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Silje Ice-Shaper pushed back the hood of her thick fur coat and ran her arm across her forehead with an exhale. She risked taking off a glove to rake her fingers through sweaty, coppery hair and tucked it back, before pulling the hood up over her head again and replacing her glove. Regardless of the temporary warmth her hard work brought her, it was cold today, and getting colder. Clouds were roiling in the distance, darkening not unlike her mood. She didn’t much like the prospect of another day in these open barrows with the weather due to be as bad as the elders warned.
Sure as a storm, they’d said, you’ll get caught in the worst of it.
Not that she hadn’t listened—no, it was that she frequently took their words more as advice, rather than law. The village desperately needed the Stalhrim if they hoped to have enough to trade, considering how supplies in Raven Rock were dwindling by the day. The sooner the materials were collected, the sooner her father could forge the enchanted ice into blades and armor that would sell for plenty in town—or if she was lucky, Windhelm. She’d never been given the opportunity to leave Solstheim, even for trade.
Silje had heard musings from the odd Dunmer mercenary who frequented their settlement that there was some kind of conflict brewing—something awful on the horizon, worse than the blizzards. She could still hear the annoying rasp in his voice as he explained the circumstances of the situation, but none of it made sense. She didn’t understand enough about the Nords in Skyrim to know why some Imperial god would cause such a problem—only that they were fighting about it, so logic followed that weapons and armor would be needed. Maybe they would trade for more gold than expected. It would mean surviving said storms, if the ground was unsteady enough and the fighting found its way here. All-Maker preserve them should that be the case.
She exhaled, breath fogging in the cold as she straightened her sore back before swinging her pickaxe again, chipping away at the Stalhrim deposit. This one functioned more as a lid to a tomb—not that disturbing the honored dead was right, per se. There had been times in the far past when such actions would have brought harsh punishment down upon one’s entire clan. These, though? They were dead Nords who, in their time, ignored the old ways and abandoned the Skaal. Sure, it had been for war then, too—if she remembered correctly—but she never did have the head for the lore and stories. Hers was a life of hard work. What her hands could accomplish helped feed the village, and that was all that mattered. She had very little regard for stories. This upset the elders on a near-daily basis, but such was the way of things. During storms, it was best to stay practical. The All-Maker would understand. Her village would, too, while they had food enough to eat when the snows blocked their doors and it took days to dig pathways out again.
Silje sighed at the prospect. Yes. Maybe she would be able to board a ship to Windhelm and avoid that particular responsibility for once. She stood and stretched again. It was, occasionally, a bit of a curse to be the tallest and strongest in the village. Duties were divided by talent, and she’d hardly been given the option to figure out what hers were. Due to her uncommon strength, she was taught to fight earlier than most, in case the village needed defending. Because for the most part, it did not, she was told instead to heft anything and everything as soon as it was noticed not to be a problem for her. She might have thought to feign struggle all those years ago if it would serve any purpose—but no. She cared too much to be like the wily Dunmer or the Skyrim Nords, always shirking duty. This was hers. The All-Maker didn’t bestow gifts haphazardly or without purpose, after all. It didn’t make snow removal any less tedious.
With another swing of her pickaxe, the last of the Stalhrim finally crumbled away into fragments that could more easily be carried. She glanced sidelong at the draugr—now exposed to the chill, frost was starting to creep across its leathery skin. This part did always unnerve her, regardless of how she felt about the topic. They needed the Stalhrim, and it was a shame most of the sources they knew of were crypts. Such was the way of things.
She collected the shards of the enchanted ice and tucked them into several bags that were to be pulled back up out of the barrow for the return trip home. Others had come with her to work, though this section was empty of her party. It was just her and the ice. The wind off the ocean whistled over the stonework and occasionally blew dry snow down over her head. She slung the nearest bag over her shoulder and sighed. The trek back and forth from here to where they’d set up camp would be tedious at best.
As she ascended the weathered stone stairs of the barrow, the air seemed to change. The wind stifled itself, no longer howling over the frozen wastes. The temperature dropped—if that was at all possible. Her hands grew numb, the warmth achieved from her earlier hard work fading from her limbs.
Silje looked skyward. Where normally there would be clouds and ash—that had, in fact, been there earlier—the aurora streamed like some kind of message from the All-Maker. Had it gotten so late already? She’d let her thoughts wander too far. Her father had warned her about paying better attention—she wasn’t invincible, strongest in the village or otherwise. She despised being inefficient, too—under normal circumstances, she’d have been able to harvest much more Stalhrim than this.
Puzzled, she marched her way across the ice floes and back toward shore. There were other barrows dotted over these islets carved by glaciers. Where were the others? She glanced out in the direction of camp. Smoke drifted—though there seemed to be much more than a normal campfire would produce. Her throat started to close in worry. What was happening here? Something was very wrong. She dropped her Stalhrim and instead drew her dagger. She would fight what danger had descended, and save them. It always fell to her—if there was anything or anyone left to save.
She steeled her nerves and ran across the frozen wastes to meet whatever chaos had come for her people.
As she rounded the outcropping of rock that would have protected her camp, a noise unlike anything she’d ever heard in her life echoed through the wastes, and could have shaken the earth right out from under her feet. Like the roar of a godless monster out of Oblivion, the sound of the beast which hovered before where her camp should have been stunned her and stopped her in her tracks.
It was like the depictions in ancient Nordic temples had burst free from the stonework and came to life—some enormous, infernal cross between cliff racer and clannfear hung in the air, breathing fire down upon people she didn’t recognize.
A dragon. Here? How?
A Stalhrim shield glinted in the light of the moons and the aurora as an enormous Nord warrior burst forth, blocking the flames, brandishing a perfect Stalhrim sword in her other hand. There was something familiar about her form—the way she fought reminded her so much of how Silje herself had learned. None of the workers that had trekked out here with her knew these forms—most knew only enough to keep themselves safe out in the wilds.
Was this woman Skaal?
The dragon crashed to the ground, fire breath unable to take down those that fought tooth and nail against it—not with Stalhrim weaponry on their side. The dragon screeched again, exposing its neck as what sounded like language poured out of it in frustration. Did it speak? The roars resembled words, though Silje couldn’t parse what it could have said. She knew little of these beasts—up until now, she had thought them flights of fancy. She’d heard the stories. Were they not just…myths? She supposed not, considering what she was seeing.
Her breath caught in her chest as she looked on in awe at the battle unfolding before her. The warrior’s hair, red as her own, streamed out behind her in the biting wind as her sword connected with the dragon’s jaw, eliciting another ear splitting shriek from the beast. Even from back here, half-hidden in the shadow of the rocky outcropping, Silje could see blood beginning to pour from its maw. Sneaking as close as she dared, she noticed Stalhrim arrows protruding from between its scales all along its body. A fine strategy for a giant beast from legend, she supposed. As fine as any.
The fear left her as the red-haired Skaal warrior moved in perfect formation with her sisters, all brandishing hammers or spears or greatswords crafted of enchanted ice, bows stashed on their backs. The dragon stood no chance as, quickly, it became surrounded. Silje was sure it hadn’t the energy to take flight, considering the sheer amount of blood that now coated the ice and snow.
She didn’t recognize any of these women. What tribe could they have possibly come from? Theirs, as far as she knew, was the only settlement on Solstheim. In the ancient past, there had been more Skaal, but—
No. Could it be?
She looked over at the horizon, eyes scanning and failing to find the telltale plume of smoke and ash that billowed constantly from Red Mountain across the sea to Morrowind and the remnants of Vvardenfell.
Silje realized with a start that she must have walked into the past—or an alternate version of their world—where the Red Year hadn’t happened. Her head spun as she tried to reorient herself. How was this possible? Was it an act of the All-Maker? If so—why? She was only doing what she’d always done—harvesting Stalhrim. Nothing more.
The dragon roared and reared back, slashing vicious claws out at the Skaal warriors before it. Those that carried them blocked the attack with frozen shields, allowing the others to advance, weapons brandished.
Silje’s palms itched, and she found herself subconsciously twisting her fingers tighter around the hilt of her Stalhrim dagger. It had gotten her out of a fair bit of trouble before—but would it be enough against a dragon? She rather doubted it. But now was not the time to give in to fear. She stilled herself and lowered her scarf and hood, breathing in the frozen air. It gave her the strength she’d been missing in her shock. She rushed in to join the warriors in their struggle against the enormous beast before them.
Something strange happened as she stepped into range of the dragon. She felt her muscles ripple under her skin as if her movement was stopped by some odd spell. She could only watch as her perspective skewed, her head moving against her will. The warrior with long red hair turned—and yet did not turn—to her. It was as if time had been slowed, and she inched toward this image of—
Herself?
It was like she was staring at a reflection instead of a person. The warrior’s blue eyes were as cold as hers. Her expression was just as angry and determined. Each motion was mirrored—as Silje raised her dagger, the warrior raised her sword. As she flexed her fingers on her other hand, the warrior’s shield moved, hand adjusting on the grip. The world quieted, leaving behind only the sound of wind blowing past her ears and waves crashing against the rocks and ice beside them. The dragon and the other warriors in the background moved so slowly, it could almost have been imperceptible if she hadn’t been so thoroughly confused by it.
Silje turned toward the warrior again. This time, the woman did not mirror her. She simply nodded, and spoke. The language was…unfamiliar. Wasn’t it? No. Not quite. Just…ancient. Her words at once felt so strange and foreign to Silje’s ears, but somehow she knew their meaning, like a memory she’d long forgotten.
“You must save them. This is not the end of our war.”
Something within her lit like a great fire. She closed her eyes against the sudden blaze of warmth. When she opened them again, she was staring at the dragon, its jaws dangerously close to snapping around her. She had only a moment to think as time began to catch up with itself. In her hands, she grasped the sword and shield the warrior had been wielding. She had become the warrior.
With strength she’d not quite realized was possible, she slashed at the dragon, catching the edge of its jaw in the same motion she’d witnessed earlier. The other warriors closed in, smashing its limbs and joints, slicing through the thin skin that stretched across its wings. The beast screeched, trying and failing to expel another fire breath attack. Its words—if they were words at all—sputtered out like flames drenched with water. Bile and blood spilled from its maw instead.
Somehow, Silje knew what to do next. She tossed her shield aside and rushed the dragon as it flailed. Though its head could easily act as a giant’s club if it hit her, deep down she knew this was the last opportunity to strike the killing blow. With timing she couldn’t have predicted in a mortal age, she jumped, arm looping around the horn of the dragon. She used the momentum to scramble to a crouch, holding onto the dragon horn for dear life. This was fully insane—not something any mentor of hers would ever have suggested—yet the motion came to her as easily as breathing. It was as if she’d done this a hundred, hundred times before.
That was…impossible. Wasn’t it?
Part of her mind couldn’t parse what was happening. It was as if she moved on her own. Her boots found purchase against a ridge of scales behind the dragon’s head. She took the Stalhrim blade in both hands and plunged it into a soft spot right where its skull connected to the neck. Like any other creature, severing its brain from its body was enough to end its miserable existence.
It let out a pathetic hiss as its life fled from it.
A man in a golden, tentacled mask that looked like something fished up from the sea floor appeared before her, his form transparent. She could see straight through him and into the distance. He said nothing, his form flickering and wavering in the glow of the moons and the aurora above them. His arms raised slowly, as if he was a mage commanding enough power to cast an enormous spell. Then, light spilled forth from the corpse of the dragon under her feet.
The air was filled with the acrid stench of burning flesh and scales, her mind overwhelmed by the heat of a fire that both did and did not exist. Her ears were useless except for the cacophony of crackling. Then, she was falling into darkness, past the impossible bleached white bone of a dead dragon, arms flailing, fingers releasing their grip on the borrowed Stalhrim sword.
Her throat was raw as she screeched into the void, the sound of it only answered by the low, malignant laughter. The golden mask gleamed in her mind’s eye. She squeezed her eyes shut against the tears that were starting to flow. She fell for what felt like eternity. She kept screaming. Her lungs burned with the effort.
“You must save them.”
The voice again, and those words. What did they mean?
They felt this time as if they were coming from her own throat. But how? She didn’t know the language. She was screaming, and falling and—
No.
No, she was on solid ground. Wasn’t she?
She opened her eyes.
“This is not the end of our war.”
The words had come from her own throat. She knew it as she gasped for air. She was surrounded by her neighbors, her friends—the other workers who had been collecting Stalhrim with her. Her dagger rolled from her grip as she struggled to breathe, cold crushing her lungs. She endured a wave of dizziness as she sat up too quickly. She tried and failed to take another deep breath, clutching at her throat with gloved hands.
“Silje!” called one of the other Skaal. “What are you saying? Are you okay?”
She wasn’t sure. Eyes wild, she stared around her. The echo of that malicious laughter still stung her ears like the wind stung the skin of her face. It took a moment to realize where she was. Not far from the barrow. Daylight had returned, tinged as it always was by clouds and ash. The storm from before was still brewing. The threat of it had not changed a great deal from the last time she checked—it was still some distance away. Time, then, had not passed much.
Silje exhaled, and sucked in another breath, the coolness of the air calming her. She looked around, noticing the concerned faces of those who had seen her fall. What had happened here? Had she been struck down by a vision like the shamans all experienced? Had Herma Mora found her while her guard was down? It would explain the tentacled mask on that villainous ghost from the dragon fight.
But no.
She looked around again. All was as it should have been. Her head hurt. All that had happened was bad footing. She’d fallen, and struck her skull against the ice. It was not unheard of, especially in her line of work. Normally, she was more careful than this, but accidents did happen.
Her arms were shaking, though. It had all seemed so real, right down to the sword she had held. She still felt the weight and balance of it in her hand—still remembered the crunch of blade and bone as if she herself had fought a dragon.
Dragons were not real. They were myths, no matter what sounds and spells her mind had invented to convince her otherwise. Silje reassured the workers around her of her health and scrambled to her feet. She felt a little unsteady, and weaker than she’d felt in her vision. Perhaps she would delegate the rest of her work to another—it would be better for her to return to the village to see a healer after her ordeal.
The words the warrior had spoken still stung her ears and plagued her thoughts, even as she walked toward her camp.
“You must save them. This is not the end of our war.”
What could that have meant? So strange. What war? The one the Skyrim Nords were tied up in? No. It couldn’t be—the Skaal had been at peace for uncountable years. She shook her head and continued walking side by side with those of her companions that would not so quickly see her walk alone after such an incident.
She turned for a reason she could not quite understand. Something dragged her attention to the horizon, overwhich the frozen land of Skyrim lay. A land where she’d never set foot before.
Noise so loud it shook the ground around them erupted from the sky itself, throwing them all off balance. These were like the words the dragon had spewed, only so much louder—and strangely, so much more…human. Silje wanted to cover her ears against the onslaught regardless.
“DO VAH KIIN!”
The words—they were words, she was sure of it—faded like the sounds of the world after a blizzard. Silje could swear she could still hear that same malicious laughter from the ghost with the mask drifting across the ice, though none of her companions reacted. She closed her eyes and let the sound of it fade from her awareness.
Opening her eyes again, she stared back out across the swath of frozen wastes and let the wind whip back the hood of her coat, coppery hair streaming out behind her.
“This is not the end of our war,” she said, tone solemn. The others stopped around her and glanced sidelong into the distance, confused when there was nothing to see. She felt the truth of her own words, though, deep in her soul. The meaning was not yet clear, but the world was shifting, as was the fate of all the Skaal. As much as she didn’t want to, she knew it, sure as a storm.