over again.

“I envy Elamoril,” he said again, voice low, raw. “He was there when I wasn’t. He saw you. Watched you change. All those years I never had.” His thumb brushed the corner of my mouth, reverent and desperate all at once. “That should have been me.”

My chest caved.

His gaze darkened, wild and unsteady. “But it wasn’t. And I’m glad he’s dead.”

Dead.

The reminder split me open and in the blur of pain I saw him, laughing in the trees, sun tangled in his hair, the way he turned when I called his name. The vision ripped apart just as quickly, leaving me with nothing but the smoke and the knife and the ruin of his absence.

My tears burned hot, falling useless against Valrien’s hand. He didn’t see my grief; or maybe he did, and chose to take it as his own.

Then, slowly, his hand slipped away. He reached for the knife on the board, the one he’d set aside. His fingers closed around the handle with practiced ease.

The firelight caught the blade as he turned back, meat speared at its tip, steam curling in the smoke between us.

He leaned close, voice low, tender as a vow.

“Open.”

I did.

And the days bled together.

Morning, night, morning again. The fire never changed. And outside, always the sound of him, dragging timber, hammering, the steady thud of work I wasn’t allowed to see.

Each blow rattled the walls, each scrape teased me with the taste of air I couldn’t breathe. The door never opened for me. 

I sat and listened until the sound became a torment, until the shack itself pulsed with it.

I could end this. I could tear the whole place down if I wanted to. Break the beams, shatter the hearthstones, bring the roof down on both our heads.

So why wasn’t I?

Why am I not running?

Even stumbling through the forest half-starved would be better than this. Even crawling back to the Brotherhood, into the shadows and knives and empty oaths, would be better than this. At least there I knew the cage for what it was.

Or I could vanish entirely. No Brotherhood. No rivers or braids or brothers. Just nothing.

Silence.

But I didn’t move.

I sat.

And the days kept bleeding, one into the next, until I wasn’t sure where one ended and the other began.

Sometimes I caught myself clinging to him in my mind. Not to the shack, not to the walls, but to him. To his care. To his devotion.

After so many years of blood and shadows, I had found my brother. Shouldn’t this have been peace?

At first I told myself I could change him. That if I softened my voice, if I called him brother enough times, if I let him hold me without fighting, he would ease. That the way his arms locked around me at night would loosen, that the grip would become gentle instead of desperate.

But it never did.

Every night, his chest pressed hard against my back, his breath stuttering, catching, shaking as though he thought I might dissolve in the dark if he let go. 

It was always fear. Always that same fear, that same shaky breath.

And still I lay there, listening to the tremor of it, trying to pretend it was love. Trying to pretend it was peace.

This will be my life?

Kept in a shack. Playing the game.

Though to him, it wasn’t a game. It felt like survival, as if I were the only reason he drew breath. As if his sole reason to wake was to take care of me.

I didn’t know what to do with that. With being needed in a way that shackled instead of freed.

Maybe that was why I sat in silence, day after day. Why I opened and closed my mouth without words, why I shivered at every brush of his hand.

The way he never eased mirrored me.

And I realized we were both trapped, him in the terror of losing me, me in the terror of never escaping him.

 

To be continued…

Chapter 91: Chapter 91

 

The scrape of wood on floorboards dragged me from sleep.

A dull, steady sound, weight shifting, dragging, bumping against the grain. For a moment I thought it was a tree falling in the distance, or some beast scratching at the walls.

I sat up, heart thudding. The braid tugged cruelly against my scalp as I turned.

Valrien filled the doorway, shoulders bowed with strain. Something wide and heavy bumped behind him, its edges catching against the frame, groaning as he forced it through.

At first I couldn’t make sense of it. A crude, round thing, taller than his waist, rim catching the light. Then the shape resolved, and the breath caught sharp in my throat.

A tub.

He was dragging a tub into the shack.

The thud of it settling on the planks made the walls tremble. He stood over it, chest heaving, eyes burning bright in the dim. When his gaze found me, the relief in it chilled me deeper than fear.

“You’re awake.” he said softly, almost relieved. His voice held that strange reverence again, the kind that made my stomach knot.

I pushed myself up slowly. My body ached with sleep too light to restore anything.

“What are you doing?” I asked, though I already knew.

“You wanted to wash,” he said. His hand skimmed the wood as though he’d carried in treasure, not lumber and iron hoops. “So I made you something.”

The words struck harder than the scrape had. The room was too small, the air too still, and suddenly the thought of water was no comfort at all.

My mouth went dry.

A tub. Inside these walls.

The thought of water sloshing, steam rising, made my stomach turn with confusion.

Before I could speak, he was already reaching for the buckets stacked near the hearth. One by one, he set them close to the fire. He worked methodically, pouring, adjusting, feeding the flames higher so the iron hoops hissed.

I watched, horrified. Yet beneath it, something in me ached. The thought of washing, of scrubbing the ache and sweat from my skin, soothed in a way I hated to admit. My hands twitched with the memory of clear water rushing over them.

That’s what he’d been building outside.

The hammering, the endless noise in the yard, it hadn’t been repairs. It had been this.

My chest tightened.

He won’t let me out.

Not to the river. Not even to the trees.

If I wanted water, if I wanted air, it would be like this, within his walls.

And still… the thought of being clean almost broke me. Days of grit clung to my scalp, my clothes, my skin. The idea of peeling it away pulled at me as surely as his hands ever did.

The water hissed as he poured it in, a damp haze uncoiled in thin threads that caught the light. He worked with single-minded focus, hauling bucket after bucket, mixing the warmed water with cold, testing it with his fingers as though this mattered more than anything else in the world.

The tub filled slowly. Each splash echoed in the shack, louder than my heartbeat, louder than my breath. I couldn’t look away.

I kept telling myself this was good. I would wash. I would finally feel human again.

Then his eyes lifted to me.

“Undress.”

My whole body went rigid. For a moment, I thought I’d misheard, that the steam, the fire’s crackle, had twisted his voice into something else. But his gaze stayed fixed on me, unwavering, as if the command were the most natural thing in the world.

The tub loomed between us, filled and waiting. My throat closed around the air.

My voice scraped, hoarse, but steadier than I felt. “I’ll do it myself.”

For a heartbeat, I thought he might step back. Instead, Valrien crossed the floor, each bootfall sinking into the boards as if he meant to root himself in me. His shadow swallowed mine as he stopped too close, the heat of the fire painting sharp light across his scar.

“You don’t understand.” His hand hovered, not quite touching, fingers flexing as though he ached to. “I told you, didn’t I? I’d wash it all away. Every mark, every stain they left on you. Let me.”

My chest squeezed tight.

No.

No.

In the Sanctuary, it had been a rule. The door stayed barred, the stone pool mine alone until I was finished. Privacy had been carved into the very walls for me, not a courtesy but an iron command.

And now here, in this shack, he would tear even that from me.

“No.” My voice cracked.

Valrien’s smile spread, calm and unbearable. He leaned his weight on the rim of the tub, fingers tapping the wood in a slow, patient rhythm.

“You think I dragged this here for you to hide from me?” His voice was quiet, almost gentle. “If you don’t let me—” His hand tightened on the rim. “—then I’ll take it back. Empty it. Burn the boards if I must.”

My breath stuttered.

“You asked for the river,” he said, quiet and certain. “So it’s mine to give… or to take away.”

The words slid under my skin like hooks.

He knew how the grit and stench gnawed at me, how the thought of water had softened my resolve. He dangled it in front of me like a chain in borrowed mercy.

My thoughts lurched, snapping between two hungers, two terrors. The water steamed, curling tendrils of relief into the air, and my skin screamed for it. Just a wash, just a moment of clean. If I closed my eyes, maybe it would be enough to remember who I was.

But the thought of his gaze on my bare skin was worse than chains. Worse than dirt.

My chest heaved. I couldn’t breathe for wanting both things at once, the water, and the distance. Freedom, and the lock of his eyes.

My body ached to stay still, to keep the fabric against me like a second skin. Yet the longer I froze, the closer his shadow pressed in, until even stillness felt like surrender.

My fingers rose, trembling, traitorous, to the strap at my shoulder.

The fabric felt stiff beneath my touch, sticky with old sweat. For a long breath I only held it, frozen, heart hammering so hard I thought he might hear it.

Then I pulled.

The strap slid down, scraping my skin, my tunic loosening against my chest. Another tug, and it slipped lower, baring the line of my collarbone, the hollow of my throat.

As it slipped down past my ribs, I crossed my arms over my breasts, fingers digging into my own skin, as though pressure alone could erase his eyes on me.

Valrien’s breath left him in a quiet sound, almost a sigh. “Don’t hide,” he whispered, stepping closer. His voice was low, coaxing, drenched in reverence. “You’ve no need. I’ve seen you when you were small. You think I’d turn away now?”

The words hit like cold iron.

I clutched harder at myself, knees pressing tight, but my hands shook, my body betraying me. The steam thickened, blurring his outline, but never enough to blot out the weight of his stare.

The water called to me, clean, waiting, salvation and trap both. My tunic sagged lower, baring more skin than I could cover. I wanted to scream, to vanish, to break the tub apart with my own hands.

But all I did was clutch tighter, breath shuddering, caught between the shame of exposure and the clawing hunger to be clean.

His hand lifted, slow, as though he meant to brush my braid aside, to coax my arm from where it shielded me.

I flinched before he touched me. My whole body jerked back, instinct pulling me away from his shadow.

And then I moved fast, desperate. I shoved the tunic lower, enough to free myself from its bind and stumbled into the tub. The water sloshed up around me, hot against my skin, steam swallowing my gasp.

I sank quickly, knees pulled tight, arms locked across my chest. The water lapped at my collarbones, hiding me in ways my hands couldn’t. My hair clung heavy to my face, the braid tugging against my scalp as the strands soaked through.

I sat there, rigid, as if the water might shield me, might erase the look in his eyes. As if sinking fast enough could drown the fact that I’d obeyed him.

But the relief of water against my skin shivered through me all the same, cruel in its comfort.

He stood, looming over the rim, watching as I pressed myself small against the curve of the tub. His eyes, sharp and certain, followed every rise of my breath, every ripple of water around my skin.

For a moment I thought he might stay that way, a shadow over me, satisfied just to look.

But he reached for the small stack of cloths by the hearth, shook one loose, and dipped it into the tub. The water darkened as it soaked through. When he turned back, he did not hesitate.

He knelt, slow and reverent, until he was level with me. The cloth dripped between his fingers, warm droplets pattering against the floorboards. His other hand rose, palm open, waiting.

“Give me your arm.” he said softly. Not a command, not quite, but something deeper. A certainty that I would.

My muscles locked. I hugged myself tighter, as if bone and skin could make a cage he couldn’t breach. I thought if I stayed still long enough the command might dissolve in the steam.

But the water dragged at me, whispering relief I hadn’t felt in days. The grime gnawed at my skin, louder than my fear, until my arm twitched, a flicker of betrayal. His hand waited, steady as stone.

Inch by inch, against my will, my arm lifted. The water streamed off it, pale and bare in the firelight, until at last it fell into his waiting palm.

His fingers closed gently around my wrist, cradling it as though it were fragile. The warmth of his hand bled into my skin, stronger than the water’s heat.

He pressed the cloth to my forearm and drew it down in slow, steady strokes. Every motion was deliberate, as if he were wiping away more than dirt, as if he believed he could erase years, scars, whole pieces of me with nothing but water and patience.

His thumb traced the inside of my wrist where my heartbeat stuttered like trapped wings, and he smiled faintly, like the frantic beat pleased him.

“I’ll wear the dirt off you until all that remains is the sister I lost.”

The cloth moved higher, brushing the bend of my elbow, warm water trailing down to drip back into the tub. His touch carried the zeal of prayer, as if cleansing me were liturgy.

I stared at the rippling surface, unable to meet his eyes. Warmth climbed my chest, the surface tugging at my throat. I tried to sink deeper, to hide, but his grip on my arm held me still.

It should have been soothing, the grime lifting, the heat seeping into my bones. Instead it felt like a desecration, the last thing I had kept for myself stripped away stroke by stroke beneath his gaze.

The cloth slid higher, tracing the line of my arm to my shoulder.

“You’ve grown,” he whispered, the words brushing the shell of my ear like breath. “So beautiful. I used to wonder what you’d look like when I found you.”

His fingers lingered at my shoulder, the cloth forgotten for a moment as his thumb pressed into the curve of bone, stroking in circles too tender to be anything but wrong.

He moved behind me, close enough that the firelight shadowed his face across the water. With his free hand he lifted the heavy braid from my back, careful, almost reverent. My scalp pulled with the motion, strands slick against his palm.

The cloth followed, tracing the nape of my neck, down across the slope of my shoulder. His knuckles brushed my skin in slow, caressing passes, each touch blurring the line between cleansing and claiming.

“You don’t even see it, do you?” His voice lowered, thick with wonder. “How much you’ve changed. How much more you are now than you were then.”

My throat locked. The haze of damp air clung to my face, thick and suffocating. His hand cradled my braid as if it were a rope binding me, his cloth stroking in steady rhythm along my neck, marking me with every pass.

No.

You don’t see it brother.

Not the weight of the blood on my hands, not the screams still clawing through my sleep or the lives I’d taken without mercy.

A blade that could never be clean.

The cloth drifted down again, sliding from my shoulder to the water. He released me at last, only to circle to my other side. His presence shifted the air, his shadow crossing the firelight, until he knelt beside me once more.

“Your other arm.” he murmured.

I froze, holding myself tighter, but his hand was already waiting, palm open in quiet demand. Slowly, unwillingly, my arm floated up from the water. My skin shivered in the cool air, gooseflesh rising even before his fingers closed around me.

“You’re trembling,” he whispered, almost with awe. His thumb pressed lightly into the hollow of my wrist, feeling the quick stutter of my pulse. 

I turned my face away, eyes locking on the far wall. The boards blurred, shame burning my vision. Every pass of the cloth sent a fresh wave of nausea twisting through me, not from the water but from him, from his closeness, his voice, his touch.

Since I was taken from my family, silence had been armor. Here, with what remained of my family, silence drowned me. My breath hitched, caught somewhere between a sob and a scream, but no sound left my throat.

The tub was supposed to cleanse me. Instead, every drop that touched my skin felt like another chain tightening.

The cloth moved slowly upward, wringing rivulets of warmth down my skin. From my wrist to my forearm, from the bend of my elbow to the curve of my shoulder, each stroke was reverent, lingering.

Valrien’s breath deepened as though every inch revealed some hidden wonder. “So strong,” he whispered, fingers brushing the rise of muscle as if memorizing it. “And still… so delicate.”

The cloth slid across my collarbone, leaving the skin bare and damp beneath his touch. His knuckles followed, grazing lightly as he worked, not scrubbing but caressing. Each movement blurred the line between cleansing and something far darker.

When he reached the slope of my shoulder, his hand stayed there, thumb stroking in soft circles. The cloth slipped down to the water, forgotten, while his fingers trailed higher, grazing the hollow at the base of my throat.

My breath snagged. I shrank back, shoulders pressing against the iron rim of the tub, but the water only sloshed louder, betraying me.

I wanted to vanish into the water, to sink until nothing of me could be touched, seen, worshipped. But my skin betrayed me, prickling with every pass of his hand, every word breathed like devotion into the space between us.

This isn’t cleansing.

This is undoing.

His fingers brushed the hollow at my throat, the pulse there pounding against his touch. He tilted my chin up, slow and deliberate, forcing my gaze toward him.

“Don’t hide from me,” he whispered, eyes burning with that quiet, unshakable certainty. “You’ve grown into everything I always knew you would.” His thumb traced the line of my jaw, lingering as though he could sculpt me from memory.

My breath fractured, shallow and uneven. The tub pressed hard against my spine, no room to sink farther, no escape but stillness.

No, I didn’t.

He couldn’t feel the rot under my skin, the filth etched into my hands. He didn’t see the graves I carried with me, the faces I had carved into silence.

He didn’t, did he?

The water burned, and still I couldn’t rise. I couldn’t speak. My voice locked tight in my chest, while his breath lingered close enough to claim the air I tried to steal.

He lingered only a moment longer with his hand at my chin before releasing me. The loss of his touch should have been a mercy, but the air felt no lighter when he rose and moved to the other side of the tub.

He crouched again, cloth in hand, dipping it back into the water. His voice was soft, coaxing, almost casual.

“Lift your foot.”

I froze, clutching the rim of the tub, but he was already waiting, palm extended, patient as ever. My muscles quivered with refusal, yet the silence pressed down harder than his gaze, and at last my foot rose from the water, dripping, shuddering.

He caught it gently, settling it in his hand. The cloth traced over my toes, across the arch, sliding up to my ankle. He worked slowly as though washing away the very earth I had walked upon.

My throat clenched as he pressed higher, drawing the cloth along my calf, warm water trailing down to lap at the surface again. His eyes never left the task, his mouth soft with a half-smile, like this was worship, not trespass.

But when his hand shifted, cloth rising toward my knee, leaning in to reach farther—something snapped.

I yanked my leg back, water splashing hard against the tub’s rim. My knee pressed up to my chest, arms tightening around it, body folding in on itself.

The look in his eyes when I pulled away made the air feel even thinner.

“Why won’t you let me?” His voice was soft, aching, as though I’d wounded him. “I only want to cleanse you. To take it all away. Don’t you see? This filth isn’t you.”

But it is.

The filth lived beneath my nails, buried in my skin, soaked into my marrow. He thought he could wash me clean, peel me back to some girl he remembered, but that girl was long rotted away. All that remained was the blood, the ruin, the assassin who could never be unmade.

His eyes shone not with anger, but with devotion so sharp it hollowed me out.

“You don’t have to be afraid,” he whispered, leaning closer. “Not with me. Never with me.”

But fear was all I had left, curling in my lungs, clawing at my throat, louder than the fire, louder than the drip of water.

All I could do was hold my knee to my chest, nails biting into my own skin, as if pain might anchor me, might make me untouchable.

The hush stretched stone-heavy, broken only by the drip of water from the cloth in his hand. Each drop struck the surface of the tub like a heartbeat, steady, inescapable.

Valrien tilted his head, studying me with the same quiet intensity he’d given every stroke of the cloth. His smile softened, not easing the horror but deepening it.

“You’re trembling again.” he whispered.

He reached out, not to grab this time, but to brush the braid from where it clung wet to my shoulder. His fingers lingered there, stroking lightly, possessive in their tenderness.

I pressed back against the iron rim, wishing it would give way, wishing I could sink into the water and vanish. But it held me fast, every ripple betraying me, every breath drawing his gaze deeper into me.

He lingered a moment longer, fingers stroking my wet braid as though it were silk he owned, then he stood. The boards creaked under his weight.

I didn’t understand at first, not until I heard the shift of fabric, the pull of leather. My head jerked up in time to see his tunic fall away, his hands moving with quiet purpose, unfastening, stripping.

“No…” The word caught in my throat, too small to carry.

I turned my face aside, fixing my eyes on the firelight where it shimmered on the wall. But it was too late. I had already seen.

He was no longer the boy I remembered with all sharp elbows and half-grown limbs. He was taller now, shoulders carved, his body taut with years of hunger and survival. My stomach twisted as my gaze betrayed me further, snaring on the weight of him, heavy and bare, waterlight catching the curve of his —

Beautiful.

The thought made me sick. I wanted to tear it from myself, to rip the treachery out before he could see it written on my face. To drown it here in the same water that betrayed me.

I curled smaller, as if bone could barricade thought.

“Don’t look away,” Valrien said, voice low, almost tender. He stepped closer, utterly unashamed in his nakedness. “I want you to see me. See me as I see you.”

The steam curled around him, blurring his edges, but never enough to hide the truth of what stood before me.

He crouched, extending the wet cloth toward me, palm open, waiting.

“Your turn.”

To be continued…

Chapter 92: Chapter 92

 

The words hollowed me out, as though the choice had already been made. 

The cloth hung between us, dripping steadily into the water. My hands stayed clenched around my knees, nails biting into damp skin, every part of me locked tight.

His smile faltered for a heartbeat, then curved again, softer, stranger. He let the cloth slip from his hand to float on the water’s surface.

He stepped over the rim. Wood groaned, water surged hot against my chest. I gasped as he lowered himself opposite me, bare skin gleaming with steam.

He leaned back against the far side, arms stretched along the rim as though the tub had been built for this, for us. His eyes never wavered, never gave me a corner to hide in.

“Like we did when we were kids,” Valrien murmured, voice low, rich with memory that twisted in my ears. “Do you remember? Washing together in the river, the way the sun hit the water?”

The water shifted with his body, lapping against my ribs, dragging me closer whether I wanted it or not.

That was then. That was a boy.

This is not.

He lounged there as if nothing were wrong, as if steam and water and nakedness were nothing more than a memory reborn. His eyes stayed fixed on me, steady, patient.

“You used to laugh,” he said softly, almost dreamlike. “You splashed me until I couldn’t see, until I chased you to the banks. You don’t remember… but I do. I’ve never forgotten.”

The words sank into me like stones. My chest ached with the weight of them, with the twisting of memory I couldn’t reconcile.

I remember.

Childhood and innocence, he spoke of them as if they had survived, as if the boy had not rotted away into this.

The cloth still floated between us, sodden, aimless. My hand trembled as it finally broke free from where I held myself, reaching out into the steam. My fingers caught the cloth before it could sink.

I leaned forward, breath shallow, and pressed it against his shoulder.

His skin was hot beneath it, slick with water, unyielding muscle shifting under my touch. I scrubbed once, quick and perfunctory, as though speed might erase the act itself.

But he closed his eyes, leaning into the contact, a sigh slipping from his lips. “Yes,” he whispered. “Just like that.”

My stomach churned. Every stroke felt like a betrayal, of myself, of the girl who had clung to solitude, of the silence I had once been given. Still, my hand moved, cloth dragging across his shoulder, water dripping down his chest where I would not let my gaze follow.

The cloth slid over the line of his collarbone, and I forced my eyes to the water, anywhere but the breadth of him. My hand shook with every pass, but still I kept going, if only to keep him still, to keep him quiet.

He let out a low breath, almost a laugh, though there was nothing light in it. “Your touch,” he murmured, eyes opening to fix on me again. “It’s the only one I’ll ever need.”

Before I could pull away, his hand shot up, not rough but unyielding. He caught my wrist, halting the cloth mid-stroke, and guided it lower. My body stiffened, breath catching, but he only pressed my palm flat against his chest.

His skin was hot, damp, the steady hammer of his heart pounding beneath my hand. He held me there, his own fingers curled tight around mine, as if daring me to feel what beat inside him.

“Do you feel it?” he whispered, gaze burning, fevered. “Every beat for you.”

The words struck harder than his grip. My stomach turned, my throat locked, but my hand was pinned, forced to know the rhythm of his heart as if it were my own.

His grip on my wrist never loosened, my palm still trapped against the furious beating of his heart. Then his other hand rose from the water, slick and hot, and closed around my waist.

I gasped as he tugged me forward. The water surged, sloshing against the rim, dragging me off balance until the space between us collapsed. His breath mingled with mine, steam and heat, no distance left.

“So close,” Valrien murmured, his words trembling with hunger and devotion all at once. “I dreamt of this every night I thought you were gone.”

My body went rigid in his arms. His chest pressed against my knuckles, his pulse drumming wild beneath my hand, his face near enough that I could see the sheen of water beading at his lashes.

“Valrien…” My voice cracked under the weight of his stare. My throat tore as I forced the words out. “You’re my brother.”

The words hung sharp and desperate in the air, my only shield against the suffocating heat of him, the chains of his grip.

The words hit him like a spark, but instead of recoiling, he leaned closer. His grip on my waist tightened, holding me against the pounding of his chest. His eyes gleamed with something raw, almost fevered.

“Yes,” he whispered, breath brushing my lips. “I am your brother. The only one that stayed. The only one you have left.” His thumb stroked the curve of my waist, gentle as a vow. “Blood binds us, Niolen. Stronger than chains or vows. No one can take that from us.”

My stomach twisted, bile rising at the reverence in his tone. He spoke it not as a boundary, but as a claim. Every syllable curled tighter around me, shackling me in a bond I wanted to tear free of.

His forehead lowered toward mine, so close that steam and breath blurred into the same air. “Don’t fight it,” he murmured. “You’ve always been mine. You always will be.”

My heart slammed, frantic, as if it wanted to claw its way out of my chest. But his beat beneath my palm was steady, relentless, anchoring me to the nightmare of his truth.

No.

The word echoed inside me, hollow, useless. My lips couldn’t form it, but my mind screamed it over and over, louder than the fire, louder than the water sloshing at the rim.

This couldn’t be him. Not the boy who used to race me through the ferns. Not the brother. This man gripped me as though I was an anchor he would drag to the bottom.

Is he truly this broken?

Or had I been wrong all along, had I only dreamed the innocence, stitched it together in memory to soften what was always there?

Blood binds us.

He twisted the bond that had once been sanctuary into a shackle, into worship, into claim.

And with each breath, each touch, I felt the innocence of our childhood rot in my hands. The river we had played in, the sunlight that once warmed us, it was all drowned now, sullied by the heat of his breath against mine.

The water around me began to shift. At first it was only a whisper of difference, a faint bite beneath the steam. But I felt it, deep in my bones, the way I always did when my will reached for frost. It spread outward in thin veins, curling tendrils of cold threading through the heat.

He didn’t notice. Or maybe he thought it was me trembling again.

The warmth bled away. Each breath turned sharper, every ripple a chill against my skin. The surface fogged with frost, thin crystals spider-webbing at the edges of the tub, a mirror of the cracks forming inside me.

Sorrow hollowed me, colder than the water, heavier than his grip. My heart beat not with fear but with grief, grief for the boy who was gone, for the brother I had loved, for the innocence stolen and ruined beyond return.

My hand rose, trembling. Not to strike. Not to push. Just to touch. My fingertips brushed the line of his scar, slick with steam, warm despite the chill I was weaving through the tub.

His eyes softened instantly. The hunger in them melted into something far worse. Hope. As though that small touch was a promise. As though I might finally give him what he wanted.

I leaned in, breath catching, my lips brushing the heat of his breath. His lashes lowered, his mouth parting to meet me. For one aching heartbeat, it might have looked like surrender.

“Forgive me, brother.”

The words broke inside me as they left my lips, raw and ragged, as much a prayer as a plea.

Forgive me.

For failing you, for failing to keep the boy you were alive, for ending what little of him remained.

Forgive me, because I cannot carry you any longer.

Before he could answer, before he could claim me, my hand slid behind his head, fingers tangling in his wet hair. And with all the weight of my grief, I shoved him down.

The water broke in a violent rush, splashing over the rim. Steam hissed against the sudden frost, my magic bleeding into the wood. He thrashed, the tub groaning under his strength, but the cold held him, numbing, heavy.

Tears blurred my vision as I forced him under, my arms burning, my chest heaving with sobs. His struggles sent waves crashing against my ribs, but still I pressed down, whispering through clenched teeth,

“Forgive me. Forgive me…”

He was beyond saving.

The brother I remembered was gone. And in his place was only this broken man I drowned with my sorrow, until I could bear it no more.

I tore myself back, gasping, my chest raw from sobs, my arms shaking with the force of what I’d done. He stayed under for a heartbeat, then another, his hair fanned dark beneath the water, bubbles rising where his mouth had been.

I couldn’t watch.

I couldn’t bear it.

Stumbling, I hauled myself over the rim of the tub, water sluicing down my skin, pooling at my feet. My knees buckled on the boards, slippery and cold, but I forced myself forward. My hands clawed for the heap of my tunic, dragging it over my damp body with frantic, fumbling movements. The fabric clung to me, heavy and soaking, but it didn’t matter. I only needed it between me and his touch.

The door. I fixed on it like a lifeline. Bare feet slapping against the wood, breath ripping ragged through my throat, I stumbled toward it. My fingers closed around the latch, yanking it open so hard it splintered against the wall.

Cold night air hit me like a blade. I gulped it down, desperate, choking on freedom as I spilled out into the dark.

For a heartbeat the world rang hollow.

And behind me came the sound I dreaded most: a gasp. Harsh, guttural, wet with water. The scrape of boards as he rose, coughing, dragging breath back into his lungs.

He is alive.

Terror lanced through me sharper than grief. I didn’t look back. I couldn’t. My legs carried me into the night, into the trees, the wind cutting against my soaked skin.

The night swallowed me whole, damp earth sucking at my feet, branches clawing at my arms. My breath came in ragged bursts, every exhale burning, every inhale sharp with the bite of cold air.

Behind me, the shack door slammed open. Wood splintered against wood.

“Niolen!” His voice cracked through the trees, torn between fury and grief. “Niolen, please!”

I stumbled, caught myself, kept running. My braid slapped against my back, heavy and wet, tugging at my scalp with every stride. The forest blurred around me, nothing but shadows and the hammering in my chest.

His footsteps pounded after mine, closer than I wanted, closer than I could bear.

“Don’t leave me!” he screamed, the sound jagged, desperate. “Not again—I can’t lose you again!” His voice broke into sobs, words shattering on the air. 

Tears streamed hot down my cheeks as I forced myself onward, legs shaking with exhaustion, lungs clawing for air. Every plea cut into me, dragging up memories of the boy he had been, the boy who had lost me once.

That boy is gone.

What chased me now was something else entirely.

Still, his voice clung to me, ragged and raw, carried on the night air:

“I can’t lose you again! Come back! Don’t leave me—please!”

My tears blurred the trees into streaks of black and silver. My sobs tore at my throat until no sound came, only the raw rasp of breath. And then, suddenly, nothing.

My legs still carried me forward, but my chest felt hollow, scraped clean of grief, of fear, of everything.

What am I running from?

The thought came sharp, jagged. From him? From the boy he was? From the man he had become? From myself, my blood, my fate, my own reflection twisted in his eyes?

My pace faltered. I stumbled to a stop, the forest spinning around me, the braid yanking at my scalp like a tether I couldn’t cut. My breath ripped in and out, each exhale a cry that rose without words, spilling raw into the night.

My hands tore at my hair, my tunic, anything, as if I could claw the truth out of my skin.

And then I heard him, closer now, his own breath a ragged storm.

I turned, and he was there. Just a few strides behind. Chest heaving, water dripping from his hair, eyes wide and wild. His hand twitched at his side, reaching and stopping, reaching and stopping, never touching.

He stood there, trembling, his breath loud enough to drown out the night. Tears streaked his face, his lips quivering as though words still clung there but would not come.

I sobbed again, but the sound was torn between fury and despair, between wanting him gone and mourning the brother I had already lost.

“Niolen…” His voice cracked, raw, the single word dragging me back into every memory I wanted to bury.

“Don’t!” I screamed, my throat shredding with it.

Frost burst from the ground at my feet, jagged and violent, spearing upward into a wall of ice between us. The forest filled with the groan of splitting earth, shards glittering blue-white in the moonlight.

He stumbled to a stop, eyes wide, breath ragged. For a moment he only stared, as though he couldn’t believe I had raised something so sharp, so merciless, against him.

Then he stepped forward.

“No—don’t,” I cried again, thrusting my hand out. Another spike ripped up from the soil, sharper, taller. He pressed on.

A third spike knifed up close, its edge kissed his cheek. Blood welled crimson against the pale frost.

Still he came closer, tears streaming, mouth breaking on a sob. “Please, Niolen… don’t shut me out.”

My own tears spilled hot, streaking my face as I raised another shard, my magic trembling with my hands. The ice sang with my fury, with my fear, with my grief.

“Stop!” I screamed, but my voice cracked, torn between rage and despair. “Just—stop!”

But he didn’t. Even wounded, even sobbing, he took another step, his palms out as if he could hold the world together by reaching me.

And for one broken, breathless instant, we were both crying, both unraveling, torn between love and horror, between blood and ruin.

The frost crackled sharp in the silence, breath steaming between us, tears burning hot on my cheeks. I kept my hand raised, ice trembling in jagged spires, ready to strike again if he dared another step.

But then, he stopped. His legs buckled, his body folding with a sudden, terrible weight, and he dropped to his knees before me.

The sound tore through me worse than his pleas.

Blood slid down the cut on his cheek, tracing his jaw, dripping to the frozen ground below. His eyes lifted to mine, wide and drowning with tears, shimmering in the moonlight.

“Please,” he rasped, voice breaking on the word. “I can’t lose you. Not after finding you—after all that time.” His chest heaved with sobs, breath hitching, shoulders shaking. “Don’t take yourself from me. I won’t survive it.”

The ice hummed at my back, hungry, alive with my fear and fury. But his words struck deeper than the cold. They tore open everything I had clung to, the memory of the brother he had been.

Yet the man kneeling before me was someone broken, begging, bloodied and still, terrifyingly mine to lose.

“You can’t,” I gasped, tears spilling hotter. “You can’t touch me like that. You can’t say those things.” My chest heaved, the words clawing out of me like shards. “You’re my brother. My brother.”

The silence that followed was heavier than his hands had ever been. My body shook with it, with the ache of what I’d said, with the horror that I even had to say it at all.

His face crumpled, his sobs growing sharper, ragged as his hands pressed against his thighs, fists clenched so tight they trembled. He looked up at me through the veil of his tears, lips trembling like he might argue, but he didn’t. He only wept harder, blood and water streaking down his face, as if my words themselves had cut him deeper than any blade could.

For a long moment he only knelt there, trembling, his blood dripping onto the frost between us. His sobs tore through the silence, raw, unguarded, and then his voice found me again, hoarse, shaking, stripped bare.

“Whatever you want,” he choked out, lifting his face to mine. “I’ll do whatever you want, Niolen. I swear it.” His breath shuddered, tears spilling fresh down his cheeks. “Just… please. Please don’t go. Don’t vanish again.”

He rocked forward onto his hands, bowing his head as though the weight of his plea had broken him. His words tumbled out like prayers, desperate and incoherent.

“I’ll be whatever you need. I’ll stay back, I’ll stay quiet—anything. Just don’t leave me in the dark again.”

The ice between us groaned, my magic still humming in the air, but his voice drowned everything else. And as he wept before me, all I felt was the crushing truth: that the brother I remembered was gone, and this broken man would never let me go, no matter how I begged, no matter how I ran.

But… do I want him to let go?

The thought struck like a blade, jagged, unbearable. My chest heaved, my throat raw, and still it whispered through me. Would anyone else fall to their knees for me, bloodied and broken, begging as if I were salvation? Would anyone else cling after all I had done, after the lives I had taken, after the blood staining my hands?

“You’re all I have,” he choked, voice breaking. “All I have left.”

The words cracked through me like river ice.

All he had.

Wasn’t he all I had, too?

I was an assassin. The Ashenblade. The Silencer.

Feared. Hated.

Alone.

And yet, before me knelt the only one who had ever called me sister because it was true. The only one who looked at me and saw not death, but innocence. Not a blade, but the child who once splashed him in the river.

Is he the only one I truly have left in this world?

I stopped before him. My throat burned, the words clawing their way out before I could swallow them back.

“You can’t keep me caged like this,” I rasped. “You can’t—” my voice broke, but I forced it through, “you can’t sleep beside me, drag me into a tub and call it care while you bar the door and watch me like a hawk. This isn’t love. It’s a prison.”

The silence after was suffocating. My chest heaved, and still the thought coiled back around my ribs like a serpent, wasn’t this all I had earned? Wasn’t this all I deserved? To be locked away, watched and controlled? To be punished for the blood on my hands?

His hands trembled as he reached toward me, not daring to touch. “No,” he whispered, voice raw, shaking. “No, it won’t be like that. I’ll change it—I’ll change anything. Whatever you want, I’ll do it. However you want it to be, I’ll make it so. Just… just don’t leave me.”

He raised his head slowly, tears shining in the moonlight. His eyes caught mine, glowing with something fevered, unshakable. And then he moved, arms wrapping around my waist, pulling me to him with a sob that seemed to tear him open.

“If you’ll leave me,” he whispered hoarsely, “then kill me here. Do it now. I know you can. Better the end of me by your hand than to be left wandering with a piece of me torn away.”

His voice cracked, falling into a ragged plea. “Don’t make me live broken, Niolen. Don’t make me live without you.”

I did not push him away. My hand lifted, trembling, and sank into his wet hair. Why didn’t I pull away?

Why couldn’t I?

He clung to me like a drowning man, face pressed into my stomach, sobbing as though the world itself might vanish if he let go.

And I stood there, tears streaming silently, my hand cradling him, frozen in the embrace of the brother I no longer knew.

The forest hushed around us, the ice groaned beneath, and still we stayed locked together, bound by blood, by grief, by something far darker than love. And I couldn’t tell which of us was drowning.

 

To be continued…

Chapter 93: Chapter 93

4 E, 179

 

The god of luck wore the shape of an old man, though the mantle of eternity clung to him like a shadow no rags could disguise. His blue eyes, bright as the sky after rain, fixed on the small bundle in his arms. She was heavier than chance should allow, heavier than any child ought to be, and not for the weight of her body. It was the weight of what had been exchanged to bring her here.

The cost of her wakening lingered like smoke in his thoughts. He had watched as the dragon god burnt away the comfort of her eternal rest. Akatosh had called her back, not out of kindness but necessity. To rouse her was to demand she carry a burden older than her bones. To awaken her was to deny her peace. He had known it would not be hers alone, her fate would spill across all fates, but still, he had not expected it to sting him like this.

She stirred.

Small fingers brushed against the rough weave of his robe, clutching at it instinctively.

Her eyes froze him where he stood, pale embers caught in a child’s face, too ancient, too strange. Eyes that already bore the echo of endings.

He drew in a slow breath, then forced himself forward. The trees opened before them, tall and whispering with wind. Leaves shifted overhead, sending green light trembling across their path. The child turned her head toward it, and for a moment the strangeness in her eyes softened into awe. Her lips parted in wonder, as if she had discovered the world’s first secret.

His heart tightened. He pressed her closer, feeling her warmth seep into his chest where no warmth had lingered for centuries.

“So,” he murmured, his voice a rasp of dice across wood, “you like the green, huh?”

The forest seemed to hush around them, listening. Her only reply was a soft coo, the barest curl of a smile. 

His blue eyes caught the faint light where Solstheim’s pines thinned into shadow. Waiting there were a man and a woman, Bosmer, their faces lean from the forest, their postures tight with the wariness of prey that had not yet decided if it was cornered.

They had prayed.

He had heard.

Balance for a family stretched thin. Their words had reached him in the Green, though they had never expected an answer.

When they saw him approach, the woman’s jaw tightened. Her hand brushed the man’s arm, as if steadying him. The old god stopped a few paces away. The girl in his arms blinked with her ashen eyes, watching the trees, gurgling softly as if even the moss and ferns delighted her.

Sai’s gaze lingered on them both. When he spoke, his voice was not mortal. It was the sound of dice across wood, of leaves shivering though no wind stirred them.

“You asked, and you were heard,” he said. “Three sons you were given, strong as bow and bone.”

The Bosmer couple flinched, the woman braced in stillness, the man tense at her side.

“Yet your hearth was unbalanced. Your prayer rose, and I have answered.”

Woman’s gaze had fixed on the girl’s eyes, storm-colored and strange, unlike any she had seen. She drew back a half step, not from fear, but from the weight of what she could not name.

The man’s hand caught her arm, firm, steadying.

Sai stepped forward, lowering the bundle just enough for them to see the child’s face in full, her eyes shining with reflected green.

“Take her. She is not born of your flesh,” he intoned, “but she is bound to your line.”

Woman recoiled half a step, her shawl clutched tight around her shoulders. Her voice trembled, brittle as dry bark. “What are you giving us? What is this child? She… she does not belong to us.” 

Her jaw clenched, though her voice quavered.

“This is no daughter,” she hissed. “That child carries blight. I see it in her eyes. Tell me, old man—what curse walks with her?”

The god’s eyes fell upon her, and for a moment the air itself seemed to still. When he spoke, the words rang like stone struck against steel.

“She is marked by blessing, not blight. What you fear is the hand of fate, and fate does not err.”

Her husband’s jaw tightened. He caught her arm before she could retreat further, his voice firm. “Yvgella. We prayed for her. And here she is. This will be our daughter.”

The god’s gaze lingered on them both, solemn and unyielding.

“Take her, and prosperity shall dwell in your roof-tree. Luck will keep your path. The grass beneath you will be green, your harvest heavy, your hunts swift. No shadow of famine shall linger. No drought shall choke your soil. This I swear.”

There was more he could say, that his son’s gaze would follow this child, that luck would be hers because he would make it so. But such truths were not for them. And to speak them would be to admit the cost, the bitterness that still burned at being forced to hand her back to a world that had already stolen her once.

The woman’s breath caught. Her hand, trembling, rose, yet still she hesitated. If she reached for the child, there would be no turning back. To take her was to bind herself to whatever fate those eyes carried.

Her jaw clenched, fear and defiance warring in her chest. For a heartbeat she faltered, her hand half-lifted only to retreat again. Then the infant blinked, cooed softly, and reached for her sleeve. The touch caught her, broke her. Yvgella let out a sound, part gasp, part sob, and at last took the child into her arms.

The god’s blue eyes glinted as he released his hold. For one heartbeat, he lingered, as though the weight of what he gave and what he withheld pressed equally heavy.

Yvgella held the child close, her husband’s hand firm at her back. Their prayer had been answered. Whether it was gift or burden, only time would tell.

The forest hushed, only pines and the child in Yvgella’s arms. Yet Sai lingered still, the silence pressing heavy as his cloak.

What will you call her?

A name was a mother’s gift, the first tether of love, yet her mother had been denied the chance.

But he knew what the child was. He knew what blood beat in her, what snow still sang in her bones. A name could not be left to chance. It had to be fitting, of her line, of her loss.

His chest tightened. To name her was to bind her. To name her was to admit what fate had stolen.

Still, he drew breath and let it carry.

“Her name is Niolenyl.”

And nothing more.

The name sank into Yvgella’s bones, heavy, unshakable.

Niolenyl.

Not a sound she had ever heard among her people. Not a name shaped by hearth or forest or bloodline. It tasted of ash, of strangers, of fates she could not grasp.

What had they prayed for?

She could feel it already in the child’s eyes.

Something greater.

Something heavier.

She almost flinched… until the infant stirred. Tiny fingers brushed the weave of her sleeve, clung there with quiet need.

Yvgella’s breath shuddered out. The resistance cracked and folded. The god was gone, but the weight of his presence clung to the air, heavy in the hush of the forest. She bent her head and whispered the name, as if speaking it aloud might tame it.

“Niolenyl.”

 

To be continued…

Chapter 94: Chapter 94

 

The string cut against my fingers as I loosed, and the arrow buried itself nose-first in a patch of moss.

Not even close.

I hissed through my teeth and lowered the bow.

Above me, a chuckle broke the quiet. I tilted my head back and found Valrien perched high on a branch, bow drawn with the ease of someone born to it. He didn’t even look strained.

“Graceful,” he called down, grin flashing white. “You planning to scare the deer to death instead of hitting it?”

Heat prickled up my neck. “The bow’s crooked.” I muttered, though we both knew it wasn’t.

He loosed his own arrow. It flew true, vanishing into the clearing with a soft thump that told me exactly where it had landed. He barely shifted on the branch, like the tree had grown him there.

I tugged at the leather across my chest, the seams stiff where I’d stitched them in the shack. They held, at least. Armor born from sleepless nights, thread, and stubbornness.

“Maybe you should stick to blades,” Valrien said as he hopped lightly down, boots sinking into the loam without a sound. “Would save the forest a lot of wounded trees.”

I gave him a shove when he passed me, though my smile betrayed me.

Things were… easier now. Separate beds, space in the shack, no more shadows pressing close at night. He didn’t spoon-feed me anymore, didn’t bar the door, didn’t treat me like glass that might shatter. He let me breathe, let me step out beneath the trees without a leash at my back. It had only been days since the change, but his gaze felt different, not a chain, but a brother’s hand steadier than before, protective in its own clumsy way. When his hand brushed mine it was steadier, protective rather than possessive, as though the thought of losing me had shaken something loose in him.

His laughter grated in the way only a brother’s could, and for once, it almost felt normal.

I bent to tug my arrow from the moss, brushing damp earth off the fletching. “If you keep laughing, I’ll put the next one through your boot.”

He smirked, already nocking another shaft. “If you can hit it.”

I rolled my eyes and followed as he slipped deeper into the trees. He moved like a shadow, shoulders low, steps soundless. I tried to copy him, but my leathers whispered with every shift. My own stitching had never matched the silence of a hunter’s hide.

A flash of brown ahead froze me. Deer’s ears twitched, head lifted toward the branches where Valrien crouched again, bowstring drawn. He didn’t look down at me, didn’t need to, he knew I was watching.

The arrow flew, cutting the air clean. It sank deep behind the creature’s shoulder. The deer stumbled, fell. Valrien’s mouth curved as he glanced at me, all smug triumph.

“Show-off.” I muttered, pushing through the brush toward the kill.

He followed, bow over his shoulder, voice light. “Someday you’ll thank me for feeding you.”

I crouched by the deer, running a hand over its still flank. Warmth lingered beneath the hide, fading with every breath of wind. The weight of it hit me, food for days, leather for repairs.

“You could’ve let me try.”

“You did try,” he said, grin tugging wider. “You just missed.”

I smacked his arm with the back of my hand, and he laughed again, a sharp, boyish sound that almost dragged me back years. For a moment, it wasn’t the shack or the grief or the tight knots of memory binding us together. Just us, knee-deep in pine needles, playing our old game of bickering.

I rose, brushing dirt off my palms. “Next one’s mine.”

Valrien’s brow lifted, half challenge, half amusement. “We’ll see. Don’t embarrass yourself this time.”

The forest swallowed us again, shadows and needles thick underfoot. I forced my steps quiet, bow heavy in my hands. My heart thudded at every rustle, every flicker of movement.

Valrien raised a hand and stilled. Ahead, between two birches, another deer grazed. My chance.

I drew an arrow, shoulders burning against the stiff seams of my armor.

Breath in. Breath out.

I loosed.

The shaft skittered off bark, and the deer bolted, white tail flashing through the brush.

Valrien’s laugh burst sharp behind me. “That poor tree never saw it coming.”

I spun on him, scowling. “Shut up.” Already my fingers were on another arrow.

The deer leapt over a log, but I tracked it, teeth gritted, and let fly. This time the shot struck, not clean, but enough. The animal stumbled with a cry, staggering forward, blood darkening its flank.

I didn’t wait. My dagger was already in my hand as I broke into a run. Branches whipped against my face, earth soft beneath my boots. The deer faltered, slowed. I caught it, one hand braced against its warm neck, the other cutting clean across its throat.

Hot blood spilled over my wrist. The animal jerked once, then sagged, legs folding under. I held it steady, sharp and sure, until stillness claimed it.

When I rose, breath ragged, Valrien was there, watching. No smirk this time, no laugh, only a glint of something sharper, quieter.

“You’ve done that before.” he said.

I wiped my blade on the grass and shoved it back into its sheath. “Of course I have.”

On human throats, more times than I could ever count. The thought twisted in me, bitter as bile, but I didn’t let it show. I just kept walking.

That tugged a grin out of him after all, crooked and boyish. “Still counts as half mine. I’ll take the haunch.”

“Over my dead body.”

The deer’s legs thumped against my back in rhythm with my steps, the smell of blood thick in the cold air. Valrien trudged ahead of me, bow slung across his chest, another carcass slumped over his shoulders. For a while, it was only the crunch of frost beneath our boots and the rasp of our breathing.

Then, without looking back, he asked, “You never told me what happened… after they took you.”

The words jolted through me harder than the weight on my spine.

My grip tightened on the hide, leather straps biting into my palms. For a heartbeat I thought about pretending I hadn’t heard, but Valrien slowed, glancing at me over his shoulder. His eyes were steady, but there was something raw in them, something that made me ache.

I forced my gaze ahead, into the black seam of trees. “You don’t want to carry that.”

“I carried not knowing for years.” His voice was quiet, but it carried. “I’d rather the truth.”

The straps dug deeper, and my breath fogged in uneven bursts. Images flickered unbidden, training drills that bled into torment, marble floors slick with blood, voices whispering oaths I never wanted to take, shadows falling across me like a second set of chains.

Valrien’s steps slowed until we walked side by side. His eyes searched mine, but I kept them fixed ahead.

“They made you kill?”

Kill?

If only it had stopped there.

Thalmor hadn’t needed just blades, they needed spies, shadows, liars. I had been all of it. I slipped into houses, bent ears in courts, dragged screams from throats in marble halls. Interrogations. Threats.

Filth. 

I swallowed, throat raw. “They made me a weapon. Killing was only part of it.”

Brotherhood? At least with them, the blood had been honest. A mark, a blade, a job finished.

Thankful that all they ever demanded of me was the kill, not the crawling.

Valrien didn’t answer, not right away. Just shifted the deer higher on his shoulders, jaw set, breath harsh in the silence that followed.

I hated it. Hated the pity in his eyes, the grief in the air, the thought of him carrying my ghosts when he already had enough of his own.

So I cleared my throat, shifting the straps cutting into my palms, and muttered, “Just couldn’t teach me how to use a bow, could you?”

His head snapped toward me. For a heartbeat his expression was frozen, heavy with everything unsaid. Then it cracked. The corner of his mouth twitched, and finally a real smile broke through.

“Not everyone can be me,” he said, voice lighter now. “At least you’ve got a decent aim with a dagger.”

The sight of the shack broke through the thinning pines, roof sagging under a crust of frost, smoke curling faint from the chimney. The weight of the deer seemed a little less, the air a little easier to breathe.

Valrien nudged me with his elbow as we trudged the last stretch. “Maybe tomorrow I’ll set up a target. See if you can at least hit wood instead of trees.”

I shot him a sideways glare. “Keep talking, and you’ll find out how sharp I am without a bow.”

His grin widened, teeth bright in the cold dusk. And for a few steps more, with laughter between us and the shack waiting ahead, it almost felt like something close to home.

The shack filled with the smells of smoke, iron, and hide. Valrien had the deer stretched across the floorboards, knife slipping clean under the skin, peeling it away in long, practiced sweeps. He hummed under his breath, low and steady, like this was just another night in another winter.

I sat cross-legged beside the carcass, blade working through muscle and tendon, cutting neat strips of meat for the hooks above the fire. Blood seeped into the grooves of the boards, dark and sticky, but it didn’t bother me. It never did. My hands moved without thought, sharp and sure, as if they had always known how to carve.

It felt too close to home. Too much like the life we’d been meant to have, hunting, bringing back food, fire warm against the cold. Almost easy, almost ordinary.

But the thought lodged bitter in my throat. Because somewhere, beyond the frost-stung trees, another life was still waiting to claim me.

The Sanctuary. Were they searching for me or had Astrid shrugged and let me vanish, the way she had once declared me dead before?

To her, was I so easy to erase, nothing more than another shadow that could be snuffed out when it suited her?

Serana’s face flickered next, pale, sharp, determined. Did she curse me for leaving? Or had she gone on alone, carving her own path?

And… the thought of him pressed heavier than the rest, a knot I couldn’t cut away. Was he… gone? If he wanted to find me, he would. Did he even want to? Or was I already another task abandoned, another failure written into his strange, endless game?

My knife bit too hard into the meat, cutting deep until it scraped bone. I froze, breath caught in my chest. The crackle of fire filled the silence between us, loud as a roar in my ears.

Valrien didn’t look up, just kept working the hide from flesh, steady, patient. As though nothing outside these walls existed.

And for a moment, with the warmth of the hearth on my face and the rhythm of knives against flesh, I almost believed it too.

Then he said, low and certain, “I knew I saw your face on one of those wanted posters.”

The word struck like an arrowhead through my ribs.

I tightened my grip on the meat until my knuckles ached. There was no space for lies, he already knew.

When I didn’t answer, Valrien set the skin aside and looked across the carcass at me. His eyes were steady, sharper than I remembered, but his voice softened. “You don’t have to pretend with me. I know it’s you. Ashenblade. I’ve known since the moment I saw you again.”

My throat tightened, words clawing their way up only to burn away before they reached air. All I could think of was the Brotherhood’s mark on my hands and the contracts carved into my bones.

At last, I forced the words out, raw as ash. “Then you already know what I’ve become.”

Valrien’s gaze didn’t waver. He only pressed the knife back to the hide, cutting slow, deliberate strokes. “I know you’re alive. That’s enough.”

The fire popped, showering sparks. I stared down at the meat, blood streaking my fingers, and wondered if it could ever be enough.

All I am is the blood I’ve spilled.

“I’m a killer,” I whispered, the words scraping my throat raw. “Of names I never asked to remember.“

A ghost they keep burying and digging back up.

The knife slipped from Valrien’s hand, clattering across the boards. He moved before I could breathe, kneeling beside me, close enough that his warmth pushed against the cold that always lived under my skin. His eyes caught the firelight, wet but unwavering.

His throat worked, jaw clenched so hard it seemed to ache. When he spoke, the first word cracked, thin and frayed, before he caught himself. “Whatever you’ve done, whatever you’ve become… you’re still my little sister. Always will be. Nothing can change that.”

His hand lifted, rough and trembling, cupping my cheek.

For a heartbeat I nearly recoiled.

If he knew the rot in me, he wouldn’t touch me like this.

But I didn’t move. My head tilted into his palm as though it belonged there, as though I hadn’t been starving for that touch my entire life. My breath shuddered out, uneven, broken.

“What if you’re wrong?” The words came out smaller than I meant, brittle as glass. “What if there’s nothing left of me to be your sister?”

His thumb brushed over my skin, warm, steady, stubborn. “Then I’ll love what’s left.”

My chest cinched tight, a sob caught between my ribs, but I swallowed it back. Instead I leaned harder into his hand, let my eyes close, and for a fleeting moment, a cruel, fragile moment, I let myself believe him.

The warmth of his hand still lingered against my cheek when he pulled away. “We should bring the other carcass in before the wolves catch the scent.” he said.

We rose together, knives wiped clean, and stepped out into the night. The cold bit sharp against my skin, the air thick with pine and blood. Our kill lay where we’d left it, dark shapes in the frost.

I bent to take it by the antlers, but a prickle crawled the back of my neck.

The forest was too quiet. No wind. No branches shifting. Only the sound of our own breathing.

Valrien straightened slowly, bow already in hand. His eyes cut toward the treeline.

That was when I saw him.

A figure waiting just beyond the clearing, pale hair ghosted silver by moonlight, mismatched eyes gleaming like embers in the dark. His mouth curved into that familiar, unbearable smile.

It wasn’t the wolves that caught the scent.

No, that would have been easy.

It was him.

He had caught my scent.

Amon tilted his head, voice low and taunting, every syllable a blade drawn slow.

“Miss me?”

 

To be continued…

Chapter 95: Chapter 95

 

The string sang as Valrien loosed, arrow flashing silver through the dark.

Amon wasn’t there. The shaft split bark where he had stood, quivering in the trunk.

Another arrow hissed, and another,  Valrien’s bow a blur in the dim, but each one met nothing but air, nothing but a shadow too fast, too close.

Amon stepped out of the dark again, nearer this time, mismatched eyes glinting with cruel amusement. His smile widened as if the hunt itself was a game.

“Valrien!” My voice broke sharp, but he didn’t look back.

“Inside!” he barked, drawing again, breath hard, shoulders taut. “Niolen, get inside—now!”

The arrow flew. The pale blur bent around it, slipping through the clearing like smoke. One blink, and he was closer still. Another blink, and closer.

The hairs on my arms rose as if the night itself leaned in to watch.

But my legs wouldn’t move. 

He found me.

Relief punched through my chest so hard it left me dizzy.

He isn’t dead.

He was here, whole, smiling that unbearable smile, as if the world hadn’t crumbled between us.

And yet—

The thought twisted, curdling in my gut. Because every step he took closer was a threat, not a promise. My brother’s bowstring sang, arrow after arrow, and still Amon slipped between them like smoke.

The crack of another arrow. Amon blurred, and suddenly he was there, right in front of Valrien. His hand shot out, pale fingers closing like a steel trap around my brother’s throat.

Valrien’s boots left the ground.

I gasped, the sound raw in my throat, as Amon lifted him with terrifying ease.

Valrien clawed at his wrist, face darkening. Amon held him high like a rag doll, eyes glinting.

“Pretty aim.” His fingers dug into Valrien’s throat. “Wrong animal.”

Valrien gagged, choking, boots scraping at air. Amon’s tone dropped, colder now, every word a blade.

He leaned close, lips almost brushing Valrien’s ear. “All you did was remind me how sweet it feels to come back.”

Then his gaze cut to me, pinning me in place. The smile lingered, sharp, unbearable.

“And I will keep coming back.”

Valrien’s face darkened, veins straining, nails raking furrows into Amon’s wrist. His eyes were wild, wet, burning with something deeper than fear.

Recognition.

A sound ripped out of him, raw and strangled. “You monster!” His teeth bared, tears cutting hot lines down his cheeks as he thrashed. “You killed them—”

The words jolted through me like a blade.

Killed who?

Amon only smiled, cruel and knowing, his grip tightening until Valrien’s boots scraped helpless against the air.

“Stop!” My voice broke sharp into the clearing, aimed at him, at the monster holding my brother like nothing. “Amon, stop it!”

The world shrank to his hand on Valrien’s throat, my own voice hanging in the cold air, and the weight of his gaze pinning me where I stood.

“Let him go!”

For a heartbeat, Amon’s eyes stayed locked on mine, mismatched and burning. Then, with a flick of his arm, he hurled Valrien aside as though he weighed nothing.

The crack of his body hitting the shack wall split the clearing. He collapsed in the frost, coughing, clutching his throat.

I caught his shoulders, pressing close, panic rattling my chest. “Valrien—are you okay? Just breathe, please—”

He coughed, body wracked, voice shredded and raw. His hand shot out, gripping my arm with desperate strength. His eyes burned, wet and furious, as they flicked past me toward the shadow still standing.

“Niolen—” he rasped, every word torn through pain, “He’s the one…”

My breath froze. “What?”

“I remember those cursed eyes.”

Valrien’s nails bit into my sleeve, his gaze searing through me. “The village… Mother… Father—” His throat closed on a cough, words breaking, but the rage in his eyes finished the sentence for him.

Behind us, Amon’s was unbothered, as if the truth spilling out now was nothing more than an afterthought.

He’s the one.

The words wouldn’t stop echoing. They carved themselves into me, over and over, until I wanted to tear my own ears out just to silence them.

No, Valrien was wrong.

He has to be wrong.

I clutched Valrien’s shoulders, but my eyes dragged upward, helpless, to where Amon stood in the dark. His smile, crooked and cruel, caught me like a hook under the ribs. I couldn’t look away.

“Everything and everyone… gone.”

Fury rose to drown the thought, choking and red. My hands trembled where they clutched my brother. My blood roared. No, I wouldn’t let it be him. Not the one whose absence had hollowed me until the sight of him had filled me with relief so violent it hurt.

How could the same monster who tore my world apart be the one I felt tethered to, as if my own soul refused to break free?

The weight of it crushed down until I could barely breathe. My body leaned toward Valrien’s broken gasps, my heart toward the Amon standing unmarked in the frost.

Amon’s nose twitched, subtle, the way a predator catches a scent carried on old blood. His smile curved faintly, almost thoughtful, as his gaze slid to Valrien.

“And I remember the stench.” he murmured, voice low, dangerous in its calm.

Valrien stiffened, teeth bared through his ragged breath.

Amon’s eyes narrowed, and then he chuckled, soft, cruel. “There were three of you, weren’t there?”

Valrien’s body shook with fury, a choked sound tearing out of him. My heart slammed, ice and fire colliding in my chest.

Three.

Orenthil. Gone.

Eraslion. Lost.

Valrien. Shaking.

The names of my brothers burned through me, echoing in places I didn’t want it to reach.

Valrien’s gasp turned into a snarl. He shoved me aside and lurched to his feet, bow forgotten, knife flashing instead. His body shook, breath ragged, but he still launched himself at Amon with every shred of strength left in him.

For a heartbeat, I thought he might land the strike.

But Amon moved faster, always faster. One fluid step, a twist of his wrist, and Valrien was yanked off balance. His blade never touched flesh. In the blink of an eye, he was slammed back down into the frost, Amon’s boot pressing him to the ground.

Amon’s mismatched eyes burned down at him, lips curling in disdain.

“I should never have spared you,” he rasped, voice low and cold. “Look at you now. Pathetic.”

Valrien spat blood, still straining against the weight pinning him. His teeth bared, eyes wild with fury and grief.

“I will kill you.”

I couldn’t move. I couldn’t breathe. The words spared you cut deeper than any blade.

Everything…

everyone

gone.

Because of him?

My gaze locked on Amon, pressing my brother into the frost, eyes alight with cruel certainty.

Is he the monster who tore down my home?

The thought clawed up my throat, and the fury with it. My blood turned to ice, breath burning sharp in my chest. My palms flared cold, the air snapping with frost.

“Get away from him!”

The ground shivered, ice ripping through the soil and skidding beneath his boots. For the first time, Amon staggered back a step, his balance faltering.

I lunged, knees hitting the frost beside Valrien. “Valrien—” My hands caught his shoulders, shaking. His head lolled, eyes closed, lashes wet with tears. “No, no, no, stay with me—”

But he didn’t answer. His chest rose, faint and shallow, breath catching ragged in his throat.

Unconscious.

My heart plummeted, cold and brutal, even as frost curled from my fingertips in trembling streams.

Behind me, Amon laughed low, steadying himself, brushing a dusting of ice from his cloak as if it were nothing.

My dagger flashed, ice climbing its edge like jagged teeth. I whirled on him, fury tearing me forward, magic spitting cold from my palms.

He didn’t move to strike.

He danced.

Every lunge, every slash, every shard of frost I hurled, he slipped past them as though he’d already seen them coming. A twist of his body, a sidestep, the brush of his cloak, always just beyond my reach.

“Stop running!” I screamed, voice raw, as my dagger carved only air. Another frost spike shattered against the trees, another slash met nothing. My lungs burned, my arms trembled, but I couldn’t stop. I wouldn’t.

“How could you?” The words ripped from me, sharper than the blade in my fist. “How could you take everything from me?”

I lashed again, ice splitting the ground at his feet. He dodged, calm as ever, eyes never leaving mine.

And inside I was breaking. Every strike felt like it carved deeper into me instead of him. Every breath left me emptier. Fury bled into grief, grief into disbelief, until my chest was nothing but a hollow scream.

Tell me it’s not true.

Tell me he’s lying.

Tell me it wasn’t you.

But he only smiled, patient, waiting, as if this was no fight at all, only a dance he’d lead until I collapsed.

The dagger slipped in my grip, my arm too heavy to lift again. Frost hissed out of my palms and guttered into nothing. My knees buckled, breath tearing ragged through my chest.

The tears came hot, unstoppable, spilling before I could choke them down. My throat burned as the question ripped free, jagged and broken.

“Why?”

He stood before me, untouched, unmarked, breathing steady while I shook apart.

“Why did you do it?” My voice cracked, body trembling as the dagger clattered from my hand. I surged forward instead, fists knotting in his collar, dragging him down to me. My tears stained his chest, my hands shaking as I shook him with all the strength I had left.

“Who are you?” I sobbed, shaking harder, my forehead pressing against him as if I could tear the answer out.

His smile lingered, unbearable, eyes burning down into me, a monster’s gaze, the gaze of something I could never kill.

And still, I couldn’t let go.

My fists twisted in his collar, tears soaking the fabric, my voice breaking on the same word over and over.

“Why? Why?“

For a breath he only stared, smile gone, mismatched eyes burning too bright. Then something cracked in him, sharp and sudden.

“Why?” His voice hit rough, almost a snarl. His hands slammed over mine, holding them tight against his chest.

He said it like a fact, like naming the color of the sky, and my chest collapsed around the sound.

His breath shuddered; his lips pulled back from his teeth. “They let you go. Don’t you see it? They let you be taken.” The words slid out smooth and steady, but my insides folded hot, hollow, as if someone had unstitched me from the inside.

What is he saying?

My throat went cotton-dry, the world tilted and then steadied again on a knife-edge.

“They were worthless.” He said worthless the way you might say thank you, calm and terrible. “They abandoned you.” Each syllable landed like a stone and my ribs ached from the weight. I tried to answer and nothing formed except the wordless shock that kept repeating,

They let you go.

“Mother!”

My mother stood beside me like a statue in a dress that had once been bright; her fingers were closed at her side, useless as stone. She did not cry. She did not move.

They abandoned you.

Amon’s grip trembled as if he were struggling against two currents, anger and something that looked like grief, his fingers digging into my wrists. The pain was sharp and immediate, but it was the voice behind it that made my stomach turn: steady, precise, as if he had been reading from a ledger he had kept for years. Calm. Collected. Monstrous.

“They didn’t deserve you.” he finished, like that closed the case. My head swam.

“Mother, please, no!”

Her face had gone pale; her eyes had gone distant and glassy, a look that belonged to someone who had already counted out her losses and found them acceptable. She watched as a statue in a dress that had once been bright.

My thoughts shattered into hot, loud pieces, betrayal, nausea, a ridiculous, metallic fury that filled my mouth.

I kicked and screamed until my legs trembled, salt burning my cheeks. “You had no right!” I sobbed, voice shredded. “You can’t— you can’t punish them for what they didn’t do!”

He didn’t loosen. His arms held me like iron, immovable, and something in me frayed further for it.

“Don’t lie to yourself, part of you wanted them gone. That’s why you never went back. That’s why you never forgave them.” His voice dropped, deliberate and cruel. “They should have protected you from the monsters. Instead they handed you over to them.”

My breath hitched. The words hit harder than his grip, each one splitting along fault lines I had buried.

Wanted them gone?

My chest lurched. How dare he name the thought I had never dared touch. How dare he peel open the secret corners where resentment had festered, the truth I had drowned in missions, blades, years of silence.

I wanted to scream that I had loved them, that every step away from home had been grief, but the part of me that never went back, that never searched, clawed and twisted under his gaze. He was turning my absence into a verdict, my survival into betrayal.

The heat behind my eyes burned so sharp it tasted like metal. My heart hammered, torn between denial and the shame of knowing some small, buried part of me that he saw, had hated them for letting me go.

My throat shook, my fury flared desperate and wild, a defense against the infection he had planted.

I spat at him, furious, unbelieving, teeth bared through tears.

“You’re the monster.”

He smiled, a small thing that didn’t touch his eyes. “Yes,” he said, quiet and certain. “I am.” Then, like a verdict wrapped in devotion, he added, steady as a bell,

“And I’d do it a thousand times over, smiling each time.”

His grip slackened. He let me go.

The sudden emptiness where his hands had been was worse than the pressure; it felt like falling. I staggered back, breath broken, and the grief came down on me all at once, heavy enough to split me in two. My chest caved with it, my ribs straining to hold anything together.

This whole time.

Amon.

Who walked beside me, always close, always there, who haunted every step like a shadow stitched to my heels. The one whose pull I could never shake, no matter how I fought it. The one whose gaze held me, snared me, tempted me.

My lips parted, but no words came, only a sound that cracked between a sob and a laugh. It spilled out of me, unhinged, unstoppable. My vision blurred as the tears came faster, hot against my skin, and still the laugh tore through, jagged and wrong. I clutched at my own chest as if I could cage it, as if I could stop the madness that clawed its way out.

The eyes.

The cursed eyes I had stared into, fought against, sometimes wanted, against every sane impulse, to give in to. They belonged to a monster.

I had always known it.

But this? This was more than monstrous.

This is ruin.

I laughed harder, choking on the sound, crying until the tears blurred everything. The air bent around me, the world tilting, and all I could taste was salt and metal and betrayal.

Who is he, really?

The question scraped and scraped until it felt like a raw place I could not stop touching.

If he had been there since the beginning, then every kindness, every piercing look, every time his voice steadied me…

The more I pulled at the thought, the faster the pieces came loose.

What does he want from me?

He had my past in his hands, what remained for him to take? He had given me a wound to carry and a smile that tasted of iron. What could possibly be left to demand?

The part of me that had learned how to trade to survive, whispered a filthy solution. Maybe if I unmade myself and put the pieces into his hands, he would be sated and the world would stop yawning open. It was the oldest, ragged barter there was.

Pain for absence.

I hated the thought as soon as it appeared. The older part of me, the part that had learned to spit and keep walking, recoiled with a sharp, animal disgust.

I am not a ledger to be balanced.

But the child was louder, her logic was monstrous and greedy and it sounded, in the raw dark of my chest, like the only shape of hope left.

My knees hit the snow with a dull, useless thud. My laughter frayed into hiccups; my sobs came ragged and quick. Images tumbled, my mother’s blank face, the Thalmor gloves closing around my wrist, the smell of tar and horse. Each one landed and my hands trembled with the memory of reaching and having nothing to take hold of.

Slowly, the laughing thinned. The sound in my chest rearranged itself; the mania cooled into an exhausted, bright clarity. Tears still clung to my lashes didn’t stop. My shoulders trembled.

The child in me made the quiet, furious bargain with the present.

I looked up at him, and my voice came out small and raw. “Take it,” I said, the single word heavy and ridiculous and final. “Take what you want from me.” My fingers found the hem of my shirt, “If it will make you leave, then take me.”

My hands were shaking so badly the buttons felt like tiny, stubborn animals under my fingers. I began to unfasten the top one, then another, the fabric parting slow as surrender and quicker because I wanted it over.

Tears fell, hot and quiet, while the rest of me concentrated on the small, terrible motion of my shirt sliding open, as if the thing could be measured by inches and that measurement would amount to freedom.

I got to my feet on shaky legs, the world tilting with every move. My knees had gone slack once I’d started to rise, but something old and stubborn pushed me onward, the part of me that had learned to keep breathing no matter how sharp the world got. My shirt hung open at the throat.

“You always get what you want don’t you?” I rasped. “Blood? Fuck? If that will make you disappear then, do it and leave.”

For a moment he went still. The silence roared in my ears.

Please.

“Fuck?” His voice broke jagged in my face. “Blood?” His hand seized my cheeks, yanking my head back so hard pain flared through my jaw.

“You think I want any of that?” His forehead slammed against mine, hard enough to burst white across my vision. His breath was fire, torn in staccato bursts. “I have fucked bodies until they split beneath me. I have eaten kings, hollowed saints, drowned myself in oceans of blood and come up hungrier.” His teeth bared in something too broken to be a smile. “And none of it meant a fucking thing.”

I froze under him, every nerve screaming, every word a strike of lightning across my chest.

His grip tightened, nails sinking deep. “They slid through me,” he snarled, “like ash through fingers. Empty. Meaningless. All of it, wasted. But you—” His voice cracked on the word, raw with something he couldn’t cage.

He pressed the heel of his palm to my sternum. My heart pounded wild under his hand and he shuddered as if the sound alone split him open.

“You survive,” he rasped, spitting the word like it was filth and worship both. “No matter how betrayed you are. You stitch yourself together with spit and scars, and you stand.” His chest heaved against mine. “No matter what they take, you fucking survive.”

His eyes burned, red and blue, fever-bright, monstrous. I couldn’t breathe under the weight of them.

“You are stubborn,” he growled, voice shredded. “Reckless, unstable. You walk into ruin as if it belongs to you. You are full of wrong turns you won’t confess, sins you bury under silence.” His thumb caught my lip and dragged, slow and deliberate. Blood rose, he smudged it with one fingertip, lifted it to his tongue like a benediction and flinched, as if tasting me hurt him.

“I don’t want a pathetic fuck,” he rasped, low and jagged. “I want the marrow. I want your breath hammered into my chest so every inhale tastes like you. I want the filth you bury, the stains that make you flinch when you remember. I want those sins bleeding into mine until I can’t tell where you end and I begin. I want you with blood on your hands, with every cursed mistake you think damns you.”

His mismatched eyes warmed, fever-soft. “I want your shadow branded into my flesh so even the dark knows you’re not alone.”

The words shook me to the bone. He spoke like desecration, like prayer, like he was breaking himself to say it. My body betrayed me with heat, with terror, with the sharp, hollow ache of being seen and gutted at once.

For a long beat he simply stared, as if weighing the sound of my breath, then the ghost of a smile touched his mouth.

“You’re right.” he said, quiet and even. “I always get what I want. And I did.” His voice held no triumph, only an awful, patient certainty. “I held your soul in my hands. Believe me, I wanted to crush it.“

His face pressed harder to mine, eyes wide, teeth bared. “But you rot in me,” he said, broken and furious. “You are the thorn carved into my ribs. I am ruin. I take. I hollow. Nothing lasts in me. Nothing should have.” His laugh broke into a sob. “But you do. And I fucking hate you for it. Hate that you make me less empty. Hate that I feel anything at all.”

I couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. My pulse hammered wild against his palm.

And then his mouth was on mine.

It wasn’t a kiss.

It was a collision, a devouring. His lips crushed against mine, splitting skin on his teeth; the sting of blood was instant, copper flooding my tongue. His hand tangled in my hair, yanking until I gasped into him, the other braced me against his chest as though he could nail me into his ribs and keep me there forever.

His breath was ragged, furious, starving. He kissed like ruin, like swallowing, like he could drag me whole into himself and erase every edge that kept us apart. His teeth grazed, scraped, caught, until every line of my mouth belonged to his violence.

Iron and salt filled me, but underneath was him, cold and burning, trembling and unrelenting. He kissed me like a man who had never wanted anything and suddenly wanted everything. He kissed me like possession. Like desecration. Like worship twisted into damnation.

A monster wanted me.

The thought arrived like a cold hand cupping the back of my skull.

Not to eat, not to tear me down into teeth and bone.

To… love?

The word sat there, ridiculous and obscene, as if someone had stuck a flower into the mouth of a storm.

“Maybe we deserve eachother.”

Something in me, the part that had been hungry for a touch that meant safety, slid like a shard toward him. Confusion and shame raced through me at the same time: how could the same hands that had made my world vanish be the ones that felt like answers?

For a stolen, dizzy moment I let the madness win. I kissed him back. It was animal and foolish and all the things I despised in myself, heat that unspooled from the core of me, a shuddering pull that felt like marrow melting. It felt like the end of an ache I hadn’t known how to name.

Then horror snapped me clean. The logic of it hit like ice.

He took everything.

The sweetness curdled into bile on my tongue. I shoved at him, breaking the seal of his mouth with a force that was more terrified than brave. Air hit me raw, my lips were wet with blood and shame.

He watched me with those fever-bright eyes red and blue, monstrous and terrible, and for a second I thought the sight of him might split me open. I staggered back, hands clawing at my shirt as if it could keep the world in place. My breath came in sharp, broken pulls.

“Leave,” I snarled, voice cracking. “Leave and never come back.”

Tears spilled down my face in a hot, angry line. I slammed my palm against his chest as if I could shove him through the world. “You killed them. Nothing you say changes that. Do you hear me?”

Something ugly and pleading pressed at my tongue, the honest, stupid, human want to beg him to stay so I could prove I was stronger than the pull. I clenched my jaw until taste metallic filled my mouth and forced the plea into words that sounded fierce instead of needy. “I can’t have you—” I said. “Not inside my head. If you stay you will live there, and I can’t— I don’t want you there.”

“Nio—“

He opened his mouth as if to say something, apology, claim, explanation, but I cut him off.

“You murdered them— My blood! You decided their fate as if you were a law unto yourself. That is not something I can forget.”

Or forgive.

Tears blurred the last unspoken words; they wrote themselves in one slow, irreversible line down my cheek. The irrational part of me screamed and clawed and wanted to convince me otherwise, but I held firm.

He held my gaze for a long breath, and in that look there was something that was not pity and not triumph but an awful, private measurement, as if he were memorising the exact slope of my jaw so he could carry it with him.

Then, with the slow, deliberate motion of someone who had practised exits a thousand times, he turned.

The forest folded him into shadow, the night swallowing the shape of him as if it had been made for his leaving. I sat in the silence he left behind, lips trembling with the ruin of his kiss, iron and salt and a madness I had let slip through me.

Even as my brother’s breath stirred faint against the frost, reality anchoring me in its cold teeth, my mouth still burned with the memory.

He was gone, but his absence pressed heavier than his hands ever had.

The dark carried him away, and still I knew.

I knew.

My soul would follow.

 

To be continued…

Chapter 96: Chapter 96

 

The clearing lay still, emptied of sound, emptied of him. Only the frost crackled faintly in the roots where my power had flared, fading back into silence, leaving me hollow. My lungs burned with the absence. The night breathed slow around me, as if mocking that I still could.

Valrien.

He was crumpled where Amon had flung him, body limp, lashes wet. His throat was mottled dark where fingers had closed like a vise. I crawled to him on shaking knees, hands skimming over his chest, desperate for the shallow rise and fall, the tiny stubborn proof that he was not gone.

Alive.

But only just.

I touched his face, pale and clammy under my palms. And the memory slammed through me, his eyes widening, when he spat it out.

The truth.

“You killed them.”

The thought cracked my ribs from the inside.

He had known.

All this time.

The bolts. I saw them clearly now, not suspicion, not chance. The way Valrien’s arms had drawn the string taut in Castle Volkihar, the way his gaze had locked on Amon like it was already decided. I had thought it was desperation. But he had been aiming at the monster who slaughtered our family. He had recognized those eyes long before I admitted I could not look away.

He had known, and he had watched me fight beside him anyway. Watched me stand at Amon’s side, watched me trust him, lean into him, let him steady me. He had watched and carried it in silence, carried me, all the while knowing I was tethering myself to the butcher of our blood.

How heavy it must have been.

I bent lower, tears stinging hot, hands gripping Valrien’s shoulders as if I could shake time backward. His lashes fluttered once, then stilled. He did not wake. Perhaps that was mercy. If his eyes opened now, if they met mine, I wasn’t sure I could bear it.

The shame was unbearable.

My arms slid beneath him. He was heavy in my hold, his weight slumping into me as if it belonged there, as if we were still children and I had only tired myself out chasing him. But it wasn’t his body that weighed me down. It was the truth.

The truth that had finally been dragged into light, black and sharp and undeniable.

I staggered toward the shack, feet clumsy, heart slamming wild as if it wanted to tear free of me. The door groaned as I pushed it open with my shoulder, shadows curling close inside. I laid him down on the cot, his hair damp with sweat, his lips parted as his breath shuddered thin.

The sight split me in two.

This was supposed to be safety.

A brother’s love, a home no matter how broken. Valrien had sworn that no matter what I became, no matter what blood stained my hands, I would still be his little sister.

I knew he would have kept that vow even when the world didn’t deserve it. Even when I didn’t.

Now I could not even look at him.

I saw only the weight he had carried in silence.

I can’t go back.

Not to who we had been.

Not to the days of hunting in the green shade of home, laughter still possible in our throats. Those days were gone, and I had been the one to turn my back on them.

I thought I had done it to survive. But now survival felt like betrayal.

His hand twitched faintly toward me, as if even unconscious his body reached for mine.

I don’t deserve it.

His love.

His forgiveness.

And he didn’t deserve me. Not when I had been kissed by ruin and cracked open in ways that no love of his could ever mend.

I pressed my face into the rough weave of the blanket beside him and wept until my ribs ached.

Not for what Amon had done. But for this.

For the simple, unbearable truth that I could not stay.

No matter how Valrien loved me. No matter how he swore he would never let me go. I could not bear his eyes when they opened again. I could not be the sister who walked back into his love as if it had not all come crashing down.

The frost curled from my palms again, thin and weak, trembling like the sobs that racked through me. The room blurred, walls too close, air too thick. I clutched his limp hand in both of mine and pressed my lips to his knuckles.

“I’m sorry.” I whispered, though he could not hear.

The words were ash in my mouth. They could not undo what had been done.

So I cried, because there was nothing else left to give.

Not anymore.

I stayed until his breath evened again, until the rise and fall under my palm was something steady and not a threat. Dawn had not yet come, the shack’s single window held only the gray of before-light. The world outside felt like someone else’s story, quiet and distant, but inside it was all the ragged pieces of us.

I should have woken him. But If I called him and watched his face crumple, if I asked his forgiveness and saw pity or terror bloom there, I could not live with either. If I left footprints tagged with my name across his life, I would poison the only gentleness he had left.

My fingers found the door latch and stuck there, the wood cold as bone. For a breath I stayed, caught between the warmth of the cot behind me and the frost pressing through the seams.

Outside, the air hit me in sharp, clean shards. The world smelled like frost and old wood and the faint metallic tang that always followed Amon’s shadow. For a moment I considered going back inside, collapsing onto the floor beside Valrien and pretending that morning could wash this away.

This is selfish.

But how could I ask him to look at me when I carried the thing that had hollowed our home? How could I let him love me as if nothing had been done, when every time he smiled at me the memory of Amon’s hands would be a shadow between us?

I can’t.

Staying would not save him. It would not save me. It would only erode the last safe thing we had together until nothing remained.

I walked toward the treeline, letting the bones of the forest swallow my shape. Each breath fogged in front of my mouth, and I felt the cold settle under my skin like a new garment. The path I took was old and known. I had walked it to hunt, to run.

So selfish.

But survival, I had learned, was rarely noble.

It was raw and animal and lonely.

So I left my brother sleeping. I left him the way he deserved to be left, warm in a bed, not haunted by my footsteps when he woke. I left him with the promise he had made to me and that I would never accept the false comfort of. I left because to stay would have been a cruelty dressed as loyalty.

When I reached the edge of the clearing I paused. The shack was a dark shape behind me, its small window like an unblinking eye.

The road ahead smelled of wet stone and iron and the strange, sharp freedom of exile. My cloak cinched tight, my hands empty of trinkets and heavy with the weight of decision, I walked into the part of the world that made monsters and did not flinch when it looked them in the face. It would never love me as Valrien did, but it would accept me as I was, and in that acceptance there would be a kind of mercy.

I moved through the trees until the shack was a memory behind me and the night wrapped around my shoulders like a new skin. Each breath tasted of frost and iron and the ache of leaving.

And somewhere, in the quiet that followed, I heard the world hold its breath, not to judge, but to make room for whatever I had become.

The forest opened its arms, and I walked back into the only embrace left to me. Not home. Never home. But familiar.

I knew Astrid would not forgive me. 

But there, I was not a sister who failed. I was blade and silence and ruin of my own making.

Valrien’s love had been a tether, soft and human. It had reminded me of who I once was. But I couldn’t bear the weight of it anymore. His gaze would split me open every time it touched me. His kindness would be a mirror I could not look into.

The Brotherhood’s gaze did not split.

It used.

And I could survive there.

So I walked deeper into the dark, leaving behind the name he whispered when he called me sister. I carried no promise of return. Only the sure knowledge that whatever I had become, the Brotherhood would not flinch from it.

And maybe that was all I deserved.

The forest closed in, black-boned and endless, frost clinging to every root. My breath leaked pale and thin into the dark. Each step dragged, heavy as stone, as if the world itself meant to swallow me back into the ground.

A laugh cracked the silence.

I stopped cold.

“Shor’s bones, look at this one,” a voice jeered, thick with ale and smoke. “Wandering about like a lost lamb, eh? It’s my lucky night.”

Another answered, harsher, uglier. “Little thing. Cloak’s worth a few septims, and I bet she’s got softer goods under it.”

Two shapes came out of the trees, big as oxen, leather armor hanging loose and filthy. Iron blades swung lazy in their fists. Their eyes gleamed pale in the half-light, and their smiles were worse than the steel.

My chest jolted once.

Fear.

Real, sharp, humiliating fear.

For a heartbeat my breath stuttered.

But fear belonged to that girl.

That girl who doubted. Who clutched her brother’s hand and whispered apologies he would never hear.

That girl stayed in the shack.

This one remembered the world outside.

I straightened, forcing my voice steady. “I need the road to Falkreath.”

The taller one threw his head back and barked a laugh. “Hark at her! Falkreath! She thinks we’re bloody guides.”

The second one sneered, yellow teeth flashing. “Oh, we’ll guide her, all right. Guide her straight out of that cloak and onto the dirt.” His eyes crawled over me like greasy hands. “Pretty little hare. Bet she’ll squeal when she’s snared.”

My throat tightened, breath caught, but the frost in me stirred, whispered,

Remember.

“I don’t want trouble.” I said. The words came out calm, but the edge beneath them was sharp as ice.

They roared with laughter, cruel and loud enough to wake the crows.

“No trouble, she says!” the tall one mocked, shouldering his friend. “Out here, lass, trouble finds you.” He hefted his sword, pointing the blunt end at me like a stick. “Best lay down nice, eh? We’ll make it quick.”

Something in me shifted. The fear cracked, and in its place was the rhythm, the terrible rhythm that had kept me alive long after softer souls were gone. My body knew what to do, even if my mind fought it. The machine slid back into place, piece by piece.

They came at me laughing.

Remember?

The tall one lunged for my cloak. My hand snapped up, clamping his wrist, and I wrenched hard until the bones split with a sound like dry wood. His howl tore the night. I rammed my forehead into his face; his nose burst wet across my brow. He staggered back, spitting teeth.

The second bellowed, axe flashing. I slid inside his swing, palm slamming his throat. He gagged, doubled over, perfect height for me to rip the knife from his belt. Steel found my hand like it had been waiting for me.

The first reeled toward me, broken wrist dangling. I didn’t hesitate. The knife kissed his jaw and opened him clean from ear to ear. Blood hissed hot against the frost, steaming in the cold. He dropped twitching, mouth working soundless.

The second roared, swinging again, wild with rage. I ducked low, slashed his thigh open deep. His leg buckled, he collapsed, axe clattering useless. Before he could crawl, I put my boot on his chest and pressed the blade to his throat.

His breath rasped, eyes wide, all that bluster bled out of him.

I leaned close, frost curling from my lips, voice low and cutting.

“Now. Tell me the road, little hare.”

His eyes bulged. His words spilled out broken. “S-south… Falkreath’s south. Two hours, straight road—”

“Good boy.” My smile was thin as the edge of the knife.

I dragged the blade across his throat, clean and final. His blood poured hot over my boot as he choked and stilled, eyes rolling white. The forest swallowed the sound.

I have never forgotten.

Silence returned, heavy and complete.

My hands trembled once, a small, honest shiver and then steadied as if tightened by an unseen strap. I wiped the blade on the dead man’s tunic, watching the red smear vanish into the weave like a punctuation mark.

The old ache in my chest folded itself inward and closed.

I shouldered the cloak back around me, tightened the strap at my throat, and walked.

Each step was a promise and a sentence, toward the shadowed door that waited for me.

Behind me was love I could not bear, ahead only the ruin I knew how to survive.

 

To be continued…

Chapter 97: Chapter 97

 

The road curled narrow between the pines, midday light slanting pale through the needles. It should have been safe in daylight, less haunted, but my steps stayed light all the same. The forest felt watchful.

Then I saw them.

Torchlight, unnatural under the sun, bobbing in the distance like a fever-glow. Dawnguard. Their cloaks caught the light in brief flashes of dull orange and steel, crossbows strapped heavy across their backs. They moved in a slow sweep across the treeline, not hunters of beasts but men searching for something hidden.

I dropped low, the frost in me tightening sharp and instinctive. The brush clawed at my cloak as I pressed into the shadow of an oak, every breath measured thin. Their voices carried on the air, low, clipped, the kind of speech born from orders, not wandering.

“Spread wider. Check the ridge.”

“Keep your eyes on the ground. Tracks don’t vanish by themselves.”

They were close enough that the smell of their oil and leather burned my nose. One paused, torch raised, scanning the shadows. His gaze slid over me, too quick, too careless. He moved on.

I didn’t breathe until the sound of their boots faded down the slope.

Dawnguard. Out here. This deep. My throat tightened with questions I didn’t dare ask aloud.

Why this path?

The thought needled sharp as frost. Isran must have sent them, searching for answers. None of his men had returned from Castle Volkihar, and the silence itself would have clawed at him. The Dawnguard didn’t take silence lightly. They wanted truth, proof, blood.

Maybe he thought the Brotherhood held it.

He was right.

But intentions… intentions were never so clean. Were they only here to ask? Or to accuse? Or to take their vengeance in bolts and fire?

I couldn’t linger. Curiosity was weight, and weight made noise. I slipped through the undergrowth opposite their trail, quiet as the frost itself, every step carrying me farther from their light and closer to the Black Door.

By the time the forest thinned, the day had climbed higher, the sun pressing hot against my shoulders through the cloak. Ahead, half-buried in moss and shadow, the hollow mouth of the Sanctuary yawned open, dark and familiar.

The air around the stone was damp and heavy, moss clinging to the carved grooves like veins. I stood before it, pulse quick and thin, the forest still whispering behind me of the torches I had slipped past.

The door shifted with its groaning weight, stone splitting from stone, shadows uncoiling inward.

“Welcome… home.”

The words thrummed through me, not a greeting but a sentence.

The voice died away, and with it the last thread of sunlight. The stone split wider, shadows breathing out like old lungs, until the crack was large enough to swallow me.

I stepped forward.

The air changed at once, colder, thick with damp and iron, the scent of oil and old blood seeping from the stone. The noise of the forest vanished behind me, muffled to nothing. Inside, only the hiss of torches and the drip of unseen water marked the silence.

My eyes adjusted to the gloom, the familiar curve of the passage stretching inward, carved rough as if the mountain itself had been split open. Torchlight flickered against the walls, painting them in orange and black, as if the place itself breathed firelight.

I let my hand brush the wall, rough stone biting my fingertips. This was the only place where the world never changed.

The hall spread wide before me, the cavernous heart of the Sanctuary lit by firepits and braziers. Figures sprawled at tables, dice clattering, blades whetted to a rhythm that echoed off the stone. Laughter snapped against the walls, cruel, familiar.

I stepped across the threshold.

The first to notice was a boy at the edge of the fire, dagger twirling loose in his hand. His eyes caught mine, widened, and the blade stilled mid-spin. His mouth parted around the word before he could stop it.

“Ashenblade.”

The name struck the hall like a dropped blade.

The laughter died. Every hand stilled mid-motion. One by one, heads turned, eyes fastening on me as though the dark itself had spat out a ghost. The silence grew heavy, a pulse that pressed close on my ribs.

I stood in it, cloak dragging frost from the threshold, my breath the only sound.

Home.

Not welcome. Not yet.

Then a laugh cracked, high and unhinged.

Cicero sprang up from where he had been crouched by the fire, arms flung wide as if to embrace the air itself. His painted grin gleamed in the torchlight, head cocked too far to one side.

“I knew it,” he sang, voice pitching wild. “I knew she would return!” He spun once, skirts of his motley flaring, then jabbed a finger at the others, eyes rolling bright. “You doubted, oh yes you did. But not Cicero. Never Cicero! I heard her footsteps in my dreams, tick-tick-ticking back to us.”

His laugh ricocheted off the stone, shrill enough to make a few flinch. The others watched me still, wary, weighing. Cicero only bowed low, arms sweeping toward me as if presenting some long-awaited gift.

“Welcome home, sister,” he crooned, mad and reverent in the same breath. “The shadows have missed you.”

Cicero’s shrill laughter rattled against the stone when a chair scraped back, sudden and sharp.

“Niolenyl!”

Fen.

She surged up from the table, dark hair tumbling loose around her shoulders, and crossed the hall in a rush. Before I could move, her arms wrapped around me, crushing me to her chest. I felt her breath hitch against my ear, heard the crack in her voice as she whispered, almost unbelieving.

“By Sithis—you’re alive. You’re really alive.”

For a heartbeat, I let her hold me. Her warmth, her scent of steel and smoke, the tremor running through her shoulders, it all struck deeper than any blade could. I almost forgot how to breathe.

But then her collar slipped, tugged askew by the ferocity of her embrace. And I saw them.

Ugly, healing crescents sunk deep into the skin of her throat, too jagged for any sparring wound.

My lungs cinched tight. The torches blurred, and in their place came the stink of Volkihar stone and Borald’s teeth bared, memory biting as cruelly as the scars.

I dragged my gaze away, forcing it back to her face, her wide, bright eyes, blue and damp with unshed tears. She didn’t notice my stillness, or pretended not to, only clutching me tighter, as if to anchor us both.

My voice scraped raw when I forced it out.

“Arnbjorn?”

She froze. Just a flicker, her arms stiffening.

“Grodyl?”

The silence that followed was heavy, unbearable. Her lips parted, but no sound came. Only her blue eyes on mine, full of the answer I already feared.

Fen finally eased her hold, her hands sliding down my arms as if reluctant to let go. Her eyes softened, but there was something behind them, something she didn’t want me to see.

“Come,” she said gently, her voice steadying for my sake. “You must be tired. Sit. Breathe.”

Before I could argue, she guided me toward a bench by the wall, her arm still braced at my back like she thought I might fall. She pressed a cup of water into my hands, cool and trembling faintly against my palms.

I didn’t drink.

My gaze stayed locked on her throat, on the marks half-hidden by her collar, on the way her lashes lowered as if she could shield me from the truth just by looking away. My breath scraped thin in my chest.

“Fen,” I whispered, raw and sharp all at once. “Where are they?”

Her jaw worked, but she said nothing. She reached as if to steady the cup in my hands, but I pulled it closer to me, shaking my head, refusing the comfort. I searched her eyes, desperate, wild, refusing to look anywhere else.

“Tell me.”

Her lips parted, closed again, and for a long moment her blue eyes swam with a grief that needed no words. When she finally spoke, her voice was soft, breaking as though she had to force each syllable out.

“Grodyl is… gone.”

My breath left me in a shudder, the cup slipping from my hands and spilling across the stone. The water streaked out thin and cold, vanishing fast into the cracks, and I stared after it as though I could pour myself out the same way.

Gone.

The word lodged under my ribs like a blade.

I stared at the water pooling on the stone, thin and cold, and my chest refused to rise. I should not be this broken. None of us should. We all knew, from the first oath whispered in the dark, from the first blade drawn under Father’s eye, we knew that one day the darkness we served would reach back for us. The Father we served would take us into his arms, and that day would be the salvation we’d been promised.

Death should not sadden me.

No.

But it did.

“We are family.”

It felt like my breath was caught in my throat, like the cold air would not go through. My lungs trembled and still there was no air, only ache.

“I don’t abandon family.”

I saw him as if he were still beside me, the way he refused to leave me behind, the way he fought even as his blood soaked the stones, even as he knew the wounds would kill him.

Maybe he had taken the salvation. Maybe the darkness had been kind enough to hold him at last.

But I was… not.

Not yet.

The sanctuary’s torches hissed and flickered, and for a moment I wished they’d go out so no one could see my face.

Fen’s hand settled on my shoulder at last, warm and steady despite the tremor in her fingers. She didn’t speak right away. She just stayed there, her presence a weight against the storm inside me.

I clenched my jaw, my throat burning, but I leaned the smallest fraction toward her touch, as if my body still remembered how to reach for family even when my heart no longer believed it could.

My stomach twisted. “Arnbjorn?”

Her silence answered before her voice did.

“He’s alive.”

The words hit me sideways, relief and dread colliding so hard I almost staggered. Alive. But Fen’s gaze told me it wasn’t a mercy.

“He hasn’t been the same since... Not mad like Cicero—” her jaw tightened, “—worse. It’s like his mind was… hollowed.”

So he too, is gone.

My thoughts lurched to Astrid. Her husband and her shadow in every dark corner. She should have been shattered by this. I imagined her grief, her fury, her brittle silence, and for a heartbeat I pitied her.

“Where is he?” My voice tore out sharper than I meant, desperate, demanding.

Fen hesitated, then whispered, “The dungeons. They’re keeping him there, until—”

I didn’t wait for her to finish. The bench scraped back hard as I surged to my feet, cloak snapping behind me. My boots struck the stone with a speed that drew every eye again, but I didn’t care.

I had to see him.

The torches blurred as I rushed through the passages, breath tight, hands trembling as if they already gripped the bars that held him.

The air grew colder the deeper I pushed into the Sanctuary, the torches thinning until only the damp walls and the stink of rust and rot guided me.

I rounded the last bend, heart hammering.

And stopped.

Astrid was there.

She sat slumped against the bars, her back bowed, hair loose around her shoulders like she hadn’t cared enough to braid it in days. Her eyes were raw, red-rimmed from sleeplessness and tears, her hands gripping the iron as if they were the only thing tethering her. For a moment she didn’t move, didn’t even breathe, just stared at me.

“Nio…”

My name broke from her like a confession, soft and cracked. Her eyes widened as though she wasn’t sure I was real, as if the shadows had conjured me out of guilt and longing.

For a heartbeat, we only looked at one another, both frozen and caught in the weight of everything unsaid.

Then Astrid pushed herself forward, stumbling up from the stones, and before I could speak, she closed the space between us. Her arms came around me, sudden and desperate, pulling me into her.

The embrace was fierce, trembling, the smell of smoke and salt on her skin, and I felt the bones of her grief press sharp against me.

This embrace was different, not the tight, almost angry clutch she’d given when she’d thought me a ghost come back from the grave.

This time I wasn’t a miracle dragged out of the dark, I was a wall for her to lean against. A wall for her to break against.

She pressed her face to my shoulder and I felt the tremor run through her body, felt her fingers curl into my cloak as if she might fall without it.

“I thought I lost you too.” she whispered, voice raw and small, the words catching like a splinter in her throat.

She looked at me then, really looked at me, and I saw it, the tears brimming in her eyes.

I swallowed hard, my own throat tight, and lifted a hand to her shoulder. She felt smaller than I remembered, worn thin by grief.

“You won’t,” I whispered, the words rough but steady. “You’re my family, Astrid. I will always come back to you.”

Her eyes searched mine at that, wet and glinting in the torchlight, as if she needed to measure every word for truth. My chest ached under the weight of her gaze, but I didn’t look away.

For just a heartbeat, I felt her shoulders loosen against me, her forehead resting briefly against mine, like she was letting herself believe it.

Then the sound of a low, ragged breath stirred from behind the bars, pulling both our heads toward the cell.

Arnbjorn sat slumped against the wall, shoulders broad but bent, hair matted with sweat and dirt. Chains bit into his wrists and ankles, iron shackles bolted deep into the stone, holding him fast. His chest rose and fell unevenly, each breath a growl caught halfway to a word.

Astrid’s face tightened, her red-rimmed eyes sinking as she turned toward the cell. She stepped closer to the bars, fingers brushing the iron like it was a wound she couldn’t stop touching.

“He can’t control it anymore,” she whispered. Her voice cracked, and she forced the words out again, heavier, sharper. “The transformations. They come without warning. No moon, no call, just—” She broke off, shaking her head as though the shape of it were too terrible to name.

I looked back at him. His head jerked faintly, a twitch that might have been a dream, might have been something worse. The chains rattled low, restless, as if they alone remembered what he had been.

Astrid’s hands gripped the bars until her knuckles blanched. “If we unchain him, he’ll tear this place apart. Tear himself apart. I’ve tried—” Her voice fractured. “I’ve tried.”

I stared at him, my throat hollowing, the words bleeding silent in my chest.

Astrid pressed closer to the bars, her fingers white on the iron. Her voice dropped into a tone I’d never heard from her, soft, tender, breaking.

“Love…”

Arnbjorn’s head lifted slowly, chains clinking as though it cost him the world to move. His eyes found her, glazed but still searching, and for a heartbeat something shifted. He drew in a long breath through his nose, chest heaving, smelling her like a starving man reaching for bread. His shoulders sagged. The growl in his throat softened to a low hum, almost a sigh.

For that moment, he looked at her.

Then it snapped.

A violent tremor seized his body. His lips peeled back from his teeth, a guttural snarl tearing free. The sound ripped through the dungeon, animal and raw. His muscles bulged against the chains, jerking, straining, iron shrieking under the force. He thrashed, head snapping back and forth, a frenzy shaking through him as if his own skin were trying to tear apart.

I stumbled back a step, breath punched from my lungs, staring wide. The frost stirred in my palms without my willing it, instinctive and terrified.

Astrid didn’t flinch. Her tears streaked down her cheeks as she pressed closer, voice hoarse and desperate.

“Gabriel! Bring it!”

Her cry cracked like a whip through the silence. From the far shadows of the dungeon, boots struck the stone fast, Gabriel, hauling a satchel tight to his chest.

Astrid never took her eyes off Arnbjorn, even as his snarls shook her voice to tatters.

Gabriel skidded to the bars, the satchel gaping open, the glittering crystals glinting faint in the torchlight. His face was drawn tight, jaw locked, but his hands were steady as he pulled a vial from the pouch and uncorked it. The sweetness of it filled the air, sickly, cloying.

Moon sugar?

Astrid’s fingers stayed clenched white on the bars. Her mouth opened, as if to take the vial, as if she meant to do it herself. But her hands wouldn’t move.

Her throat worked, a ragged sound escaping. “I—I can’t…”

She pressed her forehead against the iron, tears dripping onto the stone.

Arnbjorn’s growls rose higher, his body thrashing, chains screeching under the strain. His teeth snapped close to the bars, spittle flying, his eyes wild with the half-born wolf tearing at him from inside.

Gabriel moved fast. He knelt by the bars, muttering through clenched teeth, and slipped the vial past Arnbjorn’s mouth with practiced force. The liquid spilled against his tongue, and he bucked once, twice, before the fight drained out of him. His snarls broke into ragged pants. His body sagged against the chains, trembling, his head falling to one side.

The dungeon fell quiet again but for the rasp of his breath.

Astrid didn’t look at Gabriel. She didn’t look at me. She only stared at Arnbjorn, hollow and breaking.

My chest twisted as I stared at him, Arnbjorn, the wolf, the storm, now sagging limp in chains with sugar on his tongue. Guilt crawled up my throat like bile. He had gone to Volkihar because of me. And the vampires had taken him, hollowed him until nothing of the man we knew remained.

Every chain on his wrists might as well be wrapped around my throat.

If I had not drawn him into that place—

Gods, what had they done to him in those halls of stone and blood?

I looked to Astrid. Her hands still clung white-knuckled to the bars, her whole body shaking with the need to hold on to something that was already slipping.

“Astrid…” My voice was low, rough. I reached for her shoulder. “You need to rest.”

Her head snapped toward me, tears blazing in her eyes. “No. No, I can’t leave him. Not like this. He needs me.” Her hand pressed hard to the iron, her whole body leaning forward as if she could hold him through the chains.

I tightened my grip on her shoulder, firm, grounding. “You have to be strong. For him. For all of us.”

She shook her head violently, the words tearing from her chest. “I’ve got you now, don’t I? You be strong, Niolenyl. Be strong for both of us. Because I—” Her voice cracked to ash. “I have nothing left.”

The words cut, deeper than I expected. For a moment I saw not our Speaker, not the woman who had made us blades in Father’s name, but just Astrid, weeping into rust and shadows.

“You are the Speaker,” I said, harsher than I meant, the words striking like a blade I couldn’t sheath. “You don’t get to stop. Not now. Not when the rest of us are hanging by a thread. We need you to hold us together, if you fall, we all break.”

Her breath caught, lips trembling around silence. She turned back to Arnbjorn, slumped and chained, then to me. For a heartbeat, the hollow in her eyes sparked with something old, something I remembered, her fire, dim, but not gone.

It was true. She was the spine of this family, the voice of Father, the one who had taught me that we were knives, not children.

The frost stirred in my palms, cold and useless, and I pressed them flat against my thighs as if I could shove the feeling of pity back inside.

My chest clenched, breath sharp and shallow. I wanted to scream, but the sound stuck hard in my throat.

We were falling apart. Grodyl gone. Arnbjorn broken. Astrid collapsing under the weight of her grief. And me, standing here, telling myself to be strong when I was already unraveling.

How much longer until the dark claimed all of us?

The silence pressed tighter, the dungeon air thick with rust and sorrow. I kept my hand on Astrid’s shoulder, because it was the only thing I could give. But inside, I felt the ground shifting, slipping.

We were a family carved from blades, and one by one, the edges were snapping dull in the dark.

 

To be continued…

Chapter 98: Chapter 98

 

The steam had settled thick as fog across the bathhouse, clinging to the carved stone walls, curling around the braziers until even the firelight looked tired. The water lay dark and still, only rippling where it lapped at the edges of the pool. I sat on the rim, cloak still on, hands braced against the wet stone, staring at my reflection blurring in the heat.

Astrid.

How was I going to tell her?

How was I going to stand in front of the woman who had built me, blade by blade, and tell her what really happened at Volkihar? Tell her the Dawnguard were circling the treeline like wolves, scenting blood and betrayal.

And how was I going to tell her what I had done, what I had allowed, all the ways I had already failed her?

My fingers dug into the slick stone. She deserved the truth. She deserved a thousand apologies I didn’t have breath for. But every time I thought of her eyes, red-rimmed and clinging to those bars, the words shriveled in my throat.

I slid off the rim, the water closing over me in a hiss. Heat climbed my skin, biting sharp after the chill of the dungeons, and for a moment the sting felt like punishment. The surface closed over my shoulders, steam rising up to blur the ceiling until it felt like the world was dissolving.

I let my head fall back against the stone, eyes shut.

But I could see them. All of the brothers I had failed.

Grodyl.

His name pulsed in me like a wound, raw and gaping. Gone. That word wouldn’t leave my ribs, like it had carved itself there to stay. My throat burned. I wanted to drown the memory of his hands pulling me back from the edge a hundred times, only to be taken when I wasn’t there.

Arnbjorn.

The image of him slumped in chains, hollowed out, snarling through broken teeth. I hated myself for pitying him. I hated myself for being relieved he was alive, if this was what alive looked like.

Valrien.

His voice still echoed in me, soft when he teased, steady when he promised we’d make it through the winter, always calling me sister even when the word trembled between us, heavier than blood. For a heartbeat there, I had almost believed in peace.

My chest tightened.

And Amon—

He wasn’t in the Sanctuary. Not in the dungeons where I had always felt him waiting like a coiled snake. Not in any shadow I had checked, not in any breath of cold air brushing my neck.

If he were here, he would have found me. He always did.

Was he really gone this time?

The thought should have been a relief. It wasn’t. It left a hollow place in me instead, like a tooth ripped out but still aching. I hated the ache. I hated what it said about me.

I drew my knees up, water sliding down my arms. My breath came out in slow, uneven pulls.

How did I get here?

Child of Solstheim’s pines.

Puppet of the Thalmor.

Silencer of the Brotherhood.

Sitting in a bathhouse under a mountain of ghosts.

How do I get out?

The steam rose thicker, curling around me like smoke, and I let it. Because for once, there was no one here to see me drown.

The passage outside was cooler, stone walls dripping, torches spitting low. My boots whispered over the wet flagstones, but other whispers rose louder.

“…contracts have dried up. Weeks now.”

The voices cut sharp in the stillness, broken only by the scrape of a whetstone, the mutter of dice on stone. I didn’t turn my head, but I felt their eyes slide toward me, quick and wary, as though my shadow might answer for them.

“…and Astrid? Hiding in the dungeons with him. Speaker, hah.”

I kept walking.

Every step up the curving stairs seemed steeper than the last, the weight of their words pressing heavier on my back than the wet cloak.

At the top, the hallways narrowed again, the carved walls bending toward my quarters. The door stood plain, the same iron handle I’d gripped a thousand times before. But tonight it looked foreign, like stepping through it meant admitting this was still home.

I shut myself inside anyway and sat on my bed. The brazier hissed low, spitting sparks into the dark. I leaned forward on my knees, damp hair clinging to my cheeks, listening to the silence settle over the stone. It was too thin. Too fragile. A hall full of blades, and none of them pointed outward anymore.

Nazir.

He should have been here, steady voice, sharp eyes, the weight of him enough to quiet a room with one look. He would never have let the whispers grow teeth. He would never have let Astrid crumble without stepping into the space beside her.

I pressed my palms hard together, as if I could squeeze the ache out through my skin.

Maybe I should write to him.

My throat closed. The thought felt childish, desperate. But still, I wanted it.

The words I would write spun in my head like a whisper of hope, small and stubborn, even as the weight of the Sanctuary pressed down heavy on my shoulders.

I opened the chest at the foot of the bed. Inside, folded with care that felt almost foreign to me now, lay the old leathers. Black as ash, stitched for silence, worn at the joints where blades had struck too close.

I drew them out piece by piece, the motions as familiar as breathing. The weight settled across my shoulders, snug at my waist, the leather clinging like old skin. I cinched the buckles, pulled the gloves tight. For the first time since we left for Volkihar, I looked like what I had been made to be.

Then I saw it.

Tucked at the back of the chest, half-buried under a spare sash, the mask Astrid had pressed into my hands before the night of the Black Council. Black lacquer, the grooves catching torchlight, the red handprint stamped stark across the face.

The Silencer’s mask.

Not Niolenyl. Not the girl who had bled and lost. But the Silencer. Father’s will sharpened into flesh.

My hand hovered over it, trembling. For a moment I thought of slipping it on, letting that faceless shadow walk the halls instead of me. It would be easier. 

But I let my hand fall away.

I shut the chest, the image of the red handprint burned into me, and pulled my cloak tight again. 

The hall opened wide, torches spitting against the cavern roof. Figures slouched at tables, arms crossed, eyes hollow, waiting. Waiting for orders that never came.

Every gaze slid toward me and away again, as if they weren’t sure if I was ghost or flesh. My boots rang too sharp in the stillness.

Fen was by the far wall, her hair loose, her knife turning slow in her hands more from habit than purpose. She looked up at me, and for the first time since I returned, her mouth curved, small but real.

“You look better.” she said, voice low, tired.

I huffed out something like a laugh, though it didn’t reach my chest. “Better than what?”

“Better than the ghost that walked in last night.” Her eyes softened, then flicked back to the knife. “That’s something, at least.”

I hesitated, then asked the question that had been clawing me since I shut my door. “Nazir. Where is he?”

Her hand stilled on the blade.

“He was meant to reach the Sanctuary at Morrowind. Weeks ago. I thought he’d be back by now.” She shook her head, lips pressing thin. “I sent ravens, but… nothing.”

The word hung heavy between us.

Nothing.

The hall felt colder for it. The torches hissed like they too were running out of air.

Fen gave me that small, tired smile again and pushed a plate across the table. A wedge of hard cheese, some crust torn from a stale loaf.

“You should eat,” she said simply.

I sat down across from her, fingers hesitant as I reached for the cheese. The weight of my leathers felt strange against the mundane act, like I was a ghost playacting at hunger.

The blade of a whisper cut across the silence.

“So we sharpen our daggers, polish our poisons, and wait. For what? A word from a Speaker who no longer speaks?”

Another voice, lower, muttered like the hiss of a knife through flesh.

“We were not made for waiting.”

The words rippled through the hall, soft enough to pass for air but sharp enough to catch. No one looked up, but I felt the shift, shoulders stiffening, eyes glinting in the torchlight, the tension of blades too long sheathed.

I froze with the cheese still in my hand. The taste of it already soured in my mouth.

From the shadows, a dry chuckle rasped, like gravel caught in a throat. 

“Oh, listen to them,” Festus drawled, pushing back his chair with a creak. “All puffed up and twitching because their daggers are gathering dust.” He spat on the stone, lips curling. 

A few heads turned, faces tightening. Someone muttered back, low and sharp, “Waiting doesn’t keep our purses full. If the Speaker won’t speak—”

Festus cut him off with a bark of laughter, hacking like it hurt him. “The Speaker. Astrid. The woman who made killers out of this sorry lot. And you whimper because she hasn’t spoon-fed you a throat to cut this week? Pathetic.”

He leaned forward, his voice dropping to a gravelly hiss. “You want to question her? Do it to her face. Not slithering here like rats gnawing on scraps. But be warned—” he bared his teeth in something too sharp for a smile, “—she’ll gut you quicker than I will.”

The hall had gone taut, like a bowstring drawn too far. One of the younger blades sneered, restless. “You’re a relic, Festus. Too old to hold steel, too drunk on your own rot. We don’t need your ghost stories.”

Festus tilted his head, eyes gleaming with amusement that didn’t touch the bitterness in his mouth. “Relic, am I? Old?” He gave a phlegmy snort. “I’ve slit more throats than you’ve had shits. I could carve your name into your own spine before you blink. And trust me, boy, if Astrid doesn’t remind you what loyalty looks like, I’ll be happy to.”

The silence after was heavy, the kind that made fingers twitch toward hilts but stopped short of steel. One step closer, and blood would spill.

“Enough.” Fen rose from her bench, her voice low but firm. “Say what you will about coin, but you don’t question Astrid. Not while she’s breaking herself to keep us breathing.”

And before I knew it, my own words were sharp in the air. “We’ve already lost too much. We swore to stand together. If you’d rather bite each other, you never belonged.”

The hall stilled. A few mutters stirred and died. Festus’s laugh came again, soft and ragged, like the crack of old wood.

“There now,” he croaked. “Seems at least two of you still remember what the Brotherhood means.”

I let my gaze drift across the hall. One by one, eyes dropped. Shoulders hunched. Blades that had twitched toward hilts stilled under the weight of my stare. The silence stretched long, filled only by the hiss of the torches.

I saw it in their faces, the flinch, the unease, the memory of every rumor whispered about me in the dark.

Ashenblade didn’t have to bare steel.

No. Her eyes were enough.

“I am sure,” I said, voice cold, carrying, “everyone here remembers.”

The words cut sharper than any threat. The room breathed shallow. Even the boldest of them looked away, suddenly more interested in the cracks in the table, the embers in the brazier.

No one spoke again.

But I saw it.

The little crack in the organization we called family. The split between loyalty and hunger, between what we swore to Father and what they whispered to themselves when the contracts ran dry.

It was true, we got coin from killing. We lived by it. And I knew it wouldn’t go on like this.

Not for long.

The hall’s silence pressed tighter around me, but I didn’t linger. My boots carried me down into the deeper passages, where the air grew colder, damp walls slick with moss and torchlight sparse. The familiar turn of stone led toward the dungeons.

Gabriel was there, leaning against the bars, satchel slung at his side. His posture sagged with exhaustion, but when he lifted his head, his eyes softened at the sight of me.

“How are you holding up?” I asked quietly.

He huffed a breath, almost a laugh, though it held no humor. “Fine,” he said, then added after a pause, “Or close enough. And you?”

“Still breathing.” I said. It was the best I could give.

For a moment, neither of us spoke. The silence between us wasn’t sharp like the whispers in the hall, it was heavy, shared, a weight both of us knew too well.

Then Gabriel’s gaze dropped, and his voice broke softer. “I couldn’t save him. I tried—I swear I did—but…” His throat worked, and he shook his head. “I wasn’t fast enough. Not strong enough.”

The ache in my chest flared sharp again, but I stepped closer, resting my hand briefly on his arm. “Don’t,” I said, my voice rough but steady. “Don’t blame yourself. You fought beside him. That’s more than most ever get. Grodyl’s death wasn’t on you.”

It is on me.

Gabriel’s mouth pressed tight, grief written in the lines of his face. For a heartbeat he leaned into my words, like they steadied him.

I let my hand fall away and glanced past him. The corner where Astrid had slumped now bare stone.

“Where is she?” My throat tightened. “Astrid—was she here?”

Gabriel nodded slowly. “She was. I convinced her to leave.”

“Leave?” I frowned.

“Yes.” he said, voice soft but firmer now, as if he’d rehearsed the answer. “I told her Arnbjorn needed rest, that his body would mend better without her tearing herself apart at the bars. Made it sound like healing. It was the only way to pry her out.”

Relief and dread collided in my chest. Astrid in her chamber was better than Astrid dissolving here, but it wasn’t peace. It was only another shadow for her grief to rot in.

The passage narrowed, torches thinning until the shadows pressed thicker against the walls. I knew the way to Astrid’s chamber well enough, though each step felt heavier than the last.

The door stood ajar, lamplight spilling across the stone. I pushed it wider and stepped inside.

Astrid’s chamber was dim, heavy with the scent of smoke and damp leather. She sat on the edge of her bed, shoulders bowed, hair falling loose across her face. The light made the red in her eyes rawer, sharper, but she didn’t look up at me first.

Oz did.

He was standing near the wall, arms crossed tight over his chest, his shadow thrown long against the stone. His eyes caught mine and held there, sharp, pale, unreadable. He didn’t move, didn’t greet me, didn’t even scowl. Just looked.

Cold.

The silence stretched, heavy as chains. Astrid’s breath hitched once, the only sound in the room.

“Oz.” I said quietly, my voice sounding too loud in the hush.

He tilted his head the slightest fraction. “Niolenyl.”

Nothing more. No warmth, no sneer, just the clipped edge of my name. His gaze lingered on me, steady and hard enough to burn, before he finally looked away.

I felt the weight of it anyway. The blame that never left his lips. The shape of accusation, heavy as a blade he hadn’t drawn.

Astrid stirred at last, lifting her head. The lamplight caught on the salt tracks down her cheeks, but her voice, when it came, was steadier than I expected.

“Give us a moment, Ozvarr.”

For a heartbeat, he didn’t move. His eyes stayed on me, cold and cutting, as if he could pin every wound Arnbjorn carried onto my skin without saying a word. The silence stretched too long, until I almost thought he’d defy her.

Astrid’s gaze flicked to him, tired but firm. “Please.”

His jaw tightened. The lines of his face stayed hard, but slowly, with the heaviness of a man swallowing words he’d rather throw like knives, he pushed off the wall.

“Fine.” he muttered, low and sharp. His eyes cut to me one last time, not rage, not even hatred, just that cold, unspoken weight of blame before he stepped past and out the door.

The chamber felt smaller when it shut behind him.

For a long breath Astrid didn’t look at me, just stared at the floor as if the stone might give her an answer.

When she did speak, her voice was hoarse, threaded through with tears she was trying to swallow.

“Gabriel told me… Arnbjorn is healing. That I should leave, let him rest.” Her throat worked, her eyes glinting wet in the lamplight. She blinked hard, as if it might keep the tears from falling. “He is lying, isn’t he?”

The words cracked open at the end, raw, and she pressed a hand to her mouth like she could keep the sob inside. But her shoulders shook anyway, the grief spilling through the seams of her control.

I crossed the chamber and sank to my knees at her feet, close enough that she had to see me, had to hear me. I took her cold hands in mine, firm, grounding.

“Astrid.” My voice was low but steady. “Arnbjorn is stronger than this. Stronger than anything Volkihar left in him. You know it as well as I do.”

Her eyes lifted, wet and searching.

“And he would want you to be strong too,” I went on, the words pressing out of me like a vow. “Not tearing yourself apart at his chains. Not drowning here while he fights. He’d want you on your feet. Leading us. Holding this family together.”

Her breath shook, and for a heartbeat I thought she’d pull away. But she didn’t. Her grip tightened instead, desperate, as if my hands were the only thing anchoring her.

“No,” she whispered, shaking her head hard. “You don’t understand. This is my fault. All of it. Arnbjorn followed me into this life, and now look at him.” Her breath caught sharp, a sob ripping through despite the force she tried to cage it with. “I was supposed to protect him. Sithis take me, I was supposed to protect all of you.”

Her hands shook in mine, the tremor of a woman who’d carried too much for too long. She dragged in a ragged breath, shoulders bowing lower. “I made us into this family, Nio, but I can’t hold it anymore. Every piece is slipping through my hands, and I can’t stop it.”

The words bled out of her like confession, heavy and jagged, and her tears finally broke free, streaking down her face unchecked. She clutched at my hands as though I was the last thread keeping her from sinking completely.

I shifted closer, my knees pressed to the stone at her feet, and tightened my grip on her hands until our fingers locked.

“I’m here,” I said softly, but the words came from deep in my chest, steady as a blade. “I’m still your Silencer.” I tightened my grip.

“Bond broken or not… when you bleed inside , I bleed with you.”

Her head lifted a fraction, eyes raw and wet, searching my face.

“You’re not alone,” I went on, voice rough. “Not now. Not ever. You taught me that. You made me into a blade, and I will not let you shatter while I still draw breath.”

Her breath hitched, and for a long moment she only stared at me, eyes shining through the tears. Then her hand slipped from mine, rising with a trembling slowness.

Her thumb brushed my cheekbone, trembling. “After everything… you’re still here.” A breath shuddered from her,

“Still mine.”

 

To be continued…

Chapter 99: Chapter 99

The stairwell curled upward into The Raven Sanctum, air sharp with the reek of feathers and damp stone. Cages lined the walls, black wings shifting in restless beats, beaks clattering against iron as if impatient for their burdens to be lifted. Scrolls dangled in twine from their legs, contracts inked in cramped hands, the will of clients waiting to be paid in blood.

Astrid’s place.

Her duty, always, to take them, to weigh them, to summon blades into and assign each death like it was ritual.

But Astrid was gone to her grief, and the Sanctuary would not wait.

I tugged the first scroll loose, the raven hissing as if it knew I had no right. My fingers tightened around the parchment. Maybe I didn’t. Maybe this was blasphemy, breaking the old order by standing here. But Astrid had told me to be strong for both of us. This was the only way I knew how.

By the time I carried the bundle down into the hall, the parchment edges had curled with damp, ink bleeding faint from the mist of the sanctum.

The Brotherhood was gathered in their usual scatter, sharpening steel, nursing stale bread, tossing dice in corners where shadows clung too thick. Whispers still hung in the air, jagged with doubt, gnawing at the seams of loyalty.

I didn’t wait for silence. I strode into the center and let the first scroll fly.

“Catch.”

The parchment smacked into a hand. One of the younger blades blinked down at it, startled, then unrolled the contract as though it might bite.

Another scroll sailed, then another.

Heads lifted. Eyes sharpened. The muttering thinned into a taut, watchful quiet. Each contract struck like a spark, hands snatching, gazes darting from me to the names inked on flesh-colored parchment.

No summons. No ceremony. Just steel and ink and Ashenblade’s voice cutting through the air.

“You want work? There. Take it. Prove your knives aren’t only good for whispering.”

A ripple passed through them, surprise, then a grim kind of hunger. Blades shifted at belts, shoulders rolled back. The room, moments ago sagging in idleness, now stirred like a beast catching the scent of blood.

It wasn’t Astrid’s way. It wasn’t the Brotherhood’s way. But it was mine.

Be strong for both of us.

The words burned in me like a vow as the last scroll left my hand, spinning into the grasp of an eager palm.

And for the first time since Volkihar, the hall felt alive again, not whole, not healed, but sharpened.

“Use the northern exit.” I said at last, sharp enough that it cut through the stir of steel.

They scattered, the hall that had sagged in idleness only moments ago now bristled with motion.

When the noise thinned, Fen crossed to me. Her hair hung loose, knife still in her hand from habit, though her eyes were steady.

“Anything left for me?” she asked, tilting her chin toward the chest where the contracts had been.

I shook my head. “No. Not you. I need you elsewhere.”

Her brows drew tight. “Where?”

“Scout.” My throat tightened around the word. “The Dawnguard are on us.”

The knife stilled in her hand. She studied me, the weight of her stare sharper than steel. “Why?”

My mouth opened, nothing came. The air caught in my throat, words crumbling before they could take shape.

“Nio…” Her voice lowered, gentler, but no less cutting. “What happened out there? After we left?”

I faltered, heat prickling under my skin, the memories dragging like chains, Valrien’s bolts sinking into Amon’s chest. Celann’s figure crumpled in blood. The window shattering, the drop.

But no words. Only silence.

Fen’s gaze searched me, and the knife in her hand turned once more, slow, steady, as if she already knew the answer I couldn’t give.

Then a sing-song voice shattered it.

“Chop chop, dear brothers and sisters!”

The hall jolted with Cicero’s entrance. He spun in on light feet, bells jingling faintly at his jerkin, arms spread as if to embrace the whole Sanctuary. His painted smile gleamed, teeth too white in the torchlight.

“Contracts, contracts, contracts!” he trilled, plucking one from a startled hand and kissing the parchment like it was holy. “Oh, how long have we pined for the sweet kiss of ink and coin!”

He twirled in place, skirts flaring, then stopped abruptly, eyes snapping to me. His grin widened until it cut like a wound.

“And now—ah, now! We have our Ashenblade. Our silence, who speaks even without words.” His head tilted, jerking too far to one side, a bird with its neck half-broken. “How glad I am, how blessed we are, to have you, Niolenyl.”

The weight of his gaze made my skin prickle. Fen shifted beside me, her mouth tightening, discomfort shadowing her sharp eyes.

“I should… get to it.” she said quickly, breaking away, tucking her knife into her belt. She touched my arm once, brief and grounding, before turning to Cicero with only the faintest bow.

Cicero’s bells jingled faint as he leaned close, voice lilting into a whisper only I could hear.

“Bolts through the heart, a kiss in the dark… oh, secrets, secrets, how they flutter like ravens in the rafters.”

My blood froze. The torchlight seemed to lurch.

No one else could have known.

No one.

My hand shot out before thought caught up, fisting the collar of his jerkin and yanking him close. His grin widened, painted lips splitting, teeth gleaming inches from my face.

“How do you—” My voice cracked sharp, rougher than I meant. “What did you see?”

He only laughed, high and rattling, the sound ricocheting off the stone.

“Careful, sister,” he hissed, words still strung in his awful sing-song. “Authority comes with bearing me. And I am very, very heavy when I choose to be.”

The hall had gone still around us. Cicero’s grin stayed locked on mine, daring me to hold tighter.

My grip tightened on his collar, knuckles white. “I don’t want the authority,” I hissed, voice raw in my throat. “I never wanted it.”

Cicero’s painted grin only curved sharper, eyes gleaming with a mad delight. He leaned closer, so close his breath fanned hot and sour against my cheek.

“Ohhh, but you have it,” he sing-songed, tilting his head until the bells on his jerkin chimed. “They look when you walk in. They hush when you speak. Even when you bite your tongue, they taste the silence. Authority, sweet sister, is not a thing you choose. It is a thing that chooses you.”

His laughter rose again, thin and grating, and I felt every eye in the hall trying not to watch.

I shoved him back, harder than I meant. Cicero staggered a step, then straightened with a theatrical flourish, bowing low as if I had just blessed him. His grin never wavered.

I dropped onto the nearest bench, the wood groaning under the weight of my leathers. My hands braced on my knees, but still I felt the press of every gaze that wasn’t looking at me. The hall hummed with a silence too sharp to bear.

Mad fool.

It wasn’t an easy authority, not under whispers of rebellion, not with the Dawnguard circling like wolves beyond the walls. The weight of it pressed heavier than steel, crushing down until my breath came shallow.

Was this what Astrid always felt?

To rule the Sanctuary. To rule us. Sometimes with her sly smile and brittle laughter. Sometimes with an iron hand and no mercy at all.

I had bled for her. Feared her. Loved her. Hated her. And still I sat here now, drowning under the same crown of knives she bore, whether I wanted it or not.

The mask in my chest, the red handprint burned into my mind’s eye, seemed to grin with Cicero.

I had to see her.

My boots carried me down the passage almost without thought, the torches hissing low as if urging me upward. 

But when I reached her door, Oz was there.

He filled the threshold like a stone jammed in a wound, arms folded across his chest, shoulders squared as if he’d been carved for the sole purpose of blocking me. His pale eyes met mine, flat and cold.

“Move,” I said, voice low but sharp. “I need to see her.”

He didn’t flinch. “She’s resting.”

I stepped closer, heat rising through me. “Let me in.”

“No.” His jaw worked, the word spat like a nail hammered into stone. “She’s bled enough for you already.”

The air went tight between us. My hand twitched toward the doorframe, nails digging into the wood. “Oz—”

“You reckon they all obey you?” His voice cut over mine, deep and raw, the growl of a Nord who’d lost too much. “Maybe. But I don’t. Not you. Never.”

For a heartbeat, I could only stare at him, the weight of every sin he laid on me pressing heavier than Cicero’s riddles, heavier even than Astrid’s silence.

I felt the heat rise in me, anger tightening my chest, the urge to snap back, to shove him aside and storm through the door. But the words stuck like thorns.

Because he was right.

Grodyl’s blood. Arnbjorn’s broken state. Astrid’s grief. All of it trailed back to me like footprints in fresh snow. Maybe Astrid knew it too. Maybe that was why she had shut herself away. Maybe she didn’t want to see me. Didn’t want to hear me.

Didn’t want me.

My breath shook as I stepped back from the door, the wood cold under my palm as I pulled it away. Oz’s stare never wavered, hard as granite, until I turned.

The torchlight blurred in my eyes as I walked down the passage, guilt closing around me heavier than any chain.

The wine was bitter, thin, but it burned enough to keep my thoughts dulled at the edges. I sat hunched over the cup at one of the long tables, the hall emptying around me into shadows and scattered whispers. My mind dragged in circles until even the torchlight seemed to lean heavy with accusation.

A soft step broke against the flagstones. I didn’t look up until a voice, small but careful, spoke at my side.

“Ashenblade… let me fill it for you.”

I glanced at the girl, couldn’t have seen more than fifteen summers, her braid too neat, her eyes too wide for these halls. One of the new initiates. A jug of wine shook slightly in her hands.

“No need.” I muttered, setting the cup down harder than I meant.

She bit her lip, hesitating as if the words on her tongue might choke her. Then, instead of leaving, she slid onto the bench across from me, jug still clutched tight against her chest.

“I just…” She faltered, then pushed through. “…I wanted to tell you, I hope to be like you one day.”

The words landed like a slap. I blinked, slow, certain I’d misheard. “What?”

Her face flushed, but she met my stare with a strange, trembling boldness. “I’ve heard the stories. That you fought a dozen men once. Is it true? In the Ratway that they—”

“Trust me,” I let out a dry, humorless laugh. “What I am is the last thing you should wish to be.”

“It is.” Her shoulders stiffened, and for a moment her eyes shone like I’d cut her. But she pressed on anyway, voice breaking softer. “Because you’re loyal.”

The word lodged like a stone in my throat.

Loyal.

Or chained, was it?

She shifted on the bench, speaking faster now, as if afraid I’d cut her off. “When I first came here, I saw them drag you to the dungeons. They said you disrespected the Speaker. That she leashed you.” She swallowed, eyes flicking to my hands. “But you never turned your back on the Brotherhood.”

I looked at her then, cold, sharp, because I didn’t know what else to do with the ache twisting in me.

Her mouth closed, faltering under my stare, but her words lingered anyway like blades pressed flat against my chest.

I studied her face a long moment, the flush in her cheeks, the tremor in her hands.

“What’s your name?” I asked at last, my voice low, tired.

She straightened, almost proud to be asked. “Lucia. Lucia Loreius.”

The name meant nothing to me. Just another scrap pulled in from the gutters, probably another orphan the world had already tried to kill.

“Well, Lucia,” I said, leaning back, “initiates start at the bottom. Fetching coin. Looks easy, but it isn’t. It’s one of the most important things we do.”

Her eyes lit up, wide and bright, as if I’d handed her a blade forged from silver itself. The sight made my chest twist, sharp and aching.

“Then I’ll do it,” she said quickly, almost breathless. “I’ll do it well.”

I stared at her, at the hope clinging to her voice, and for a moment all I could see was the weight waiting to crush it. My cup felt heavy in my hand.

“See that you do.” I said at last, the words rough in my throat.

The wine burned on my tongue, and the silence pressed close again. Her eyes still shone, bright with a hope I could never give back.

And I prayed, with everything in me, that she would turn out nothing like me.

 

To be continued…

Chapter 100

The chamber lay deeper than the preparation rooms, past a narrow stair that smelled of old smoke and stone. The air here was cool and dry, untouched by torch soot, the walls carved smooth and bare as if even ornament had been burned away.

Rows of urns rested in niches cut into the rock.

Black clay. Unmarked. Identical.

No names. No dates. No space between one loss and the next.

I carried Grodyl’s urn in both hands.

It was heavier than I expected, not in weight alone, but in presence. Ash had a way of pressing back, of reminding you that something solid had once occupied space where emptiness now lived.

I set it down carefully in the lowest empty niche, fingers lingering a heartbeat longer than necessary before I pulled away.

The pitcher in my hand was earthenware, wrapped in cloth to keep it from clinking as I walked. Two cups nestled inside my pack, chipped and mismatched, stolen long ago from different corners of the Sanctuary. I set them on the floor, then eased myself down beside the niche, my back resting against the cold stone wall.

The urn sat between my knees.

For a moment, I just breathed.

The silence here was different than the hall’s, not watchful, not waiting. It didn’t care if I spoke or not. That almost made it worse.

I pulled the cloth free and uncorked the pitcher.

The scent hit first.

Grapes. Sweet and dark and wrong.

I almost stopped. Almost laughed at myself for the absurdity of it.

“Brought your favorite,” I murmured, voice low enough that it barely disturbed the air.

I poured.

The wine filled the first cup, dark and glossy. I set it carefully in front of the urn, right at the base, where a living man’s boots might have rested if he were still here.

Then I poured the second.

My hand hesitated only a fraction before I brought the cup to my lips.

I had never drunk wine made of the Green.

Never even tasted it.

Pact law wasn’t something you bent. It was something you were. Even after everything, after blood and stone and broken vows, it had stayed with me, quiet and unyielding.

Until now.

I took a swallow.

The taste bloomed warm and rich across my tongue, sweetness edged with bite. It burned faintly on the way down, unfamiliar and grounding all at once. I swallowed again, slower this time.

“Well,” I said quietly, staring at the cup, “you were right.”

The words felt strange in my mouth.

I shifted, drawing one knee up, the other still bracketing the urn like I was afraid it might wander off if I didn’t keep it close.

“They always said it was a waste,” I went on. “Fruit turned into something weaker. Something soft.” A humorless breath left me. “Guess they never asked you.”

The chamber gave me nothing back.

I took another drink, then leaned my head against the wall, eyes closing as the stone leached warmth from my skin.

“I don’t know what comes next,” I admitted. “They look at me now like I’ve got answers hidden under my ribs. Like if they listen hard enough, I’ll tell them what to do.”

My fingers tightened around the cup.

“I don’t.”

The urn sat solid and silent, ash bound in clay.

“I keep thinking if I’d turned left instead of right… if I’d waited… if I’d trusted someone else…” My voice faltered, then steadied again by force. “Funny thing is, none of that brings you back.”

I tipped the cup toward the urn in a small, clumsy salute.

“To bad choices,” I muttered. “And worse timing.”

I drank again.

The wine warmed my chest, loosened something tight and brittle inside me. Not enough to blur the edges, just enough to make the ache sharper.

“I didn’t mean for you to die for me,” I said softly. “I know you wouldn’t care. That almost makes it worse.”

My gaze drifted to the rows of urns stretching into the shadows. So many identical shapes. So many endings packed into neat, silent lines.

“They’ll put me here one day,” I said, not as a fear, but a fact. “Same clay. Same shelf. No one will know which mistakes were mine.”

I huffed a quiet breath. “Maybe that’s mercy.”

The cup in front of the urn remained untouched. I reached out and nudged it closer, the liquid inside barely rippling.

“Drink,” I whispered, absurd and earnest all at once. “If there’s any part of you that can.”

I finished my own cup slowly, savoring each forbidden swallow, then set it down beside his.

For a long while, we sat there together, ash and bone and blood and silence, and for once, the weight didn’t feel like something I had to outrun.

I stared at the urn, the stupid thought curling uninvited in my chest.

You’d be laughing.

If there’s anything left of you that still knows how.

Laughing at the idea of me sitting on the floor with wine, pretending this counts as mourning. Laughing because I never thought I’d see the day either.

“I don’t think I was made for this,” I said quietly. “Missing people. Wanting them back.”

The words felt strange, fragile, like they might shatter if I held them too tight.

“But things are changing,” I went on, softer still. “Whether I like it or not.”

I reached out then, close enough that the heat of my skin brushed the air beside it.

“And I wish,” I added, the admission scraping its way out of me, “that you were here to see how wrong it’s all going.”

Series this work belongs to:

• Part 1 of Woven