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Chapter Text

4E 201, Shor’s Stone

Gerron Ironbreaker

How does one explain sight to a blind man?

The answer is, you can’t. You can put it into words, but they will never be meaningful to the person who can never understand it.

That was what it was like for Gerron Ironbreaker. He was just an ordinary nord trying his best to make it through life. He was an ordinary blacksmith in the simple town of Shor’s Stone, where most of the things he needed to work on were the miners’ pickaxes or the horseshoes of the local travelers.

When the Civil War kicked up, that routine changed and he now had to fulfill a weekly quota of weapons and armor for the stormcloaks fighting in the frontlines. He was fine with that.

But when the local mine closed down after frostbite spiders suddenly infested it, the town quickly started struggling. The Redbelly mine was Shor’s Stone’s only point of interest, as they had little else to trade.

While they had some able-bodied people who were good with hammers and axes, it was nowhere near enough to handle the spiders that sprouted to over a hundred in number overnight.

They sent a runner down to Riften to request Jarl Laila to send troops in to clear it. They waited over a week, but the runner never returned. They suspected he died on the way. With the war in full force, many of the roads of Skyrim had become littered with bandits—deserters turned criminals, refugees fleeing their Holds, and former landowners displaced by war. The runner most likely met an unfortunate fate at their hands.

Filnjar, the only other blacksmith in town and the person everyone saw as the sort of leader, wanted to call on the Companions or even request help from one of the many Stormcloak patrols that regularly arrived in town for supplies, but until now, they heard nothing back.

Gerron himself was growing frustrated. The mine was the town’s lifeblood, and without it, their entire economy was collapsing. That was always bad for business.

So, he did what he always did in times of hardship—he prayed.

Kneeling before the modest shrine of Zenithar in the basement of his home, Gerron clasped his hands and bowed his head. "Divines, hear me. I do not ask for riches, nor do I seek power. I only ask that the hard work of this town be repaid in kind. That our labors not be in vain. Please… help us."

That night, he dreamed of a blue star. A vast and endless sky stretched before him, shimmering with constellations he had never seen before. A presence filled the void—a warm, yet unfathomably powerful force. Before him stood a man draped in golden robes, his beard long and silver, his hands calloused from a lifetime of toil. His eyes, deep as the cosmos, held wisdom beyond mortal comprehension.

"Your prayers have been heard, child of Skyrim," the figure intoned. "You have labored with diligence and faith, and for that, the Divines grant you a gift. May you forge not only with hammer and anvil, but with the very essence of creation itself."

A burning light engulfed him, searing into his mind and soul. The pain was unbearable, but it carried with it knowledge—vast, endless, divine.

Then he woke up.

Strange symbols of light hovered before him, forming words in a language he somehow understood.

[Artificer System Online]

You are an artificer, a master of invention and ingenuity. Through magic and craftsmanship, you shall create wonders unseen in this age. Alchemy, forging, enchanting—all shall be at your fingertips. The world is your anvil, and reality itself is the metal to be shaped.

Artificer? System? Magic? What in Oblivion is this?

[The Alchemist]

You are an alchemist, an expert at combining reagents to produce mystical effects. Alchemists use their creations to give life and to leech it away. Alchemy is the oldest of artificer traditions, and its versatility has long been valued during times of war and peace.

[The Battle Smith]

You are a battle smith, an expert at creating and repairing both weapons and armor. Battle Smiths are considered to be a combination of a smith and a warrior, using your own creations for protection and destruction amongst the battlefield.

Gerron’s head pounded as more information poured into him. Blueprints, formulas, diagrams—each more complex than the last. Knowledge of how to brew elixirs that could make or break the world. Blueprints of weapons and armor, from simple tools to the most powerful artifacts. 

Knowledge of combat was also installed into his mind, ways to utilize his own creations to wreak havoc amongst his foes.

His mind reeled as he clutched at his skull, feeling as though molten steel had been poured into his brain. He grit his teeth, enduring what felt like an eternity of agony before the pain finally subsided.

He gasped for air, his body drenched in sweat.

It felt like hours till he could move again. Slowly, he sat up. His body was marred with sweat, his hands trembled as he ran them through his hair.

But he ignored all of it, for there was something that he needed to do, something within him that had changed. His gaze flickered to his forge outside. 

Without hesitation, he rose to his feet and strode out into the cool night air. The forge stood silent, waiting. The hammer lay where he had left it, a blue light shining just above the anvil.

Picking up the hammer, he let himself be guided by instinct, soft clanging of metal on metal echoed through the night. It was a good thing that his house was located on the edge of Shor’s Stone, closer to the mine. None but the slumbering miners were disturbed by his nightly activities.

Immediately, he realized that this entire time, he had been living life blind. The swords and shields he was once proud of now looked to be creations of an amateur. As he hammered into the steel, He could see imperfections in the metal, weaknesses in its design. He had worked with steel for years, but never before had he seen it like this. It was as if a veil had been lifted from his eyes.

Every strike, every motion felt guided by something beyond him. He worked tirelessly, as if possessed. By the time he was done, he held in his hands a one-handed maul and a wide, round shield—both sleek, both masterfully crafted.

And yet… something was missing.

He ran his fingers over the metal, frowning. They were strong, sturdy—better than anything he had ever forged before—but they were still incomplete. He could feel it in his very bones. It didn’t take long for him to figure it out.

‘They are flawed’.  

As of right now, the maul and shield were merely finely crafted arms, nothing like what he knew he was capable of building. Even now, he could tell these things were still of worse quality than Skyforge Steel, the things Eorlund Gray-Mane could create in his smith.

He needed better quality materials. He also needed a source, something to imbue magic into his creations. There was only one thing in the whole of skyrim capable of doing something like that. Soul Gems.

Even then, he had totally run out of supplies entirely. It took all the iron and steel ingots he had to make these both. He needed more materials, and not only smithing tools, but also raw ingredients for the alchemical formulas he had running through his head.

Fortunately, he was in close proximity to a whole mine that was currently infested with spiders. He turned to the Redbelly Mine, its dark entrance looming in the distance.

A grin crept onto his face as he tightened his grip on his hammer and shield.

"Time to put this steel to the test."

…

Kiera Fendalyn

“Hey you, you’re finally awake…”

A set of amber yellow eyes opened into a land of snow.

…

AN: Here goes my new Skyrim fic. I got back to playing Skyrim again after accidentally watching a youtube video and got the muse to write my own story for it. This’ll be my first sort of system fic so I hope I do it right.

The Artificer system will be a very passive, non hand holding system. There will be no missions or stats, but merely perks and recipes that he would use.

Gerron Ironbreaker (Gerron meaning guardian and Ironbreaker meaning something that is strong and resilient) is the main character. He’s a regular dude born in the world of Skyrim, not a transmigration or anything like that.

There will be no harem and romance will be a very subtle thing. It won’t be a focus like my Fairy Tail fic.

Again, English isn’t my first language since I’m from Indonesia, so bear whatever grammar or spelling mistakes you find. 

Hope you enjoyed the chapter.

Cheers lads!

Chapter Text

4E 201, Shor’s Stone

Gerron Ironbreaker

Redbelly Mine was named appropriately due to the red mist that always clung to the bottom of the dig. The mist was a mystical thing, for no one truly knew the how and why of its existence.

But after realizing that the mist itself was neither poisonous nor toxic, the people of Shor’s Stone merely chalked it up to another magical phenomenon and ignored it. Gerron used to be the same way, for all Nords were always wary of anything magical.

But he was a different man now, and it didn’t take him long to realize the origins of the seemingly magical mist. Just west of the mine was a place called Redwater Spring, a place said to be rich in many ingredients for alchemy. There were rumors about the place being a secret hangout for skooma addicts, others saying it was a hideout for the Thieves Guild. The spring contained much of the same red mist, and the mist itself easily went through the natural cracks in the stone and ended up in Redbelly Mine.

Aside from that, Gerron was ready to enter the mine. Clad in the maul and shield, he opted to wear a set of heavy armor he had previously created for the Stormcloaks. It wasn’t his best work, as all his craft for the Stormcloaks were all done in a rush job, but it should be enough.

He was good with a hammer, and two decades of working in the smith gave him muscles any Nord would be proud of. He was just shy of seven feet tall, with long braided blonde hair and blue eyes, Gerron was no stranger to physical labor. 

There was a part of him that knew running headfirst into a nest of Frostbite Spiders alone was the epitome of foolishness, but another part of him relished in the challenge. 

It was still late into the night, putting on the horned iron helmet, he cracked his neck and went forth.

…

The moment he entered the mine, a damp chill washed over him. The walls were slick with condensation, and the air carried the heavy scent of damp earth mixed with spider musk. 

Any torches here had long since gone out, only the rays of moonlight giving him any sense of sight from the cracks of the stone above him, revealing the wooden beams that supported the tunnels. 

The skittering of legs and the faint sound of chittering echoed through the tunnels. His grip tightened on the hammer.

The first section of the mine was straightforward. The wooden path sloped downward to the left, leading to a sturdy wooden bridge spanning a large circular pit. Looking down from the bridge, Gerron spotted several Frostbite Spiders, their grotesque, bulbous forms twitching as they skittered across the floor.

“Divines watch over me. Time to get to work.”

He didn’t bother with stealth. He clanged his hammer on his shield repeatedly, the sound catching the spider's attention. It didn’t take long for waves of them to climb on the walls and charge him.

The first few were simple, their fangs meeting the strong steel of his shield as he crushed them beneath his hammer. Another lunged without warning, mandibles clicking as it tried to sink its fangs into his shoulder. 

Gerron raised his shield in time, but was caught slightly off guard by the force of the impact that nearly knocked him off balance. He shoved back hard, sending the creature sprawling, and brought his hammer down on its bulbous head. A sickening crunch signaled its demise.

He continued deeper, descending down the rocky walls as the spider’s numbers grew and grew. The confined tunnels became a battlefield where the spiders had the advantage, darting from cracks in the walls, lunging at him from above. 

Gerron gritted his teeth as one of them managed to climb onto his back and sink its fangs in, only for his armor to hold. He swung wildly, crushing the creature’s body against the wall.

From the shadows, another two skittered toward him. He took a step back, putting his shield up, but a third spider suddenly dropped down from above. He cursed and rolled to the side just as it landed where he had stood, its fangs sinking into the dirt instead of his flesh.

A dozen spiders surrounded him in the deeper chambers. Gerron could feel his breath quicken. His shield arm was beginning to ache, but the thrill of the fight set his blood aflame.

He stood his ground, refusing to retreat. He slammed his hammer into a wooden support beam, sending a cascade of loose rock and dust down onto the spiders, forcing them back. He tilted over a wheelbarrow, using it as a makeshift barricade to funnel them toward him one by one.

He continued fighting, slowly moving back step by step until he reached the bridge once more. He stood in the middle of it, making use of the narrow passage to prevent them from overwhelming him.

But then, as he bashed another spider aside, he heard it—a deep, splintering crack. The bridge. One of the massive support beams groaned as another spider lunged, forcing Gerron to stumble back. 

His foot caught on the edge of a loose plank, and before he could regain his footing, the entire bridge beneath him shuddered violently. With a thunderous snap, the wood gave way. 

Gerron barely had time to react before the structure collapsed, sending him and several of the spiders tumbling into the depths below. He crashed hard onto the lower level, rolling with the impact as the remains of the bridge rained down around him. 

Dust and debris filled the air, and the sickening screeches of the fallen spiders echoed through the cavern. His head pounded, but he forced himself up, shield raised, hammer at the ready. More of the creatures skittered toward him from the darkness, undeterred by the collapse. 

Gerron spat out a mouthful of dust and grinned. “Well come on then!” 

Facing overwhelming odds such as this, he laughed—a deep, hearty laugh that echoed throughout the mine. 

His ancestors had been warriors. He had always been a smith, content with the heat of the forge. But this? This was what had been missing.

A deep chuckle rumbled in his chest as he strode forward, hammer raised high.

The spiders surged.

He met them with steel and fury, laughter on his lips.

The forge had shaped him. Now the battlefield would temper him.

And he welcomed it.

…

How long has it been? Hours, perhaps?

As he crushed the last spider with a mighty swing, he stood back up with heavy breaths. He was in the last part of the mine, with one last area where the infestation was at its worst. 

He looked like a man that had gone through a battlefield, covered as he was in green spider blood. His armor was worse for wear, having been dented in several places while the chain shirt beneath was torn. 

However, the hammer and shield were still in perfect condition. As he lifted both to examine them, he detected none of the supposed breakage that any weaponry should have after a fight such as that. 

He grinned. This, this is what he was looking for.

That was when he noticed something odd. He gazed at an unassuming section of the rock wall. There were dark veins that ran through the stone, it went deeper than he could see, but something at the back of his mind tingled at the sight of it. 

He stepped closer, reaching out with a hand.  

[Ebony Ore]

A rare, black, glass-like ore, considered to be one of the strongest materials found in all of Tamriel.

The strange letters appeared once more, and his heart pounded in his chest. "Ebony... here?" The words left his lips in disbelief.

The Redbelly Mine had always been an iron mine. A struggling one at that. Grogmar gro-Burzag, the older orcish miner, had mentioned more than once that the mine was rapidly drying. Before the whole spider infestation, the miners barely met their weekly quotas. There were even days where they spent the entire day mining and would come up with nothing. 

Filnjar was the only one who didn’t believe it. The man was optimistic to his very bone. The mine was drying up. Or so they thought.

Gerron felt his hands tighten into fists. With this... with this, everything could change. His work, his craft—it could surpass even the finest Skyforge steel. He could surpass Eorlund Gray-Mane and be known by all as the greatest blacksmith to walk the lands of Skyrim.

A grin split his face as he grabbed a pickaxe from a nearby tool rack. He swung, striking the vein with precision, guided by an instinct he didn’t fully understand but welcomed nonetheless. Chunks of ebony ore fell into his hands. He had the means. He had the knowledge. Now, he had the material.

But there was more mine left to clear, and Gerron had no intention of stopping now. Putting all the ore into a sack, he swung it across his shoulder and tied it there.

With his newfound strength, he pressed forward into the darkest depths of the mine, where the infestation was at its worst. The skittering of countless legs echoed in the tunnels ahead. He relished the thought.

Tonight, he would claim this mine in full, and tomorrow, all of Shor’s Stone would know what had been lying beneath their feet all along.

…

Filnjar

Filnjar woke up to a cacophony of noise. It was barely dusk, with the sun not even risen yet.

Stumbling out of his house, he gazed at the numerous people gathered outside Redbelly Mine. Spotting Sylgja, he approached.

“What in oblivion is going on?! What is with all this noise?”

The Nord girl replied, clutching a pickaxe in one hand. “Grogmar woke us up, said that he spotted Gerron walking in the mine fully armored.”

Filnjar was shocked. “What?! By the divines, that’s suicide! What is that boy thinking?!”

She shrugged. “Gerron always did see himself as more of a warrior than any of us. Saw him practice swinging swords or axes in the field whenever he finished a job for the Stormcloaks late in the night.”

“It takes more than swinging swords to be a good warrior, lass,” he grunted. “And why is everyone just standing here? Did no one think to help the lad?”

“We tried, Filnjar. But the bridge was broken when we got there. We were worried for him, but then we heard a laugh coming from inside. It was Gerron.” she said.

Filnjar asked incredulously. “He…laughed?”

She shrugged. “That’s what he heard.”

Filnjar frowned as he gazed at the dark entrance of the mine. He didn’t know what Gerron was thinking. The lad was a capable blacksmith, much more than Filnjar, but he never knew the boy was a warrior.

Filnjar knew Gerron’s parents well, he even promised to look after him when they both went and joined the war while promising to send letters by courier whenever they could.

That was back when Gerron was still only a wee lad of eleven. By the time the lad was thirteen, the letters stopped coming. It wasn’t hard to realize what happened to them. Filnjar decided to take him in as an apprentice in his smith, and that was when they learned the boy had talent for it.

Thirteen years later and Gerron had long surpassed Filnjar. Filnjar always knew that Gerron had large dreams in his head. Always said that he wanted his name to be known all across Skyrim. 

Filnjar had laughed then. He wasn’t laughing now.

Gerron had always loudly exclaimed his frustrations with the current situation with the mine. Especially considering his trade relied heavily on the iron that the miners could procure by the day. When the spiders appeared, he was forced to halt most of his personal projects due to the lack of resources.

Filnjar never knew those frustrations would lead him to do this.

He didn’t know when he started to see the boy as his own. But with him deep in the mine, led by what could only be youthful vigor and foolishness, he hoped by all the divines that he would be alright.

That was when they heard it. The soft pats of iron boots meeting the ground. They all looked up to see a sight none there would ever expect.

Gerron walked out of the mine covered in spider blood, looking like he had gone through a battlefield and walked away alive. A round steel shield was on one hand while the other was a one-handed hammer, spotless as if it had been cleaned just minutes ago. He wore an open-faced, horned iron helmet, revealing the large grin on his face that relieved Filnjar’s worries.

He dragged a wheelbarrow with him, filled with a strange black ore. The people of Shor’s Stone gazed at him in stunned silence. Filnjar was the first to step forward, his face twisted in disbelief and relief.

“You’re alive,” the blacksmith breathed.

Grogmar let out a low whistle, arms crossed. “I’ll be damned. Thought for sure you’d be spider food.”

Sylgja scoffed, arms folded. “You mean to tell me you went in there alone and came back in one piece? Either you’re the luckiest bastard in Skyrim, or you’ve been holding out on us.”

Gerron only grinned at their words. His eyes met Filnjar’s then. “Filnjar! You’ll never guess what I found in the mines!” He shouted, tossing a chunk of ore to Filnjar. The older blacksmith caught it instinctively, his eyes widening as he recognized the unmistakable black sheen.

“Ebony,” Filnjar whispered. “Incredible.”

Grogmar took a step closer, mouth slightly open. “That’s impossible. The mine was dried up. I’ve been working it for years, we barely scraped by before the spiders came. There was never any ebony here.”

Sylgja whistled, shaking her head. “Gerron, are you saying the mine is full of this?”

Gerron nodded, still grinning. “Aye. Not just a little either. The deeper I went, the more veins I found. It was hidden, layered beneath the old iron veins. I wouldn’t have even noticed it if I didn’t hit the wall accidentally with my hammer.” 

 “And the spiders?” asked Filnjar.

Gerron smirked. “Dead. Every last one of them.”

Filnjar looked at Gerron, truly looked at him. The boy he had raised was no longer a boy. He had become a man—both a warrior and a smith. And though the sight of him bloodied and grinning like a madman sent a shiver of worry down his spine, he could not deny the pride that swelled within him.

“Well, lad,” Filnjar sighed, shaking his head with a small smile. “I suppose we have some work to do.”

…

AN: There goes the second chapter! I’m having a lot of fun writing this fic. 

The Artificer System grants a bunch of different abilities. The ones already included are a special vision to detect any raw materials in his vicinity, knowledge of a bunch of different artifacts, another special vision to detect impurities and imperfections in his creations, as well as perfecting his actions whenever he does artificer things (smithing, mining, etc.)

There are a bunch of other things he was given, but those will be revealed later.

Hope you guys enjoyed the chapter! Cheers!

Chapter Text

4E 201, Shor’s Stone

Gerron Ironbreaker

Two days had passed since the discovery of ebony in Redbelly. Filnjar had wasted no time organizing the miners into daily shifts, directing them to dig deeper into the mine according to Gerron’s findings.

The first thing they discovered was that mining ebony was no easy task. Standard iron pickaxes barely scratched the dense, glassy surface of the ore. It took hours for the miners to pull free even a single nugget, and more than one pickaxe head had already shattered under the strain.

The only reason Gerron had managed to gather so much in the first place was because of the system. His strikes had been guided by instinctive precision, the system correcting his form and maximizing the force behind every blow. Without that edge, the others were struggling.

Gerron couldn’t exactly tell them why he had been so successful. Instead, he set to work crafting better tools. He melted down the remaining iron stock and reforged it into sturdier, sharper pickaxes, tempering the metal with a blend of crushed moonstone dust and corundum shavings. The improvement was immediate.

“This is more like it!” Grogmar had roared after trying one out. The orc swung the new pickaxe into the ebony wall, and this time, the tool actually bit into the ore, leaving a deep gouge. “Now this is a pickaxe!”

Filnjar had been pleased too, offering Gerron a permanent share of the mine’s profits in exchange for his contribution. Four percent of every batch of ebony sold wasn’t much on paper—but with the demand for ebony being as high as it was, Gerron knew it would build up fast. It was more than enough to fund his future projects.

And those projects were already forming in his mind.

After outfitting the miners, Gerron had gone straight back to his forge. He kept half of the first haul of ebony for himself, enough to craft something… ambitious. His mind had been restless ever since the blueprints appeared in his head, whispering to him like an itch beneath the skin. The design was complex, layered with mechanisms and magical components—far more advanced than anything he had ever attempted before.

But he couldn’t get the idea out of his mind.

The Mercury Hammer.

A warhammer crafted from pure ebony, balanced with an internal Dwemer gyroscope that would allow him to shift the weapon’s center of gravity on command. The head would be infused with shock enchantments, delivering bone-shattering blows that could crack through even orcish plate. But the true genius lay in its secondary form—a heavy crossbow integrated into the hammer’s shaft. Powered by a charged soul gem, it could launch bolts of concentrated magicka, piercing flesh and armor alike.

The potential was staggering. But so was the challenge.

Gerron set down his hammer and ran a hand through his sweat-dampened hair. His forge was already cluttered with half-finished schematics, tools, and raw ebony bars. The hammer’s basic frame was taking shape, but the crossbow mechanism was where he had hit a wall.

He needed soul gems.

And soul gems weren’t easy to come by in a village like Shor’s Stone. The black market in Riften might have a few, but they’d be overpriced and likely already partially used. No, Gerron needed fresh ones. Fully charged, if possible.

That meant one thing.

Dwemer ruins.

The Dwemer had disappeared from Nirn centuries ago, but their cities and machines remained—silent tombs of brass and stone hidden beneath Skyrim’s mountains. They were dangerous places, infested with the remnants of Dwemer automatons: metallic spiders and centurions that still patrolled their fallen halls.

But they were also treasure troves of forgotten knowledge and rare materials. Soul gems, in particular, were said to be abundant in Dwemer ruins—used to power their machines and keep their ancient systems running long after their creators had vanished.

Gerron had heard the stories growing up. Warriors venturing into Dwemer ruins in search of riches and glory, only to be cut down by the Dwarven constructs. Few returned. The ones who did spoke of labyrinthine halls, grinding gears, and the cold, emotionless gaze of metal guardians.

But Gerron wasn’t afraid. He wasn’t just a blacksmith anymore. He was an artificer.

To him, those ruins were treasure troves of tools and materials.

Lucky for him, he knew of such a place just nearby.

Gerron walked to the edge of the village, shielding his eyes as he looked northwest. High up in the Velothi Mountains, he could just make out the jagged silhouette of stone towers jutting from the cliffs. Clouds drifted lazily over the peaks, partially obscuring the ruin’s entrance. 

Kagrenzel.

He’d never been there himself, but he knew the name. An old Dwemer city, once said to be the center of all Dwarven architecture. The Jarl of Riften had attempted to reclaim it once, but they were driven back by the automaton defenses. Since then, it had remained undisturbed.

Exactly the kind of place Gerron needed.

A part of him itched to set off immediately, but there were still things to do.

First, he needed to finish the weekly weapons order for the Stormcloaks — fifteen sets of iron mail and two dozen steel axes. The pay was good, and completing the order would keep Gerron’s forge running for another month. If he left for the ruin now, the Stormcloaks might take their business elsewhere—and the town couldn’t afford that. Not when they need funds to kickstart their ebony business.

Second, he needed to gather supplies. Soul gems were his main target, but Dwemer ruins were filled with other valuable materials too. Aetherium shards, refined dwarven metal, and—if he was lucky—functioning Dwemer components. All of it could be useful for future projects.

Third… he needed to prepare for a fight. Dwemer constructs were tough. The Mercury Hammer would help, but Gerron knew better than to rely on a single weapon. He’d need potions, better armor, and maybe even someone to watch his back in case things went south.

He smiled grimly.

One step at a time.

Gerron turned back toward his forge, where the unfinished Mercury Hammer gleamed beneath the firelight. His hands itched to finish it—to see it completed and wielded in battle. But there was no point in rushing. A weapon like this deserved patience and care.

Besides, it wouldn’t be long before he had everything he needed.

Kagrenzel was waiting.

…

Filnjar

Filnjar didn’t know what happened, but it seemed as if Gerron had turned into a master blacksmith overnight.

He had spent the entire morning working on a personal project, only starting on the Stormcloak’s order in the afternoon. And yet, by nightfall, the axes were done — not just finished, but perfect . Balanced, sharp, and polished to a professional gleam. The kind of work that took years to master, yet Gerron had done it in mere hours.

Filnjar watched as Gerron dunked the last axe into the water trough, steam hissing into the cool night air. Gerron wiped the sweat from his brow and set the axe on the rack beside the others.

"That’s the last of them," Gerron said aloud.

Filnjar stepped into the forge, unable to keep the awe away in his voice at the sight of the finished weapons, awe that was swept away at the worry he felt for his surrogate son. "You’ve been working like a madman, Gerron. I’d say you’ve earned yourself a day of rest."

Gerron smiled. "Rest can wait."

Filnjar frowned. "You’re not planning anything foolish, are you?"

Gerron’s grin widened. "Of course not."

Filnjar sighed. "That’s exactly what someone planning something foolish would say."

"I need some supplies," Gerron said. "Rations, a few potions if you have them. Maybe a map of the Velothi range."

Filnjar’s gaze sharpened. "The Velothi range? What business do you have up there?"

"Kagrenzel."

The older blacksmith’s expression darkened. "That’s no place for a young man to go alone. Even seasoned warriors don’t return from there."

"I’m not just anyone," Gerron said. He flexed his hand, and for a moment, Filnjar thought his muscles looked more defined than yesterday. Gerron’s presence seemed… heavier. Stronger. More certain. "And I’m not going alone."

Filnjar narrowed his eyes. "Who’s going with you?"

"Grogmar owes me a favor. He might be up there in years, but he could swing an axe with the best of them. He can watch my back."

Filnjar sighed. "Of course he does. And I suppose there’s nothing I can say to stop you?"

"Not a thing."

"Then at least take this." Filnjar pulled the polished silver ring he had on his finger. "It’s enchanted — minor healing. Should fix up any minor cuts or bruises you get. It’s not much, but it might keep you alive."

"Thanks, Filnjar." Gerron took the ring and slid it onto his finger. Filnjar saw how Gerron studied the yellowish red enchantment around it, a telltale sign of restoration magic. “I plan to leave tomorrow. Can you handle giving all these to the Stormcloaks once they get here?”

“Aye, I’ll handle that.” Filnjar watched him with a resigned expression. "Just… don’t get yourself killed, lad."

“Hey, you know me. I’m always careful.” He smiled as he waved over his shoulder and stepped out into the evening air, probably heading off to find Grogmar.

Filnjar sighed, shaking his head. Worrying about Gerron was useless, the lad had proven himself a capable warrior and a better blacksmith. There was nothing else he could do but support him with all he had.

After all, Filnjar was young once too. He remembered when he had dreams and aspirations as big as Gerron’s. The only difference was that back then, Filnjar was too much of a coward to work for them.

He had been content to inherit his father’s forge, to keep his head down and live a quiet, uneventful life. The mines in Shor’s Stone were enough for him. He never dared to chase more.

But Gerron?

Gerron was different. He was meant for more.

Filnjar had seen it the first day Gerron wandered into his forge as a boy, barely tall enough to see over the workbench. There was a hunger in his eyes even then — a desire to create, to master the forge, to make something greater than himself.

He had watched Gerron grow — had taught him everything he knew about smithing. And yet, somehow, Gerron had already surpassed him by far. The lad’s technique was flawless now. Too flawless. No mortal hand learned that fast. No apprentice could craft weapons with such precision, not without years of experience.

Something had changed.

That day Gerron had returned from Redbelly Mine with ebony ore… Filnjar remembered the way he had carried himself, how his eyes had seemed sharper, how his strikes with the hammer had become unnervingly efficient. Gerron had always been talented, but this was different.

"Magic," Filnjar murmured.

It had to be.

No Nord would admit to using magic so openly, but Gerron… Gerron had always been more open-minded than most.

Filnjar let out another sigh as he rubbed his face. "Damn stubborn boy."

Filnjar’s gaze fell to the silver ring on his finger — or rather, the absence of it. It had been a gift from his father, passed down from three generations of smiths before him. It felt right to now give it away to someone who deserved it.

…

AN: The Mercury Hammer is Jayce Talis’ weapon from the Arcane Series. It’s a Warhammer / Heavy Crossbow hybrid, with the ability to fire blasts of pure magicka. I’ll obviously be making a few liberties with it, but the hammer is gonna be Gerron’s main weapon for the foreseeable future.

I’ll be taking inspiration for weapons, armors, and artifacts from a bunch of different universes. They’ll all be tailored to the world of Elder Scrolls and I’ll be making an auxiliary chapter to explain all the tools he has whenever makes them.

Hope you guys enjoyed the chapter! Cheers!

Chapter Text

4E 201, North of the Rift

Gerron Ironbreaker

The morning air was crisp, biting at his face as Gerron adjusted the strap of his breastplate. His breath fogged in the chill as he secured the last of his gear. He stood outside his forge, having just finished the last bit of preparation needed for the journey. The dawn was just breaking over the jagged peaks of the Velothi Mountains, casting pale orange light over Shor’s Stone.

Gerron’s armor gleamed in the sunlight — a new ebony breastplate and matching pauldrons, polished to a dark sheen. Beneath it was chainmail that went over the tunic he wore underneath. 

His bracers and greaves were forged from quality steel, lightweight yet sturdy. He had considered donning a full set of ebony, but he’d run short of the rare ore. Filnjar had promised that a fresh batch would be ready by the time he returned.

The unfinished Mercury Hammer sat against his back. At the moment, it was just a simple ebony warhammer — heavy and perfectly balanced — but Gerron had plans for it. If Kagrenzel yielded the resources he hoped for, it would become something greater.

He tightened the strap across his chest and glanced at his companion.

Grogmar stood nearby, adjusting the steel war axe at his hip. He was a tower of muscle beneath a newly forged full set of steel armor. A thick round shield was strapped to his back. His tusked mouth twisted into a lazy grin beneath his heavy brow.

“You ready?” Gerron asked.

Grogmar snorted. “Been ready.” He rolled his shoulders. “Honestly figured Filnjar would come by and try to talk you out of going by now.”

“He already did,” Gerron said. “The only reason he didn’t make a fuss was because I told him that you’d be coming with since you owe me.”

“That I do.” Grogmar chuckled. “Guess I’ll have to make sure you don’t get yourself killed.”

They set out from Shor’s Stone, following the northern road that twisted through the pine forest. The road was a well travelled one, mainly due to it being the main route of land trade between Riften and Windhelm.

Gerron’s plan was to stick by the road until they met with Shor’s Watchtower. Once there, they could head west and go off-road to cut a straight path towards Kagrenzel, hiking up towards the mountain.

“I still don’t know why you’re so damn eager to go digging around in a Dwemer ruin,” Grogmar said after a while.

“I have my reasons.”

“Can’t be about all the damn ebony we found, could it?”

“Partially.” Gerron stated. “Let’s just say I got a project in mind that needs something from there.”

Grogmar gave him a sideways glance but didn’t press.

They made good time, the path gradually sloping upward as the forest thinned and the peaks of the Velothi Mountains came into view. They were massive, being the border between Skyrim and Morrowind.

By midday, they reached the old watchtower.

It stood on a rise overlooking the path — a squat, weathered stone structure with a crumbling wall at its base. Gerron spotted the bodies immediately.

Stormcloaks soldiers lay sprawled in the dirt, blood staining the earth beneath them. Some had been dragged toward the base of the tower, leaving dark trails in the dirt. Their weapons were missing, their armor torn.

Grogmar grimaced. “That’s… a lot of bodies.”

Gerron crouched by one of the fallen men, brushing aside the long blond hair that had fallen across the man’s face. He was young — barely twenty — with a deep slash across his throat. Gerron’s jaw tightened as he scanned the other bodies.

“What a damn shame,” Grogmar said. He stepped over a corpse and sniffed the air. “Think it was the Imperials?”

“It has to be.” Gerron stood and surveyed the scene. “All the weapons are gone, along with missives and messages. Bandits don’t care about military intelligence.”

“Unless they were paid to.”

Gerron frowned. “Could be. But who—”

A crow cawed from the top of the tower. Gerron’s gaze sharpened.

“We need to keep moving,” he said. “The smell will attract wolves — or worse.”

“Agreed.”

They left the watchtower behind, heading to the dirt path, ascending into the mountains. The road quickly vanished beneath the snow as the terrain turned rocky and uneven. Gerron’s boots crunched through calf-high snow, the cold biting at his legs beneath the shins. His breath came faster as the altitude climbed.

Grogmar trudged ahead, his broad back cutting a path through the snow. 

“Are you sure about this?” Grogmar grunted. “Dwemer ruins are cursed, you know. Some say Kagrenzel’s haunted.”

“I’m not superstitious,” Gerron said.

“No, but you’re stubborn.” Grogmar smirked over his shoulder. “Might as well be the same thing.”

The path narrowed as they climbed higher. Jagged cliffs rose on either side, and the snow was getting thicker the higher they go. Gerron’s hand drifted toward the hilt of his hammer more than once as he spotted movement in the rocks — the flash of pale fur, a pair of glowing eyes — but nothing attacked.

‘Frost trolls, perhaps?’ Gerron mused. ‘At least they’re not aggressive.’

They crested a ridge and saw it at last.

Kagrenzel’s ruin was half-buried beneath the snow, a massive stone structure carved into the side of the mountain. A wide set of stone stairs led upward toward a broken gate, its metal frame twisted and broken. A mound of snow had gathered at the base, partially concealing the entrance.

Cold wind whistled through the jagged stones. Ancient Dwemer architecture was impressive. The lines, metallic inlays, and geometric patterns didn’t show a single sign of rust, but merely broken in some places from the natural weathers that battered them day in and out.

Whatever steels and metals that the Dwemer had used to build, they were life changing.

“Doesn’t look so bad,” Grogmar said.

“Let’s hope it stays that way.”

Gerron adjusted his grip on his hammer. He stepped toward the entrance with slow and measured steps. Despite knowing that Dwarven architecture was solid, it was hard to not instinctively think that the whole thing would crash over their heads. 

Gerron approached the gate as Grogmar drew his axe and shield.

They exchanged a glance.

“Ready?” Gerron asked.

“Always.”

They stepped through the gate.

…

Filnjar

"Bone-Breaker Ralof. It’s good to see you again."

Filnjar raised a calloused hand, and Ralof clasped it in a firm shake, the grip strong and familiar. The Stormcloak officer gave a weary smile, but the lines of exhaustion on his face were hard to miss.

“Filnjar,” Ralof greeted, his voice rough with fatigue. “It’s been too long.”

The blacksmith’s sharp eyes scanned the group of Stormcloak soldiers behind him. Their uniforms were scuffed and stained with dirt, some bearing fresh scratches on their armor and clothing. Several of them looked like they had been in a fight recently, their movements sluggish with exhaustion.

“Did something happen?” Filnjar asked, crossing his arms. “You look like you’ve been through a warzone.”

Ralof’s frown deepened. He exhaled through his nose before answering. “Aye. We got ambushed on the road. Imperials managed to slip past our lines.”

Filnjar’s brow furrowed. “That ain’t good news.”

“No, it isn’t.” Ralof shook his head, the shadows under his eyes more pronounced. “After the whole debacle in Helgen, Jarl Ulfric’s pushing things forward. We’ve learned the Imperials set up hidden camps all over Stormcloak territory. Can’t let that stand.”

Filnjar rubbed his chin. “Aye, I heard Helgen was wiped out. There’s news that’s even talking about dragons now. Madness.”

Ralof shook his head. “It ain’t madness, the dragon brought that fort to the ground. I saw it with my own eyes. Barely got out of there alive. So did another prisoner—a friend of mine. You’ll be hearing about her soon enough, I wager.”

Filnjar grunted. “Sounds like the start of something messy.”

Ralof gave a tired chuckle. “That’s war.” His expression turned more serious. “For now, I need to bring a fresh supply of weapons to Stormblade Galmar. He’s leading an operation to secure an artifact—something that might give Jarl Ulfric more legitimacy in his claim for the throne.”

“An artifact?” Filnjar raised an eyebrow. “What kind of artifact?”

Ralof smirked. “That, my friend, is not for me to say.”

Filnjar snorted. “Fair enough.” He turned and gestured toward the forge. “You’re in luck. My blacksmith finished the order a few days ago.”

He disappeared inside, the familiar scent of burning coal and hot iron thick in the air. Filnjar made his way to the back, where neatly stacked rows of iron mail and freshly forged steel axes rested against the wall. He hefted one of the axes, feeling the weight of the finely crafted weapon, before carrying it outside.

Ralof took the axe and examined it, flipping it over in his hand. He then grabbed a piece of iron mail, giving the links a firm shake, testing their strength.

Filnjar smirked. An untrained eye would never be able to tell the difference between these and the usual stock . Filnjar knew the quality of the work would speak for itself once the weapons were tested in battle.

“They look good,” Ralof finally said with a nod of approval. “Where’s Gerron, by the way? I usually deal with him for business like this.”

“He’s out on some personal business,” Filnjar replied smoothly. “Asked me to handle things while he’s away. I agreed.”

Ralof raised an eyebrow but didn’t press the issue. “Very well.” He turned and gestured to his men.

A few Stormcloak soldiers moved in immediately, hoisting the weapons and armor into crates before loading them onto the waiting wagon. The sounds of metal clanking against wood filled the air as they worked quickly, eager to be back on the road.

Ralof reached into his coin pouch and pulled out a heavy leather sack. “As promised, seven thousand septims for everything.” He handed the bag over to Filnjar, who felt its weight before tucking it away.

“Much appreciated,” Ralof continued. “Pass my thanks to Gerron when he returns.”

“Aye, I will,” Filnjar replied. 

As the wagon was secured and the Stormcloaks prepared to leave, Filnjar watched them with a quiet sigh. The war was escalating faster than anyone had expected, and now dragons are starting to be out and about. 

‘What is the world coming into?’

…

AN: The Stormcloaks are technically not an official military, but a rebellion force. So their hierarchy doesn't adhere to regular military ranks. So I opted to give them titles that the Dragonborn receives in the game.

Unblooded → Basic recruit, untrained. Regular farmers and civilians.

Ice-Veins → Experienced or trained soldiers, mostly veterans that served in the Great War. They make up most of the Stormcloak armies. Ex. Thorald Gray-Mane.

Bone-Breaker → Squad leaders, equal to a Sergeant in most militaries. Leads squads anywhere between twenty to a hundred Stormcloaks. Ex. Ralof

Snow-Hammer → Heavily armored warriors who are considered to be the best warriors in the Stormcloaks. They’re usually the ones who lead the charge during battles, pushing through shield walls and even entire Legions to make way for the main force.

Stormblade → The generals and leaders. Equivalent to the Legates of the legion. Leads battalions of Stormcloaks anywhere from two hundred to thousands. Ex. Galmar Stone-Fist.

Next chapter should be Kagrenzel itself, and then we’ll see the Mercury Hammer in action.

If you’re interested in advanced chapters, they’re available on my Pat_reon. Chapter 26 should be available by the time this chapter was posted. Just look up my name and you'll find me.

Hope you guys enjoyed the chapter! Cheers!

Chapter Text

4E 201, Kagrenzel

Gerron Ironbreaker

Gerron and Grogmar stepped through the jagged stone entrance of Kagrenzel. The moment they passed the threshold, the air around them seemed to shift. 

He had expected it to be cold, especially considering the cold winds from the higher peaks would continue to batter the walls. But instead, it was quite warm inside, with a bit of an eerie silence that set his instincts on edge.

The chamber ahead was dark, save for a single floating orb perched on a pedestal at its center. It pulsed with an otherworldly glow, illuminating the intricate carvings along the walls with each slow pulse of light. It was almost hypnotic, the way it flickered and shone. The closer they enter, the brighter the glow. 

"What in oblivion is that thing?" Grogmar grumbled, shifting uncomfortably as he eyed the glowing sphere.

Gerron followed his gaze, his eyes sharpening as he studied the construct.

[Activation Orb]

A magical equivalent of a motion detector, the activation orb is used to trigger certain effects based motion. Usually used for traps or motion-detected light

His gaze flickered downward, noticing the mechanical gears embedded in the floor beneath them. A thin, almost imperceptible line split the stone into two halves. The trap was obvious if one knew what to look for, but instead of warning Grogmar, a mischievous smirk spread across his lips.

"Come on, Grogmar. Let's get closer."

The orc grunted. "Eh? Sure, whatever."

The moment they stepped into the center of the chamber, the orb above them began to hum, its glow intensifying until it revolved at a rapid pace. A shrill beeping noise filled the air.

“Uh, Gerron? What is–”

Gerron interrupted him by putting a hand on Grogmar’s shoulder. “You ready for an adventure?”

“What?”

Before Grogmar could react, Gerron would put one foot forward. The floor beneath them shifted and gave way. The two warriors plummeted into the darkness below.

"FUUUUUUUCK!" Grogmar bellowed as they fell.

Gerron, on the other hand, let out a deep, guttural laugh. The wind rushed past him, his stomach flipping as he caught sight of the water far below. The fall wasn't endless—it ended in an underground lake, the surface of which shattered as they crashed into it.

Water filled his ears, his heavy armor dragging him down momentarily before he kicked hard and surfaced. Grogmar flailed nearby, his plate armor weighing him down. Coughing, Gerron swam toward him, grabbing him by the armpits and hauling him to the shallows.

Grogmar spat out water. "By Malacath’s sweaty balls, warn me next time!"

Gerron grinned. "Where's the fun in that?"

They waded out of the lake, shaking off the cold. The tunnel ahead sloped upward, the stone walls lined with brass pipes that occasionally hissed, releasing bursts of steam. Gerron couldn't help but be fascinated—the Dwemer truly were ahead of their time.

The first sound of movement made them freeze.

The rhythmic clinking of metal against stone echoed down the passageway, followed by the high-pitched sound of welding. Gerron peeked around the corner and spotted a cluster of Dwarven Spiders performing maintenance on the pipes.

He and Grogmar exchanged a glance. A quick nod was shared between the two.

The moment they stepped forward, the spiders twitched, their glowing eyes locking onto the intruders before they skittered toward them with a high-pitched whirring.

Gerron swung his warhammer in a wide arc, crushing one of the mechanical constructs instantly. Sparks flew as Grogmar's axe cleaved through another. 

A spider jumped to Gerron from behind, only for him to duck low. The moment the spider went past, he whirled around and smashed it apart with a downward slam of his hammer.

Within moments, the last spider collapsed in a heap of broken metal and leaking oil.

Kneeling, Gerron examined the remains. Each one was powered by a small, dimly glowing soul gem.

"Just as I thought," he murmured. "They use soul gems as a power source."

Further exploration led them into what seemed to be a storage room. Dwarven metal was stacked in organized piles— cogs, gyros, levers, and cores of all kinds. Plenty of soul gems were gathered in a neat pile amongst the shelves. The moment Gerron laid eyes on the materials, his Artificer System flared to life.

[New Schematics Available]

Blueprints unlocked using: Dwarven Metal, Gyros, Dwarven Cores...

His hands twitched with excitement. Though there were also plenty of chemical components and agents, they had all long since expired and gone useless.

But it was at the far end of the room that he saw it.

[Centurion Dynamo Core]

A powerful core ordinarily used by the Dwemer to power their Dwarven Centurions. It contains immense stored energy and could serve as a potent power source for a crafted artifact.

The core pulsed with a deep crimson glow, the energy within almost palpable. The central sphere rotated continuously, as if waiting to be put to use.

Gerron grinned. “Jackpot.”

…

Further down, they encountered more defenses, Dwarven Spheres and wall-mounted crossbows that fired bolts at rapid speed. Gerron ignored them and charged ahead, the bolts and arrows from the spheres pinging on his ebony breastplate as he swung his hammer with devastating force. They collapsed under their assault, and soon they pressed on.

The sounds of battle ahead made them pause.

Peering into the next chamber, they saw a skirmish underway. More of the dwarven constructs were fighting against a group of strange creatures. They were pale, hunched, and grotesque looking — wielding crude, chitinous weapons, their armor fashioned from the hardened shells of some subterranean creature.

The moment Gerron saw the armor, more of the words appeared in front of him.

[Falmer armor]

Modern falmer armor made from the chitin of the Chaurus, resistant to piercing and slashing.

“What in Oblivion are they?” Grogmar asked.

"Falmer," Gerron murmured. "Or what’s left of them."

“Ugly looking buggers.” Grogmar commented.

“I’ve read about them.” Gerron continued. “An ancient race of Mer that existed in Skyrim since the Merethic Era. Last I remembered, they were slaves of the Dwemer.”

From what they can tell, the dwarven creations were protecting a set of double doors from the Falmer, who desperately wanted to go inside. The battle was relatively even, until one of the falmer lifted a palm, firing a continuous stream of frost at a dwarven spider. 

The spider’s joints would freeze up, giving the rest of the falmer an opportunity to surround it and take it down.

“The buggers can use magic? That’s annoying.”

He and Grogmar charged in, taking advantage of the chaos. However, the falmer all twitched and turned, facing them immediately.

‘They must have some kind of enhanced hearing.’ Gerron mused.

Grogmar rushed the scattering of falmer who were busy fighting the dwarven spiders. His axe met an unprotected neck of one of the falmers as blood burst out of the vein. The rest immediately swung their swords that Grogmar held back with his shield.

Gerron swung his hammer down, crushing a falmer beneath it. He continued with another swing to the side, breaking the knee of another falmer before breaking its neck with a follow up swing using the handle.

A sudden jerk found himself grabbed by a Falmer, its clawed fingers pulling his horned helmet before a blast of frost magic engulfed his face.

Pain flared across his skin. “Damn you!” He roared, fury overriding agony as he slammed his head forward, breaking the Falmer’s nose as its head jerked back.

He then swung his hammer down, caving in the Falmer's skull.

The skirmish lasted for minutes. When the battle ended, the ground was littered with the bodies of the falmer and the broken dwemer constructs. 

“You alright?” Gerron asked, seeing Grogmar bandage his right arm.

“I’ll live. Bastard managed to cut me with his sword.” Grogmar scoffed. “Whatever is behind this door better be worth it.”

‘True enough.’ Gerron thought as they entered through the doors.

Gerron immediately knew that the room was some kind of workshop. It was filled with contraptions of all kinds, tools and machinery that the Dwemer would use to create whatever it is they needed to do.

‘This must be their working room.’ He said, eyeing the strange contraptions and materials that dot the room. Gerron's eyes gleamed. ‘Oh yes, this will work.’

Spotting what looks to be a workbench, Gerron gathered all the collected components and began to modify his hammer. 

Dwarven cores and gyros were attached as he connected it to the central soul gem, which he used to enchant the hammer with a lightning enchantment using a nearby enchanting table.

Once that was done, he grabbed a pair of tongs and placed the Centurion Dynamo Core within. The weapon thrummed with power, blue lines running through the black ebony as the brass dwarven metals shifted, signaling the magicka coursing through it.

Grogmar whistled. "Damn."

Gerron grinned. "This, my friend, is what I was working on."

…

Gerron and Grogmar ascended the grand stairway, heading back towards the entrance of Kagrenzel. 

By the time they reached the top, the cold immediately intensified as the open gates that they didn’t bother closing last time let in the cold winds from the mountain.

They were back where they came from, and Grogmar grumbled as they eyed the glowing orb once more. Only this time, they made sure to circle the activation orb instead of walking to the center.

Just as they exited through the gates, a deep, guttural growl cut through the air.

Six massive shapes loomed ahead. Hulking, white-furred figures stepped from behind jagged rocks and icy ridges, their beady eyes locked onto them both.

"Frost trolls." Grogmar gritted his teeth, shifting into a defensive stance as he gripped his axe and raised his shield. "Damned things must've followed us on our climb and waited here."

Gerron cracked his neck and let out a low chuckle, shifting the weight of the Mercury Hammer across his shoulder. "Perfect," he said, rolling his shoulders in anticipation. "They're exactly what I needed to test this thing."

Grogmar snorted. "You're a crazy bastard, Ironbreaker."

"Just watch and learn, Grogmar."

The trolls let out a series of deep, grating roars before charging. Their massive arms strong enough to shatter bone in one strike. Gerron wasted no time.

He lunged forward, gripping the Mercury Hammer’s haft with both hands. As he swung, the thrusters on the back of the hammer erupted with a burst of flame, propelling the strike forward with explosive force. The lead troll barely had time to react before the hammer’s head connected with its chest.

CRACK!

The force sent the troll flying backward meters into the air, its ribcage collapsing inward as arcs of lightning erupted from the point of impact, searing through its thick hide. The beast let out a pained screech before crumpling into the snow, dead before it even hit the ground.

The remaining trolls hesitated for a moment, their primal minds processing what had just happened. Then, with enraged bellows, they lunged at him from all sides.

Gerron twisted the handle of the Mercury Hammer, engaging its transformation. The mechanism whirred, gears shifting and locking into place. The hammer’s bulk split apart, unfolding into a massive crossbow-like weapon, its frame lined with golden-brass Dwemer components. The dynamo core in its center pulsed, feeding raw magicka into the weapon’s systems.

He braced himself, gripping the newly formed crossbow like a siege weapon. With a click of the trigger, a brilliant bolt of condensed magicka surged forward, striking the nearest troll in the chest. The explosion of energy sent it hurtling backward, crashing into a boulder with a sickening crunch.

Two more trolls rushed in, flanking him. Gerron shot another blast that sent one flying back. 

He then shifted his stance, twisting the hammer back into melee mode in a single fluid motion. As the other troll swung its massive claws, he ducked under the blow and slammed the hammer into its knee. The thrusters ignited again, amplifying the impact and shattering the beast’s leg in an explosion of bone and lightning. It collapsed, howling in agony. Another swing to its head had brain matter exploding outwards.

The final troll roared, barreling toward him. Gerron reacted in an instant—switching back to crossbow mode, he fired another blast of magicka straight into its face. The troll's skull practically disintegrated from the force, its lifeless body slumping into the snow.

Grogmar let out a slow whistle, surveying the carnage. "Damn."

Gerron exhaled, resting the Mercury Hammer against the ground, its thrusters cooling down with a faint hiss of steam. He stared at the weapon, marveling at its power. He knew theoretically what it was capable of, but seeing it with his own eyes was another thing entirely.

He remembered the words that accompanied the flash of the blue star. This was a blessing from the divines, a gift of sorts. He was damn sure going to use it.

With one last glance at the fallen trolls, he turned to Grogmar and grinned.

"Come on, we’ve got a long walk back."

The two warriors left Kagrenzel behind, their figures vanishing into the blizzard.

…

AN: The Mercury Hammer has two forms, warhammer and crossbow form. The warhammer is capable of sending powerful attacks due to the thrusters on its back as well as sparks of lightning that can be emitted through impact.

The crossbow form can send blasts of magicka, with the only limitation being its relatively small range.

This is only the first of many creations he’ll make in the future. Hope you guys enjoyed the chapter, guys! Cheers!

Chapter Text

4E 201, Shor’s Stone

Gerron Ironbreaker

“You’re back, lad,” Filnjar called out as Gerron and Grogmar walked past the rough wooden fence that marked the boundary of Shor’s Stone.

“Aye. I got what I needed in Kagrenzel.” Gerron said, patting the massive hammer strapped across his back as well as the sack over his shoulder that was filled with numerous soul gems and Dwemer components.

Grogmar let out a tired grunt. “Don’t know why you dragged me along. You barely needed help. I’m done with my favor. I’m good in a fight, sure, but I’d rather go back to my peaceful life of mining and sleeping. I’m keeping the armor though.”

Gerron chuckled. “Yeah yeah. Thanks, old man. Enjoy retirement… again.”

Grogmar snorted and trudged toward his home, muttering something about “damn young folk with their magic hammers.”

“Come on,” Filnjar said, motioning for Gerron to follow. “Walk with me to the forge. Got some things to discuss.”

As they walked, Filnjar gave him the rundown. “We already got the weapons to the Stormcloaks. Ralof came by to pick them up, looked like he'd been dragged through half of Eastmarch. Said they’re preparing for some major operation near the border. Here’s the pay.”

Filnjar tossed a pouch of coins to Gerron, who nodded.

“Also,” Filnjar continued, “I managed to get us a trade deal with Balimund down in Riften. He’s willing to pay good coin for our ebony. Not enough to start swimming in gold, but it’s a start.”

“Balimund’s a good smith,” Gerron mused. “But if we’re serious about building something here, we’ll need more. A lot more. What about the other major cities? Whiterun? Windhelm? They’re close enough to Shor’s Stone.”

Filnjar rubbed his beard. “That’s tricky. Words starting to spread about dragons, lad. Real dragons. Makes folk jumpy. Not to mention that with the war escalating, less and less caravans are coming through the passes anymore. If we want to make deals with those cities, someone’s going to have to go there themselves.”

“I’ll do it,” Gerron offered without hesitation.

Filnjar looked surprised. “You sure, lad? That’s a long road with a lot of trouble in between.”

“Aye,” Gerron said with a confident grin. “Won’t be the first time I’ve traveled that far.”

“Fair enough.” Filnjar nodded. “How are you going to bring all the ebony there by yourself?”

Gerron was about to answer when glowing letters suddenly shimmered into view in front of him.

[Storage]

Any self respecting artificer needs their own storage space to carry all their tools and materials.

A grid appeared—eight squares wide and eight tall—hovering like a translucent blueprint. Gerron instinctively knew he could store any inanimate item inside without feeling the weight.

A grin appeared on his face. “I got that covered.”

…

Later that night, Gerron sat in his small stone-walled room, going through the numerous recipes he now has access to. There were plenty—weapon enhancements, mechanical constructs, alchemical infusions. There was even one that mentioned something called a Homunculus Servant, a tiny construct that acts similarly to a wizard’s familiar.

However, there was one thing that currently dominated his mind. 

Right now, the only people who know that Shor’s Stone has access to a whole mine of ebony is Riften. If he expanded trade to Windhelm and Whiterun, it wouldn’t take long for all of Skyrim to find out as well.

Bandits, mercenaries, rogue mages—once the word spread, Shor’s Stone would become a target. And right now, it couldn’t protect itself.

Shor’s Stone was a village that bordered on being a small town. Five hundred people lived here— Miners, smiths, and farmers who had never held a sword in their lives.

They always relied on the Jarl’s men as well as the Stormcloaks for protection. However, judging by the dead stormcloaks on Shor’s Watchtower that he and Grogmar found days ago, they can’t rely on them any longer.

Which means he needed to figure out a way for Shor’s Stone to protect themselves. They would need their own militia at the very least, as well as proper walls to protect them. It was during this thought when a new entry shimmered into view.

[The Architect]

A deep study into Dwemer architecture has allowed you to mimic—and even enhance—their design. Mighty walls and grand fortresses are merely the beginning.

Gerron’s eyes widened. Without a second thought, he rushed into the night. Not even bothering to wear his coat.

He climbed the northern ridge, up a jagged slope of broken stone and wild pines, until he stood atop a cliff overlooking the village. Shor’s Stone lay below—modest wooden homes, dirt roads, and torchlight flickering in the darkness.

Then, like a vision conjured from his mind, something changed.

The Architect perk activated, and before his eyes, an image unfurled—an ethereal blueprint overlaid upon the village.

Walls—fifty feet tall and layered with reinforced dwarven alloy—encircled the town. Towering bastions at each corner bristled with mounted ballistae and rotating magicka turrets. Wide gates powered by Dwemer hydraulics opened with a hiss and thrum.

Gone were the fragile wooden huts. In their place stood elegant, fortified structures crafted from steelwood and stoneglass. Wind turbines turned slowly overhead, collecting the mountain breeze to power the village’s forges.

And moving amidst it all were hulking constructs—carrowhulks, massive mammoth-sized automatons that walked on four legs like metallic beasts of burden. They carried goods and even passengers all across the city, silent and majestic in their creation.

Gerron stood still, the chill mountain air forgotten. His heart pounded with anticipation.

A wide grin broke across his face.

…

Outskirts of Korvanjund

Galmar Stone-fist

Galmar stood atop a ridge blanketed with snow, eyes narrowed beneath his steel helm. A rugged bear cloak covered his form, not that he needed it. It’ll take winds much colder than this to bother a trueborn nord like him.

Sixty Stormcloaks fanned out below him, their formation as tight as discipline allowed. Light infantry formed the bulk, each soldier draped in pelts and iron, with axes and war picks strapped at their sides. Interspersed were archers in furs, their bows unstrung but at the ready.

It wasn’t a large force by any stretch—but that was the point. Any larger, and Imperial scouts would’ve sniffed them out like bloodhounds. Ulfric had been firm on that.

And Galmar couldn’t afford to weaken the front lines for a gamble, even one as promising as this.  With Ulfric’s armies holding in multiple regions, resources and manpower were stretched thin. And yet, the mission was too vital to ignore.

Ahead of them, nestled deep within a narrow ravine flanked by snow-dusted cliffs, loomed Korvanjund—a forgotten tomb from the age of kings. A relic of the First Empire of the Nords. The resting place, if the old legends were true, of King Borgas… and more importantly, the Jagged Crown. 

Ulfric didn’t entirely believe the crown existed, let alone that it could be found here. And if it did exist? He questioned whether it held any real political weight.

But Galmar believed.

“The Moot will convene,” he had said to Ulfric just days before. “And when they do, you’ll stride into that hall wearing the Jagged Crown. Let them try and ignore your claim then.”

A relic like that would be more than a symbol. It would be history itself bending in Ulfric’s favor.

The only problem was that the tomb was crawling with legionnaires. There were corpses of bandits laid in a pile just to the side, brigands who used this tomb as a hideout. 

He glanced back at Ralof, his second-in-command for the mission ahead. The young Nord had earned Galmar’s trust a dozen times over—fearless, loyal, and clever when it counted.

The boy had just arrived days ago, after picking the needed arms and armor to supply the men for this mission. Over half of the troops wore the newly created steel from Shor’s Stone. He hoped it would be enough.

“What do you think, Ralof?” Galmar asked, keeping his voice low.

“I count around eight legionnaires, Stormblade.” Ralof squinted through the falling snow. “Quite possibly a skeleton force meant to protect the entrance. That one–” He pointed to one nearest to the doors of the tomb. “—is most likely the runner. Once we charge in, he would escape inside and warn whatever imperials of our presence.”

“And when that happens, we’ll be easy pickings for ambushes and traps in the tomb.” Galmar grunted. “Take four men and circle around. Once you’re close, kill the runner with an arrow. We move the second he falls.”

“Yes, Stormblade.” Ralof slammed a fist to his chest and slipped away, hand-signaling to four others who moved behind him, fading into the thick brush and rock that lined the ravine’s edge.

Galmar turned to the rest of the troops. “Get ready. When the runner falls, we hit them like Sovngarde’s wrath.”

The Stormcloaks gripped weapons tighter. The ones at the front readied their shields. Archers nocked arrows in silence. Even the green ones fresh out of training looked determined—not fearless, but resolute.

A sharp whistle pierced the cold air.

Galmar’s gaze snapped to the runner just in time to see the arrow punch through his neck. The man gurgled, hands clawing at his throat, and collapsed into the snow with a thud.

Galmar raised his axe and bellowed, “For Skyrim!”

His war cry rallied the Stormcloaks as they surged forward like an avalanche. 

The first legionnaire turned in shock just in time to see Galmar leap from the last step, battleaxe raised overhead. He brought it down with brutal force, cleaving straight through helm and skull. Blood painted the snow in thick, steaming red.

Ralof dropped from above, shield raised like a battering ram. He slammed it into another soldier’s chest, knocking the wind out of him. Before the man could recover, Ralof buried his sword in the Imperial’s neck.

More cries rang out as the Stormcloak archers released a rapid volley. Three legionnaires fell before they could draw their swords, arrows thudding into their armor and torsos.

The last few Imperials fought with desperate vigor. One managed to stab a young Stormcloak in the shoulder before being hacked down by two others. The skirmish was swift and vicious, but in less than a minute, eight legionnaires lay still in the snow.

Galmar scanned the field. Aside from the one injured, no Stormcloak had fallen.

“That went well,”  Ralof said, stepping beside him while cleaning his blade with a cloth.

“Aye. It was a good plan to take out the runner. But I’d rather not get caught off guard if any reinforcements arrive. Get two squads to cover our back, one by the ravine and another by the door. We won’t make the same mistakes these Imperials did.” Galmar instructed Ralof, who nodded and started barking orders, sending men to secure the perimeter. 

Galmar himself took a breath to gaze at the massive stone doors ahead, half-frozen, standing atop the ground like pillars. 

“Alright,” Galmar muttered to himself, voice like gravel. “Let’s go grave-robbing.”

With weapons raised and torches lit, the Stormcloaks moved into formation and stepped past the threshold of the tomb.

…

AN: This fic will have semi bits of kingdom building mixed in here and there. You better believe Shor’s Stone is gonna be the next Imperial City when Gerron is done with it.

Also, Galmar is big chad. He’ll probably be my main POV to see the things that are happening on the Stormcloak Camp.

Anyways, more chapters are available on my Pat_reon. Chapter 26 should be available by the time this chapter was posted. Just look up my name and you’ll find me.

Hope you guys enjoyed the chapter! Cheers!

Chapter Text

4E 201, Shor’s Stone

Gerron Ironbreaker

“You know, when I said I wanted a peaceful life, this wasn’t what I meant,” Grogmar muttered, arms crossed over his broad chest as he watched a Dunmer lad get knocked flat on his back by a surprisingly spry Nord girl.

Gerron chuckled as he approached the old orc, the early dawn casting a golden hue across the training field. “Come on, Grogmar. Don’t tell me you don’t find a little joy in getting these youngsters into shape?”

The orc turned his tusked grin toward him. “Didn’t say that.” He cracked his knuckles. “Beating them into the ground in the name of training… it sure stirs the blood.”

Across the dusted field, twenty villagers sparred with wooden practice swords. It was a ragtag group of farmers, hunters, even a handful of old miners who had grown tired of swinging pickaxes. Men and mer alike, panting and grinning as they stumbled through drills and footwork in pairs. Clumsy, but determined.

Gerron exhaled slowly, his eyes scanning the training field with a quiet sense of pride.

He had wasted no time after his return from Kagrenzel. The vision—the blueprint of a stronger Shor’s Stone had burned itself into his mind. 

It would take decades or even centuries to make it a reality. But like all projects, it had to start somewhere. 

The first problem? Walls. Even a rudimentary wooden palisade would keep out wolves, trolls, and bandits. But they were nowhere near enough for dragons—rumors of their return were no longer dismissed as old Nord tales. Filnjar had heard of the attacks near Helgen and sightings all across Skyrim.

Shor’s Stone had no defense for beasts of that calibre. They didn’t have the coin for massive stonework, not yet. But with the ebony sold to Balimund in Riften, they had enough to purchase raw lumber from a logging camp down the valley and commission transport.

Seven-foot wooden stakes, sharpened and bound with rope and iron bands, were now being hoisted into place. The men and women of Shor’s Stone had taken to the task with surprising eagerness. It was as if the village itself had woken from a long slumber.

Filnjar had given a speech, nothing fancy, just words from the heart—about strength, about survival, about building something for their children. That was all it took. Hands raised. Shovels picked up. Spirits kindled.

Normally, a change this sweeping would’ve required a charter from the steward in Riften. City planners, royal stamps, bureaucracy—the whole mess. But Filnjar just waved it away. 

The good thing about all this was that Gerron didn’t need to guess what Shor’s Stone could become. He had seen it. Every inch of what it could become. 

What shocked him most, though, was Filnjar’s reaction. The old smith didn’t argue. Didn’t ask questions. When Gerron laid down the plans and spoke of defensive layouts, infrastructure, and militia training, Filnjar simply nodded.

“I trust you,” he had said. “You’ve already saved this village once. If this is your vision, then we’ll follow it.”

That kind of trust had stirred something inside Gerron. 

So the work began in earnest. The braver volunteers were sent to work as the first militia of Shor’s Stone, where Grogmar would begin working them to the bone to create a proper force. 

They’d protect the village, patrol the forests, and eventually man the palisade. The rest helped with construction, smithing, or logistics.

Filnjar offered each of them a generous wage from the ebony funds. They weren’t much by legion standards, but enough to put food on the table. 

Seeing the men and women practicing in the yard, a small smile appeared on Gerron’s face. They were a far cry from a proper defense force, but it was a start. With the men and women training with their hearts out, it’s only proper he gives his all as well.

Returning to his forge, he began making the proper arms and armor for the protectors of Shor’s Stone. Filnjar made good with his promise. After his return from Kagrenzel, there were barrels full of iron and ebony ore set up on his forge that he could fashion into his own use.

Shortswords with strong tangs. Heater shields reinforced with oak cores. Simple but sturdy brigandine helms, riveted together with care. Chainmail hauberks sewn into thick linen tunics to keep out the chill during winter. Functional armor for villagers turned soldiers. Enough arrows for each militiamen to miss a dozen times and still have plenty leftover.

He continued working late into the night, finishing the last set of armor and setting it aside. What’s miraculous is that even after working from dawn till dusk, he didn’t feel the least bit fatigued. There was no ache in his arms nor any soreness on his back.

‘The Battle Smith perk of the System must be improving my stamina.’ Gerron realized. It was a welcome surprise. It was like a second wind that never stopped blowing.

Not to mention the raw power he could feel behind his muscular arms. The system had enhanced his strength somewhat since the large weights he would usually struggle with barely even bothered him now. 

He forged one last piece before turning in. A great axe of blackened ebony, its edge honed to a whisper-thin crescent. It was brutal, elegant, and perfectly balanced. A weapon worthy of the orc who had rallied strangers into warriors.

A weapon for Grogmar.

When the two moons of Nirn rose high above the pine trees and the forge fires dimmed, Gerron finally trudged back into his home.

He shed his soot-covered apron, washed his hands in a basin, and made his way to the far corner of the house—where the soft glow of candlelight flickered around his shrine to Zenithar.

It had changed over the months. No longer a crude wood carving. It was now a shrine carved of smoothed stone, with bands of ebony inlaid into the corners. A hammer rested at the center—a symbol of toil and peace. A place to work and worship, both.

He knelt on one knee, pressing his calloused hand to the stone.

Just as he had every night after awakening from the vision of a blue star, he prayed.

The candle flame danced, casting long shadows across the shrine.

And for a moment, all was still.

…

Kiera Fendalyn

It had been a decade since she had left Skyrim, and the cold tundra had remained the same as always.

The moment she had crossed the border, memories of days long past echoed in her mind. Though she was a Breton by blood, Skyrim was the land that had shaped her. It was where she was born and raised. 

Her mother, Keeper Carcette, had led the northern branch of the Vigilants of Stendarr for years now. Ever since the day she could walk, Kiera had followed her through the hallowed halls, listening to stories of Daedra-hunting crusades and dawn raids on vampire covens. Every Vigilant she met was a warrior, a protector—part priest, part knight, bound by purpose.

Kiera had wanted nothing more than to be one of them. To be a protector, just like her mother.

However, all of the Vigilants in Skyrim, including her mother, were surprised when she decided to leave.

Being Carcette’s daughter wasn’t just a blessing. It was a title with chains. The pressure to live up to her mother’s name, to be perfect, to never fail—it became a weight she could no longer bear.

So she escaped. She left Skyrim with the promise of always sending her mother letters and went for Cyrodiil. To the Temple of Stendarr in Chorrol, far from the expectations that followed her.

Years she had spent as a Vigilant, going around Cyrodiil hunting down remnants of daedric cults that still persist even after a whole era since the Oblivion Crisis.

And now she was back, finally home once more.

Yet, the moment she stepped foot in Skyrim, she got grabbed by Imperials who didn’t know the difference between a Vigilant and a Stormcloak. 

Her features didn’t help. White hair and amber-yellow eyes—not a drop of Nordic blood in her appearance. They never even looked at her amulet. Or listened.

[Image of Kiera]

All Vigilants possess marked Amulets of Stendarr as signs of their allegiance to the order. It was created when they made their oath, magic fused with their words that would persist until the Vigilants death. 

Kiera knew of the rebellion going down in Skyrim. While she was sympathetic to their cause, she also knew that weakening the Empire at this time would only serve the Thalmor rather than go against them. 

It was partially what drove her to make her trip back home, the letters her mother painted of the war were not pretty after all.

And yet, the Imperial Soldiers—ones who looked far too young and inexperienced to be in the frontlines—surrounded her and forced her to surrender her blade. Not to mention the captain who seemed like a very racist woman with no morals from the way she kept insisting and demanded that Kiera be executed for being a Stormcloak sympathizer.

She knew she was capable enough to defeat the small squad of six if necessary, but spilling blood here would only make things worse. So she did as they asked and let them escort her to a wagon where other prisoners were already bound. 

The trip to the walled town of Helgen was long, so she fell asleep on the way. When she awoke, she befriended a man called Ralof, who was one of the Stormcloaks bound for execution. 

He was a broad-shouldered Nord with kind eyes and a stubborn pride. They spoke in hushed tones, nothing deep—just names, family, and stories. He reminded her of the men she’d grown up admiring—honorable, if flawed. She wished they had met under better circumstances. He would’ve made a good Vigilant.

They arrived in Helgen not long after. Luckily for her, General Tullius was a much more sensible man. One glance at the amulet around her neck and the bindings came off. 

The tongue-lashing the captain received afterward was… satisfying.

The execution was held promptly then. While Kiera was quite saddened to see Ralof and his allies being lined up towards the block, she had little to no authority in stopping anything. So she stood to the side and vowed to see it all till the end.

Then, the dragon came. 

It took everyone by surprise. A massive beast of legend with pitch black scales and a wingspan that swallowed Helgen in its shadow.

A single breath caused the skies to darken and meteors to fall from the heavens themselves,  shattering towers and igniting buildings in a heartbeat.

Helgen descended into chaos.

The soldiers fought and the civilians ran. She joined in the efforts, but her blade, Dawnbite , the sword that had accompanied her as a Vigilant, couldn’t even scratch the dragon’s thick hide.

So she cast Ironflesh with nary a thought, and her body was wrapped in a faint shimmer of pale silver. Shielding herself from flying debris, she grabbed injured soldiers—Imperials and Stormcloaks alike—pulling them to their feet, dragging them behind fallen wagons and shattered walls.

When a collapsing tower nearly crushed a child, she used Telekinesis to shove the rubble aside.

While she was much more skilled in Alteration than Restoration, she didn’t hesitate healing anyone who was still sound of mind. For in the eyes of a dragon, there was no civil war. Only humanity.

She led them out of the collapsing Helgen and from there, travelled to Riverwood along with any survivors she managed to gather. She was pleasantly surprised to see Ralof among them.

She stayed there for several days. Helping and healing anyone who needed it.

Kiera patched wounds, did minor magic to entertain the children, and did what she could to comfort the shaken townsfolk. Ralof introduced her to his sister Gerdur, who offered warm meals and grateful words.

It felt good to serve again. To be needed.

Doing so much magic in a short amount of time would usually tire her out quickly, but the local general store was kind enough to donate to her all the magicka potions they had. While they were far from the quality she had access to back in the Temple of Stendarr, they were still of immense help.

When word spread of the attack, Gerdur pleaded for someone to go to Whiterun and warn the Jarl. Kiera had volunteered immediately.

But something else came to her ears during her time in Riverwood.

A tale of the old barrow nestled atop the mountain—the ancient, crumbling ruin of Bleak Falls Barrow. Locals whispered of undead, of necromancers, and of some thief who had disappeared inside after stealing Lucan’s golden claw.

While the purging of the walking dead as well as the vile necromancers who conjure them usually falls onto the job description of Paladins of Arkay, she didn’t mind helping out once in a while.

Evil was evil. And undeath had always been unnatural.

So she made her choice and bid Gerdur and her family goodbye.

And now, she stood at the edge of the trail leading up the snow-blanketed mountain, the pines rising like sentinels on either side of the narrow path. Her breath misted in the air, and her cloak flapped gently in the breeze.

She came to Skyrim to finally see her mother again. But she could wait. The Hall of Vigilants could wait.

For there were people that needed her help.

Chapter Text

4E 201, Redwater Den

Gerron Ironbreaker

“There you are.”

Looking at the non-descript cottage that lay on the side of a hill, Gerron lifted up his hood to hide his features.

Plenty of rumors sang of the Redwater Den, there were those that said it was a place for Skooma addicts, and Gerron was inclined to agree.

He had left Shor’s Stone just three days ago, on his way to Windhelm and Whiterun to begin trade of the ebony ingots to anyone who wanted it. After a week of making a sufficient number of weapons and armor for the militia’s personal armory, he left the further production and protection of Shor’s Stone to Filnjar and Grogmar.

He travelled north for a day before deciding to make a detour for the Redwater Den. After the trip to Kagrenzel, he had received plenty of blueprints for new creations, one of them he’s currently in the process of making. 

A homunculus servant. It was an interesting piece of technology. Similar to the dwarven spiders and spheres, a homunculus servant is a tiny mechanical helper that aids the creator similar to a mage’s familiar. They are able to listen to orders and move on their own accord. 

The idea he had was to make one in the shape of a mechanical bird. He had everything prepared except for one specific ingredient, some kind of gem or crystal worth at least 200 septims. 

It was an odd requirement, but he didn’t deign to understand the workings of the system. 

However, another of his perks have been largely unused till now due to the lack of ingredients. The Alchemist. 

[The Alchemist]

You are an alchemist, an expert at combining reagents to produce mystical effects. Alchemists use their creations to give life and to leech it away. Alchemy is the oldest of artificer traditions, and its versatility has long been valued during times of war and peace.

According to the description, alchemy should be even more versatile than the Battle Smith or the Architect. He was curious to see just what he could do.

Approaching the broken down cottage, he noticed the large amounts of empty skooma bottles littering the floor. A quick investigation revealed the trap door that was semi hidden beneath a cabinet.

Climbing down, it revealed an underground area where empty skooma bottles were even more plentiful. The deeper he went, the worse the smell got. There was sweat, decay, and even a rotting scent that could barely be masked by the sickly sweet aroma of burnt moon sugar. 

Faint tendrils of red mist curled through the corridors, which reminded him a lot of the Redbelly Mine. The walls were lined with junkies and dazed-eyed addicts, and none of them were sober.

Gerron wasn’t here to seek trouble. While this place was certainly a drug den in every sense of the word, it was also a place where one could get rare alchemical ingredients that are otherwise inaccessible or illegal to get in the major holds.

The moment he entered the room, he went straight to the dealer that stood behind the bar, ignoring the looks that the local residents gave him. He didn’t miss the fact that all their eyes were instantly trained on the magical hammer he had swung across his back.

The dealer was a striking Dunmer woman with black hair and red eyes, tall and elegant in a blood-red corset that accentuated her figure. She gave Gerron a sultry smile as he approached.

“Why hello, stranger,” she purred, her voice sweet as honey. “What brings you to the Redwater Den?”

Something about her bugged him, but he didn’t know what it was. 

“Just travelling.” Gerron answered cautiously, "I'm looking for things that’ll help me and my friends have a good time.” 

Her full and beautiful lips widened into a smile. “Well then, you’ve come to the right place. I’m Edna.” She leaned forward, her fingers brushing the sleeves of his coat. “And you are?”

“…Gerron.”

“A strong name. It suits you.” She winked. “Give me a moment. I’ve got something you might really like.”

As she disappeared into a back room, Gerron leaned against the bar to wait as the patrons continued whatever it is they were doing, as snippets of conversation entered his ears.

“...Vigilants getting more active. What do we…”

“…in Dimhollow Crypt. We can’t do any…”

Hearing nothing interesting of note, Gerron let his gaze drift to the shelves behind the bar—rows of ingredients, vials, tinctures, and reagents that had the Artificer System going wild in identifying.

[Recipes added]

Potion of Sanguinare Vampiris, Potion of Regenerate Health, Potion of invisibility, Potion of Blood, Potion of….

He blinked. While they were useful potions to have, what had him surprised were the ingredients that were required to make them. Human flesh, human hearts, blood infused with daedric oils and nightshade concentrate. 

Before he could ponder more, Edna returned with two bottles in hand—one red as garnet, the other a sickly shade of purple.

“Our signature Redwater Skooma,” she said, placing it on the counter. “And this little treat… is Sleeping Tree Sap. Since you’re such a handsome man, I’ll throw it in for a bargain. Just two hundred septims.”

Gerron’s gaze narrowed. Gazing at the two bottles, he once again sees something that sent warning bells in his mind.

[Redwater Skooma]

Moon sugar mixed with nightshade, fermented in distilled human blood. Considered a delicacy and is highly addictive to vampires.

‘Well, shit.’

That was when the addicts in the room shifted, the previous glassy looks still on their faces. Edna smiled at him then, revealing two fangs that jutted from her upper mouth. 

“I usually don’t feed on customers since it’s bad for business. But something about you just smell so good .” Her eyes sharpened dangerously like a predator. Gerron’s hands went inside his cloak. “Not to mention that powerful looking hammer. While Venarus finds using weapons such as this an eyesore, having any kind of magical artifact would always strengthen our cause. So be a dear and–Argh!”

Gerron knew all about the vampire charm. He finally realized just what about Edna that bothered him. The longer he had looked at her, the more beautiful she became. The longer he had listened, the more her words became honey to his ears.

So he immediately interrupted her by swiping a dagger from under his cloak right towards her face. 

She managed to pull her head back quickly, carving a ragged line from chin to brow instead. She shrieked, stumbling back. “Kill him!” she roared.

The addicts from the room, which Gerron now realized were either vampire thralls or vampires themselves, lunged towards him in a mad rush. A quick glance survey of the room told him there were four thralls and three vampires in the room.

Gerron immediately turned around, flinging his dagger into the closest one and nailing the dagger through the heart of a nord thrall, dropping him instantly,

The other thrall’s pulled out various types of weaponry as they charged Gerron, some other vampires, which he identified from their crimson red eyes, stayed at a distance and started flinging spikes of ice from their palms.

He kicked up a table and ducked behind it to block the spikes of ice, though a few passed through and hit his armor. They weren’t sharp enough to pierce ebony, but the cold pressing on his body was uncomfortable.

He rose then, hammer in hand.

With one crushing swing, the Mercury Hammer crushed the nearest thrall against the stone wall, spraying crimson across the haze-filled air. A reverse grip handle bash knocked another to the ground as thrusters ignited on the hammer’s back, powering a downward strike that shattered the third’s skull.

Seeing the other vampires readying another volley of their ice magic, Gerron jumped over the bar to take cover on the other side, the ice slamming onto the cabinets above his head.

He had to swerve his head to the side as Edna slashed at him with sharpened fingers. He grabbed the offending arm and squeezed.

Bone was crushed beneath his fingers. However, instead of feeling pain, she merely gave a fanged grin as her palm opened, revealing the red magic coiling around it. Immediately, he felt his vitality drain as a fatigue he’s never felt before weighed in his chest.

‘Drain Life…’ he thought grimly. 'Damn bloodsuckers.'

It was a good thing the Battle Smith perk gave him enhanced stamina since he knew he would have been immediately weakened otherwise. Instead, he lifted her arm and threw her across the room over the bar, sending her smashing across a few tables.

Unfortunately, the vampires took that chance to send another set of spells to him. This time, a soft pink orb struck him directly.

His mind went blank. The world slowed. His limbs froze as an eerie calm invaded his mind. He struggled to fight the effect.

Edna stood back up with a wide smile, the scar on her face already faded. Her broken arm already healed.

“Well done. You truly are a strong man. To have noticed my attempts to charm you…” She approached the frozen Gerron, his eyes glazed over as the Vampiric Seduction spell took effect. She licked her fangs. “Oh, how I would enjoy having a specimen like you as a thrall. Come pet, Venarus would want to meet you. But first, I would have a taste of that delicious blood.” 

She leaned in, and the world exploded in golden light.

Edna and the other vampires shrieked in pain as  the light burned them where they stood, peeling back their illusion of immortality and turning flesh to ash. Edna collapsed mid-scream, her body disintegrating in a burst of divine fire.

The glaze over his eyes disappeared as Gerron gasped, breath returning as his thoughts cleared.

[Zenithar’s Chosen]

Your mind is your own, for none shall command the Chosen of Zenithar. Spells that alter the mind shall no longer have an effect on you.

‘By the divines, that was dangerous.’ He shook his head as he studied the new words. ‘Thank Zenithar. So I’m his Chosen, huh? I guess I don’t mind.’

‘I’m going to need better protection for magic. I can’t let something like this happen again.’ While he apparently didn’t have to worry about any more seduction or enthralling magic, there were still plenty of dangerous spells out there. Even the few frost spells that the vampires used were uncomfortable, and they were ones that came from relatively weaker vampires.

Gerron shook his head and let out a breath. It was another problem added to the list. With a raised palm, all the alchemical ingredients and potions in the room vanished into his storage space. 

He then gazed at the back door behind the bar, the one that Edna had gone to. ‘If I’m right, then there’s probably a lot more vampires back there. She also mentioned someone called Venarus. Probably the den’s master. Most definitely a stronger vampire than her. Should I leave and fight another day? There’s definitely a blueprint for magic resistant armor somewhere in the System.’

Redwater Den was relatively close to Shor’s Stone. Only a day's travel from his village. He felt uncomfortable in having such a large vampire coven nearby. He shook his head once more.

“…Divines bless me,” he muttered. “I’m about to do something stupid.”

So with all apprehension, he readied the Mercury Hammer and walked towards the door.

…

4E 201, Bleak Falls Barrow

Kiera Fendalyn

Bleak Falls Barrow was both as impressive and terrifying as she had expected it to be. The ancient nordic tomb was built into the side of the mountain, with massive stairways and gigantic stone pillars that decorated the entrance hall.

Its general location meant that she had to climb quite far to get there, not to mention the howling winds present this high up the mountain.

Camilla from the Riverwood trader was kind enough to guide her to the most probable and climbable path to get there. She wanted to guide her much farther than that, but her brother Lucan was rather adamant that the edge of town was as far as Camilla could go.

After a quick promise to bring their golden claw back, she set off into the distance.

At first, she encountered a rather large group of bandits at the entrance. They were certainly surprised when she arrived, not expecting a lone girl to make the trip up all by herself.

After eyeing her rather high-quality gear, they hurled lewd words at her and threatened to take her weapons and armor. Those words became screams of pain the moment her glowing longsword cleaved through their leather and banded iron armor with ease.

Alteration had always been considered the most versatile of all the schools of magic. Her favorite application was her unique ability to coat her flesh spells onto her weapons, enhancing her silver longsword to be sharper and deadlier.

Many of the interior of Bleak Falls Barrow had fallen into disrepair from the countless decades or even centuries since the tomb was built, but it didn’t change the potential of wealth that any brave souls could get for entering its hallowed halls.

She ran into more bandits inside the tomb, a few camping in the entrance hall that she quickly dispatched. None of their rusty iron swords or arrows could pierce her Ironflesh after all.

While she was initially quite saddened that she didn’t inherit her mother’s talent for Restoration spells—especially considering her mother’s reputation as a master of the Restoration arts, with only Collete from the College of Winterhold being her superior—she felt ecstatic when she found out her talents lay in Alteration instead.

She was specifically great at flesh spells. For now, Ironflesh remained as a glow of silverish hue that clung to her like a second skin. However, she is working hard to master the spell and turn her own body–flesh, organs, and all—into solid steel. It was a level of Alteration that is close to reaching.

The one thing she didn’t expect nordic tombs to possess were puzzles of all things. Quickly turning the pillar to match the figure etched on one of the walls, the wrought iron gate opened.

‘Gotta give the Nords some credit, they make some pretty interesting burial sites.’ She mused.

The tomb was also home to plenty of nasty beasts and creatures. Skeevers weren’t that much of a threat individually, but they sure as hell were when they came in large swarms.

She had to retreat back while planting Paralysis Runes on the floor to trap them to avoid being swarmed.

She had hoped that was the last she had to deal with annoying little creatures like that.

Of course, her wishes were granted, by having a monstrous spider the size of a mammoth to suddenly drop down from the ceiling on her.

Her faith in Stendarr was tested that very day when she swore that she didn’t scream like a little girl.

She had gone further into the tomb and found the thief that stole Lucan and Camilla’s golden claw, a dunmer called Arvel. The only problem was that he was stuck in thick webs that immobilized him from head to toe.

That was when the spider had appeared.

She let out a curse as she was forced to dodge from a large leg that slammed into her position, cracking the stone beneath her. Ideally, the most optimal choice here would be to run since slaying this beast yielded little to no benefits. However, thief he may be, leaving a defenseless man to become spider food would leave a bad taste in her mouth.

Reapplying Ironflesh on her sword, she stepped forward and cut three of the spider’s legs in a single swing. An unholy shriek came from the creature as she spat out a large glob of venom, one that Kiera was forced to duck.

‘Of course this thing could spit out venom, cause why not, right?’

It was one of the vulnerabilities of the flesh spells. While it did really well in protecting someone from physical harm, it did nothing to stop poisons or venoms from entering her body.

Stepping to the side to avoid a set of mandibles that stabbed towards her, she stabbed Dawnbite straight through the spider’s oversized head. There was a squelch as she pierced whatever brain matter was in there before the spider slumped, dead.

Letting out an audible sigh, she grabbed a rag and cleaned her sword from the blood that covered it. Skyrim certainly was as crazy as her mother explained it to be.

Don’t get her wrong, she had killed her fair share of monsters in Cyrodiil. Basilisks and minotaurs were aplenty in the Heart of the Empire, but giant spiders and dragons were new to her.

Now that that was done, Kiera went to cut down Arvel from the webs. The moment she did, Arvel immediately laughed in her face and ran deeper into the tomb calling her foolish and naive.

Kiera was truly baffled by the display. Did he not just see her cut down a massive spider that had trapped him previously?

A single wave of her hand had the man paralyzed mid running stance. He fell down unceremoniously as she walked to his prone form and grabbed the claw from his hand.

Walking ahead, she decided to leave the man to his fate. He had spat on her kindness. A woman of faith and protector she may be, but she wasn’t foolish nor naive enough to save those that didn’t want to save themselves. She had learned that lesson a long time ago.

Going even deeper into the tombs, she finally found the draugrs. History books say that the draugr were nordic warriors in ages long past that had betrayed their own kin and served the dragons instead.

This treachery led to them being cursed by their ancestors, forever incapable in reaching Sovngarde like many of their people wish to do. Instead, they are forced to remain in the world of the living for eternity, becoming the undead creatures known as draugr.

It was a cruel fate, even if it was deserved. Seeing a dragon just a week ago in Helgen, she at least understood why they did it. 

Kiera had just met one dragon and felt the helplessness that many no doubt felt. She couldn’t imagine what it would be like back then when the dragons were at the height of their power.

Luckily, these draugr shared none of their masters’ strength. Cleansing the tomb of their presence proved no trouble for her.

She knew she had arrived near the end of the tomb when she arrived in the famed Hall of Stories. The walls had carvings depicting the times when the dragons had ruled, proven by the ancient draconic script that accompanied the carvings as they told stories of events that happened in those times.

She was very interested in learning these stories, but unfortunately for her, she couldn’t understand a single word of the dragon tongue, much less its scripture.

At the end of the hall was another puzzle door, which had filled her with a little giddiness. Solving them was a fun kind of brain teaser that she wouldn’t get anywhere else, she found herself enjoying them.

‘Now let’s see here…three sliding rings, each with a symbol of an animal. A button in the center with an imprint of a claw.’

A very familiar claw.

Pulling out the golden claw that she clasped on her belt, her hands rose to spin the rings to match the images that were on the bottom of the claw. Once that was done, she pushed the claw against the main button and twisted.

The door groaned loudly as it started to lower. The moment it did, a wave of dark, vile energy wafted past her that came from the singular coffin by the strange wall.

She held Dawnbite tight as her other arm went for a magicka potion and drank it in one large gulp. Whatever was here was a great deal stronger than anything she had faced prior.

With her magicka refilled, she didn’t hesitate in applying one of the strongest spells she has in her repertoire. “Ebonyflesh.”

A dark aura wrapped around her body like armor, a similar glow appearing on her sword. Immediately she could feel her reserves dropping to nearly drained. She wouldn’t be using any more spells for the rest of the fight.

Now clad in her most powerful defensive spell, she walked forward cautiously. The moment she reached a certain threshold, the coffin burst open as a towering Draugr climbed out.

It certainly looked menacing; rusted heavy armor covered its form as a massive war axe rested over its back. She spotted a light blue glow coming from the weapon, which told her of the potential frost enchantment attached to it.

Kiera rushed forward, aiming to catch it off guard. Imagine her surprise when the draugr took a deep breath instead of brandishing his weapon.

“FUS RO DAH!” A massive wave of force emanated from its mouth that launched Kiera back dozens of meters. Her back hit the walls of the cavern that knocked the breath out of her lungs.

Clutching her head in pain, she looked up to see the draugr approaching her with the axe in hand. Kiera immediately went back up and charged, lunging with her sword that the draugr sidestepped.

She followed up with an overhead swing that it parried with the blade of the axe. Its arm flew forward and grabbed her neck before lifting and slamming her to the ground.

She let out an oof as her head met the floor. She jerked her head to the side, narrowly missing the axe that cleaved the area where her head had been, the stone freezing slightly from the point of impact.

Stabbing her sword upwards, she was pleasantly surprised to see it piercing the draugr all the way through, the ebonyflesh enhanced sword easily cleaving the armor that it wore. The undead warrior staggered back from the injury as Kiera kicked it off her, sending it stumbling backwards.

Getting back up quickly, she utilized its lapse in concentration to dash forward and swing her sword. The draugr lifted her axe to parry once more, only for her to pull back from the feint and cleave both of its arms in a single swing.

The arms and axe went flying before falling with a metallic clang somewhere in the cavern. She didn’t care to see where it ended up, for her blade was already swinging for the draugr’s neck.

Its eyes shone with defiance as the draugr’s mouth opened once more. “FUS RO D–!”

It was too late. She cleaved its head off with one mighty swing, the bony head of the undead creature thudding to the floor.

Her breaths came heavy as she calmed her nerves. She sheathed her sword back in its scabbard as she gave a small respectful nod to the draugr. Despite its existence being an abomination, he must’ve been a great warrior prior to his curse.

That was when she started to hear whispers echoing throughout the cavern. A quick glance had her determine the source. The strange curved wall, with strange letterings that was similar to the script in the Hall of Stories.

The closer she went, the heavier the whispers became. It came to the point where it became chants, her gaze focusing on a single inscription written on the Word Wall.

Kiera’s eyes glaze over as wisps of white, orange, and blue energy rush into her body from the glowing word.

It merely lasted a few seconds, and large gasps came out of her as she snapped into focus. ‘By Stendarr, what was that?’

Knowledge of something she didn’t recognize filled her mind. Suddenly, she found herself understanding the glowing word that was written on the wall. Everything else remained incomprehensible to her.

‘Fus, force.’

She remembered the draugr she had fought saying the same words. Is this the Thu'um she now has in her possession? How did that come to be?

Whatever the case, it is a problem for later. Right now, she needed to go back to Riverwood and then make her way to Whiterun.

Emptying the treasure chest of all valuables, she put everything into her sack for safe keeping. The gold, the jewels, the enchanted war axe, and the stone carved with the strange markings.

She didn’t know what it was, but it seemed important.

Exiting Bleak Falls Barrow through a hidden exit, she breathed in the snowy landscapes of Skyrim, relishing in the cold yet refreshing air.

‘That was a fun adventure. I wonder what else Skyrim has in store—’

The massive beating of wings disrupted the snow around her as a dragon—much smaller than the one in Helgen—suddenly barreled into the air in front of her. 

There was only one thing on her mind as she gazed at its bronze colored scales.

‘You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.’

Chapter Text

4E 201, Windhelm

Galmar Stone-fist 

The heavy doors to the Palace of the Kings shut behind them with a finality that matched the weight of the crown in Galmar’s hands. Snow clung to their boots, melting on the stone floor as they stepped inside the long hall.

Banners of blue and brown swayed gently from the rafters, depicting the imagery of the bear. The symbol that Ulfric had taken for the Stormcloaks.

Galmar marched at the front, Ralof at his side, the prized artifact nestled securely under one arm— the Jagged Crown. The very thought of it stirred something ancient in his blood, a long-slumbering pride that reached back to the days of Ysgramor and the Five Hundred Companions.

Ulfric turned from the hearth as they entered his war room, flanked by a pair of guards in heavy Stormcloak armor. He took a long moment to eye the object Galmar set upon the oaken table between them.

"So this is the famed Jagged Crown," the Jarl of Windhelm muttered. He leaned in, "Much uglier than I expected."

Galmar scowled. “Ulfric!” he barked, his voice a low growl. In the quiet sanctum of the war room, away from the eyes of the court, he could speak to the Jarl plainly.

Ulfric waved him off. “Relax, Galmar. Everyone in this room is someone I trust implicitly. I don’t need to mince words with you or Ralof.”

“That doesn’t mean you have to speak like some milk-drinker from Cyrodiil,” Galmar grumbled, crossing his thick arms over his chest.

Ulfric let out a soft chuckle, but his gaze turned thoughtful as it lingered on the ancient crown. Blackened iron, dragonbone and gold, forged long before the Empire ever stretched its greedy hands over Skyrim. The Jagged Crown was ugly, aye—but it was ugly with history.

Galmar’s mind drifted back to Korvanjund, to the endless halls of his ancestors who have long since passed. What began as a cautious delve quickly turned into a meat grinder. A bloody siege against wave after wave of draugr, as though the very tomb itself sought to defend its master’s remains.

He had not expected to face a Deathlord—yet there it was, roaring in that cursed dragon tongue that shattered stone and sent men flying. The corpse of Old King Borgas no doubt. It took nearly a dozen of their strongest fighters just to bring the beast down.

Sixteen men dead. Another twenty injured beyond fighting. The number still had him grimacing.

But it could have been worse. Should have been worse.

Though they had lost sixteen men, and a further twenty were injured. That was much less casualties than he expected.

He glanced at Ralof then, brow furrowing. “Your men fought well,” Galmar said aloud. “And their gear held up far better than I expected. Even the Deathlord couldn’t cleave through their armor like it should’ve.”

Ralof nodded, a spark of pride gleaming in his tired eyes. “That armor came from a smith in Shor’s Stone. The man's name is Gerron. Quiet, humble, but his work—by the Divines—it saved lives. We would’ve lost twice the men without it.”

Ulfric raised a brow. “The fight for freedom would benefit from all the talented sons of Skyrim,” he said. “Go to Shor’s Stone. See if you can convince this Gerron to aid the war effort. We’ll need craftsmen like him when the Empire marches again.”

Ralof slammed a fist to his chest. “It will be done, my Jarl.”

Galmar grunted his approval. In war, the sword was only as good as the hand that forged it. If this Gerron was half the smith he had proven to be, they’d need him soon enough.

Ulfric turned his gaze back to Ralof. “And what of the Vigilant?” he asked. “The one at Helgen. Do you know where she is now?”

Galmar remained quiet, listening closely. Ulfric had mentioned her once already—a Breton woman, and a Vigilant of Stendarr no less. Galmar remembered the name vaguely, but not the details. From what he'd heard, she played no small part in the survival of the Stormcloaks during the dragon’s assault in Helgen.

Ralof straightened. “Her name is Kiera Fendalyn, my Jarl. Last I heard, my sister, Gerdur, sent word to Jarl Balgruuf asking for help. Riverwood is defenseless. Kiera volunteered to deliver the message. I don’t know if she’s made it to Whiterun yet.”

Ulfric nodded. “Very well. Send word if you hear any more of her travels.”

Ralof bowed, recognizing the clear dismissal. Soft steps echoed through the room as Ralof made his exit.

Galmar tilted his head. “What’s that about?” he asked once the younger man was out of earshot.

Ulfric’s eyes returned to the flickering flames of the hearth, shadows dancing across his face. “The Vigilant,” he murmured. “This Kiera… she reminded me of a faction we’ve ignored for too long.”

Galmar frowned. “The Vigilants of Stendarr?”

Ulfric nodded slowly. “They’re true worshippers of the Nine Divines. Not Imperial lapdogs nor are they blind zealots. If anyone in this land should be furious with the White-Gold Concordat’s desecration of Talos, it is them.”

Galmar grunted. “Maybe. But they’ve always been more concerned with daedra and witches than politics.”

“Even so,” Ulfric replied, “if they can be reminded of what’s at stake—Skyrim, our faith, our future—then perhaps they’ll see reason. We could use allies who fight not for coin or country, but for the gods themselves.”

The idea was… unusual. Galmar was many things, but a diplomat wasn’t one of them. Still, he trusted Ulfric’s instincts. If the Vigilants could be swayed…

“I can send a small force to the Hall of Vigilants,” Galmar said. “Enough to show respect without looking desperate. Maybe they’ll listen.”

Ulfric gave a single, measured nod. “Do so.”

Galmar returned the gesture. “It’ll be done.”

Outside the walls of Windhelm, the cold winds of Skyrim howled like wolves on the hunt. And deep within them, the first stirrings of war began to take shape.

…

4E 201, Redwater Den

Gerron Ironbreaker 

The back door of the den led to a series of winding caves, damp and reeking of blood, rot, and even more skooma fumes.

Gerron Ironbreaker stepped over the crumpled body of a Bosmer vampire, its face caved in by a brutal swing of his hammer. Behind him was a trail of dead vampires stretched far through the crypt.

At first, many had tried to use their Vampiric Charm or Vampiric Seduction spells to turn him into their thrall the moment they noticed his strength. But Zenithar’s Champion meant that none of it would work.

Gerron had relished the confusion on their pale faces before turning their skulls into pulp.

The initial chamber had been a sleeping den, with coffins stacked along the walls as well as a few weapons racks and treasure chests that were adorned with personal items.

Gerron had ransacked the place without remorse, looting nearly nine thousand septims in gold and valuables. Their drug trade had lined their pockets well—but it was all his now.

After experiencing that ambush back in the den, he opted to just rush the vampires to not give them time in readying their spells. Those that he couldn’t reach were decimated using the crossbow version of his Mercury Hammer. The modified weapon sent glowing bolts that exploded on contact, reducing undead flesh to ash.

Further in, he stumbled into what seemed like a makeshift laboratory. The air reeked of burnt herbs and skooma. Bottles, vials, and beakers cluttered the room messily, with many liquids bubbling in their respective containers.

The moment he arrived he had to quickly duck from a spike of ice that impacted the stone wall beside his head. 

The explosion sent miniature shards of ice stabbing his face, which was luckily protected by his ebony helmet. Gerron lunged forward and brought his hammer in a wide arc. The blow met a vampire mid-spell, crushing his ribcage like splintered wood.

A thrall tried to grapple him from the side in a foolish attempt to rid him of his hammer. Gerron gave the vampire a glance of pity, then ripped the weapon free and brought it around in a vicious sweep, sending the body tumbling like a ragdoll.

Then, a burly Nord vampire leapt onto Gerron from behind, locking him in a vice-like bear hug. Another of the vampires took the chance to bullcharge him from the front, brandishing his fangs in an attempt to take a bite of his neck.

Growling, Gerron summoned every bit of strength granted to him by the Battle Smith perk and slammed his head back. A loud gong echoed to the cavern as his ebony helm broke the vampire’s nose with a satisfying crunch. The brute reeled.

His left hand then thundered forward, catching the neck of the other vampire before slamming him down to the ground. Gerron planted a boot on the vampire’s throat, holding him in place, and twisted, his warhammer flashing like through the air.

In a loud boom, the weapon met flesh and released massive sparks of lightning on impact. The Nord vampire was hurled backward into an alchemy table, exploding glass and strange chemicals in a burst of colors and flame.

With defeated enemies all around him, Gerron cracked his neck as a grin appeared on his face. ‘This is fun.’

He gathered the alchemical ingredients he could find—soul husks, vampire dust, corrupted nirnroot, skooma vials—his mind immediately swarming with ideas and recipes. He stuffed them into his storage space and pressed forward.

Soon, he arrived in a cavern larger than the rest.

Massive stone spires jutted from the ground like claws, and stalactites threatened from the ceiling. In the center lay a blood-red pool, thick and viscous as if fresh from a hundred throats.

Beside it knelt a figure—tall and lean.

Long white hair cascaded down his back. He wore blackened leather armor that shimmered with subtle enchantments. When he turned, Gerron saw a face that once might have belonged to a noble Imperial, now twisted—ashen, gaunt, and hungry. His eyes glowed crimson. On his side was a steel axe, covered in similar enchantments as his armor.

Beside him was a pack of four death hounds, vampiric dogs with bites as cold as the grave. 

Gerron knew instinctively that the vampire in front of him was different from the others he had faced. 

“Venarus, I assume?” Gerron asked, stepping forward.

Venarus didn’t show any outward reply to his question, remaining to kneel by the pool. The four hounds around him stood up as they bared their fangs towards Gerron.

“Do you know what this place is, warrior?” Venarus questioned.

Gerron shrugged. “A pit where trash like you nest, maybe?”

Venarus smiled—thin and cold. “This is the Redwater Spring. It is...a gift. A revelation. A salvation. For centuries, our kind has fed on blood, addicted to mortals’ vitality. I sought to break that dependency. To purify us.”

Gerron raised an eyebrow, not knowing where this was going.

“After much research, this place gave me the answer.” Venarus picked up a small chalice from beside him and filled it with the liquid from the pool. “The bloodspring gave me power. There were certain side effects that remain even now...but soon, I will rise above them.”

Gerron leveled the Mercury Hammer. “Yeah? Did any one of those side effects include death?”

Venarus finally turned towards him, sneering. “You will never understand what it meanest to—”

Gerron switched forms and opened fire.

Continuous bursts of pure magicka were launched towards Venarus. Even when obscured by the smoke, Gerron continued firing in that direction. 

He could hear the wrangled sounds of the Death Hounds getting decimated. By the time the smoke cleared, the spring lay shattered, its red contents spilling unceremoniously across the stone floor.

Venarus reappeared meters away, a few burns on his body but nothing too serious. He gazed at the broken spring with horror on his face. That horror morphed to unbridled anger.

“YOU CRETIN!” Venarus screamed, eyes wide with fury. He downed the chalice’s blood in one swift gulp. Instantly, the muscles beneath his armor swelled as magic pulsed violently from his hands.

Gerron fired another blast. But Venarus moved— fast. Blindingly fast.

He sprinted along the cave walls, running parallel to the floor with his axe in hand. Each blast missed by a hair. Gerron barely had time to switch forms before Venarus arrived.

Gerron’s hammer met enchanted axe. Sparks exploded between them. 

They locked in a contest of strength. Gerron’s raw might and superior weapon began to push Venarus back—until the vampire leapt away and raised both hands.

A storm of frost magic erupted from his palms as a wall of ice surged toward Gerron. He ducked behind a rocky pillar as the wave engulfed the space, frost spreading like a plague across the cavern.

When it subsided, Venarus was gone. 

His head swerved left and right, yet Gerron couldn’t spot Venarus anywhere. That was when a white-hot pain emerged as a blade of ice pierced through the gap in his side armor. 

Gerron snarled in pain, twisting just in time to swing his hammer behind him. It connected— hard. Venarus was forced out of invisibility, skidding back across the floor.

Gerron hissed as he yanked the ice dagger free, his hand burning from the cold. Blood ran down his flank, hot and thick.

Venarus vanished again, an act that annoyed Gerron to no end. Gerron slowed his breath as he focused and listened. The dripping of water from the stalactites echoed across the caverns.

That was when a small–nearly inaudible–sound of a step emanated from the side.

He roared and slammed the hammer down. The thrusters on the back of the Mercury Hammer ignited, launching the strike into the ground like a meteor. Lightning exploded outward from the impact, shaking the entire cavern and sending rubble everywhere as stalactites fell from the ceiling.

Venarus was flung from his invisibility, stunned. Gerron was on him in a heartbeat. A hard swing folded Venarus from the impact, sending him flying back. Gerron didn’t give him a chance to recover as he immediately rushed forward and slammed his hammer down to Venarus’ chest, caving in his ribcage.

Venarus gasped, yet his wounds were already healing. He lifted his hands as a beam of freezing wind struck Gerron. Frost spread across his arms and chest. He felt his fingers begin to numb.

Gerron ignored them and pressed forward.

He roared, a deep and primal roar, and brought the hammer down again.

Once.

Twice.

A third time.

Each impact sent vibrations across the cave as more and more of the stalactites fell and broke. The stone floor buckled beneath the blows.

Venarus’ body twisted unnaturally under the relentless impacts, trying to regenerate—but Gerron didn’t let up.

He crushed bones, organs, and limbs. Again and again. Until the red-eyed monster was nothing more than a twitching pile of gore.

He stood over the remains, steam rising from his breath, his armor coated in blood and frost.

Gerron exhaled, shoulders heaving.

“How’s that? Damn bloodsucking son of a bitch.”

Chapter Text

4E 201, Bleak Falls Barrow

Kiera Fendalyn

Kiera really didn't know why a damn dragon was here.

It was a little smaller than the one in Helgen, but it was no less terrifying. Bronze scales shimmered like burnished metal as the creature descended with terrifying speed, tt descended with terrifying speed from the clouded sky, wings unfurled in a whoosh of displaced air.

Kiera staggered back, shielding her eyes as the dragon landed hard on the edge of the cliff in front of her. A wave of snow and gravel exploded upward, showering her from head to toe. The whole mountainside seemed to tremble beneath its landing.

Seeing it now up-close, she just realized still how humongous it really was. Despite being smaller than the one before, this bronze dragon was easily twice the size of a mammoth, with its claws half as tall as her.

For a moment, neither of them moved. Golden-yellow eyes bored into her as it exhaled steam through its nostrils.

She gripped Dawnbite’s hilt tightly, just to feel some sense of security. Even though deep down, she knew her silver longsword was useless. Kiera was tired from fighting through an entire nordic tomb, but she wasn’t about to lay over and die without a fight. 

To her surprise, the bronze dragon didn’t go hostile. It began speaking to her in dragon tongue, which she didn’t understand at all. Seeing the confusion plain on her face, it switched back to the common language.

“I am Vermithor and I seek a stone, meant to depict the burial sites of my fallen brethren.” Vermithor spoke.

She knew instantly then that the dragon was seeking the stone she had procured from the barrow. She remembered it vividly—etched with strange symbols that she assumed was a map of some sorts. She’d thought it was important to the Nords, but now…

She forced herself to speak. “I know not what you speak of,” she lied. Her tone was steady, but the lie was brittle. “But if I did… what would you do with that stone?”

Vermithor did not roar or threaten. He simply looked at her, as if seeing through her words, seeing the truth behind them.

“I seek it to prevent Alduin from gaining an advantage over us.” Vermithor spoke, which surprised her to no end. 

Alduin.

Even hearing the name made her stomach clench. The World-Eater. That could only be the dragon from Helgen. She could still hear his roar—could remember how fire fell from the sky.

“Paarthunax has spoken.” Vermithor continued. “ The war of dragons and men shall ravage the world. Every living being—dragon, man, or mer—must choose a side. ”

War. A war between dragons and mortals. The very idea of it was staggering. She’d barely survived her first encounter with one. Now she was being told a war was coming—and not just from an enemy, but from one of their kind.

“I…” she swallowed hard. “Are you saying there are dragons fighting against Alduin?”

Vermithor raised his head, revealing his long serpentine neck.

“ Yes. Not all of us bowed to him. Some of us remember. ” He looked away for a moment, eyes distant. “ We remember the Tyrant before the world was shaped. ”

Kiera gulped. Vermithor had been nothing but cordial so far. He wasn’t a monster. This was a being with a cause. With reason. 

And he was asking for her help.

She clenched her jaw, mind racing. Could she trust him? Would Stendarr approve of such a choice?

She took a deep breath and gave a silent prayer to Stendarr, asking for guidance. She truly did not know what to do. The stone she had was apparently important enough to tip the scales of the future war, but could she really believe this dragon’s word?

A feeling of warmth filled her core that made her eyes widen, it was gentle. Like a slow flame from a hearth.

Without hesitation, she pulled out the dragonstone from her sack and gave it to Vermithor.

The bronze dragon’s eyes narrowed, not in aggression, but in reverence. He stepped closer, lowering his head just enough to let her place it down in front of him.

He studied it for a long moment before gently collecting it in one massive claw, curling his talons carefully around it as if it were something precious. Something sacred.

“ You have my gratitude, ” he rumbled. “ What may I call you, brave one? ”

She hesitated a moment, then straightened her spine. “...Kiera,” she said. “Kiera Fendalyn.”

“ Then I will remember this kindness, Kiera Fendalyn. The storm is coming. But not all storms come to destroy. ”

Without another word, Vermithor beat his wings once—twice—and lifted into the air, snow whirling in cyclones around his form. The force of his takeoff nearly knocked her over again. She shielded her eyes and watched as his bronzed form shrank into the clouds.

…

4E 201, Windhelm, Six days later

Gerron Ironbreaker

The icy wind howled against the stone walls of Windhelm as Gerron Ironbreaker crossed the threshold of the ancient city.

Towering gray walls and cobblestone streets covered in a layer of snow. Night had fallen hard, cloaking the streets in shadow save for the flickering torches posted at every corner.

The first thing he noticed was that there were many, many guards.

Far more than he remembered from his last visit. City guards patrolled the city aplenty, hands resting casually—yet purposefully—on the hilts of their swords. Gerron’s brow furrowed. Something was amiss.

Adjusting the fur cloak over his shoulders, he pressed forward, the promise of a warm hearth and a pint of mead guiding his steps to Candlehearth Hall.

When he pushed open the heavy oak doors, a wave of warmth and noise washed over him. The place was packed. Hearthfires crackled in the twin fireplaces, casting a lively glow across the weathered wooden beams. The smell of roasted meat, smoke, and strong drink filled the air. Half the patrons wore the blue and brown of the Stormcloaks, their axes and swords leaning against chairs and walls.

Gerron's sharp eyes quickly scanned the room—and there, at a corner table, he spotted a familiar face.

Ralof. The stout Nord was hunched over a mug of mead, his blond hair a bit longer than Gerron remembered, but the same lively spirit shone in his eyes. Gerron made his way over with a grin.

"Ralof," he said, clapping his old comrade on the shoulder. "Didn't think I'd find you drowning yourself this deep into a bottle."

Ralof looked up and grinned wide. "Gerron, you stubborn bastard! What in Oblivion are you doing here in Windhelm?! Come, sit." He waved to the barmaid for another mug as Gerron pulled up a chair.

The two shared a hearty swig before settling into easy conversation.

After a few minutes, Gerron leaned back and gestured toward the window, where he could just make out the passing guards. "What's with the heavy security? Feels like they’re preparing for a siege.”

Ralof’s grin faded, replaced by a grimace. "There was a murder two weeks ago," he muttered, voice low. "A lass from Candlehearth Inn, poor soul. Found with lacerations across her body. It ain’t the first one either. Bastard’s been stalking Windhelm for months now. A serial killer. The city guard’s tearing their hair out, and the steward’s near mad trying to catch the bastard."

Gerron frowned, his hand tightening around his mug. "Damn shame."

Ralof shrugged wearily. "It is. But life goes on, eh? Anyway, you caught me at a good time." He leaned forward conspiratorially. "Just finished a meeting with the Jarl and Galmar Stone-Fist. The weapons and armor you crafted saved a lot of our boys’ hides. Jarl Ulfric himself asked me to offer you a job. Full-time smith for the rebellion. What do you say?"

Gerron chuckled, shaking his head. "Tempting. But no. I’m looking to do some trade, not join another war. Our mine near Shor’s Stone hit a rich vein of ebony. Best haul we've seen in years."

Ralof’s eyebrows shot up. "Truly? Talos smiles on you, friend. I’ll send word to the steward at the Palace of Kings. He'll dispatch a runner to negotiate with Filnjar. You’ll have our thanks—and our coin."

"Appreciate it," Gerron said, raising his mug once more before finishing it in a long gulp.

After some more brief pleasantries, Gerron took his leave, stepping back out into the cold night and making his way to The White Phial, Windhelm’s famed alchemy shop.

The bell above the door jingled softly as he entered. The scent of dried herbs and potions immediately enveloped him. An imperial who introduced himself as Quintus Navale managed the counter, organizing bundles of nightshade and lavender into the shelves behind him.

Quintus looked up and smiled politely. "Feel free to use the lab if you need. We’re always happy to accommodate fellow alchemists."

"Much obliged," Gerron grunted, moving toward the alchemy table tucked in the corner. He unpacked the ingredients he had scavenged from Redwater Den, his hands working deftly.

He set to work.

The Alchemist perk had made sure his knowledge of herbs and the way to make use of them were equal to that of an expert. Ingredients were ground, distilled, and blended in a swift and precise motion. In minutes, he produced a series of potent potions—health restoratives, resistance draughts, and magicka potions—each more refined than anything the average shop in Skyrim could offer.

Quintus watched, wide-eyed, as Gerron brewed.

"By the Nine," he whispered. "That’s… that’s incredible work."

The sound of heavy steps descending the staircase interrupted them. Gerron glanced over his shoulder to see an elderly Altmer at the base of the stairs. He was old and thin, his face having that gaunt look of a man who was not long for this world.

"Master Nurelion." Quintus greeted.

"What’s with all the ruckus?" Nurelion snapped. His gaze fell on Gerron, initially dismissive, then narrowing with faint curiosity when he noticed the potions lined neatly on the lab table.

Gerron ignored the scrutiny and continued his work, unbothered.

Nurelion, however, wasn't the type to stay silent. The old alchemist stalked over, peering at the finished potions. He picked one up and inspected it with a critical eye. After a moment, his brows furrowed deeper.

"You have some skill," he muttered grudgingly. "Let me see that."

He brought the potion to his own workstation, running it through a series of alchemical tests meant to determine its quality. As the final reagent turned an unusual, vibrant shade of crimson, his eyes widened.

"My word," Nurelion whispered. "I’ve never seen a health potion this potent in my life."

He turned back toward Gerron, regarding him with new respect—and something else too.

"You’re not bad," Nurelion said. "Tell me—have you ever heard of something called the White Phial?"

At the mention of the name, a spark of recognition flashed through Gerron’s mind. He mentally delved into the compendium of recipes and artifacts stored by the Artificer System. It didn't take long to find the entry.

[White Phial]

An ancient relic from the Merethic Era, said to contain the first snow to fall from the Throat of the World. Any liquid dropped within the phial is instantly amplified and purified.

He lifted an eyebrow. "Yeah, I’ve heard of it. Legends say it can amplify and purify anything placed within."

Nurelion grew visibly excited, his usually sour expression brightening. "Yes, exactly! You know your lore. Listen to me carefully—I believe I’ve found its resting place. I would trust no one but another master alchemist to retrieve it. What do you say? Will you help an old man realize his life’s work?"

Gerron considered. According to the System, it was technically possible to craft a phial with similar properties himself. All he needed were rare ingredients like a briar heart, a few scoops of unmelting snow, a few mammoth tusks grinded into fine powder, and vampire dust. But finding one already made would be far easier.

He nodded slowly. "Sure. I’ll try to find time."

Nurelion’s face lit up with genuine joy, an expression so rare on an Altmer that it nearly startled Gerron.

"Excellent!" the old alchemist exclaimed. "You have no idea how much this means to me!"

Gerron just smiled faintly and turned back to finish bottling his potions.

Chapter Text

4E 201, Whiterun

Kiera Fendalyn

Whiterun was a beautiful city, set up in the middle of the largest plains in Skyrim. Its stone walls rise proud against the golden fields and wide, open skies. 

A cold wind from the nearby mountains tugged at the banners lining the road, yet the early spring sun cast a golden hue over the farms and wheat fields stretching out from the city’s edge. To Kiera, it felt strangely peaceful here.

The city's architecture was a blend of pragmatic Nord construction and subtle beauty: thick timbers reinforced longhouses and inns, while Dragonsreach loomed high above all. It was no wonder this hold was never conquered during the Great War.

She arrived just a week ago and had been welcomed into Whiterun swiftly the moment she told them the reason for her arrival. She had met the Jarl and recounted the harrowing tale of Helgen and the dragon’s assault.

Jarl Balgruuf was a just ruler and a good man, immediately dispatching a detachment of guards before nightfall. The Jarl’s steward, a balding Breton named Proventus Avenicci also raised legitimate concerns.

“I’ll not sit on my hands while my people burn,” he had declared, firm yet composed. “If Falkreath thinks a few guards in Riverwood means I’ve pledged to Ulfric’s rebellion, then perhaps they’re the ones looking for a war.”

Kiera had admired that. There was honor in decisive action, and it was clear Balgruuf had no love for either side in the brewing civil war. He wanted peace—but not at the cost of inaction.

After that conversation, the Jarl had thanked profusely for her efforts and told her that she was welcome in Dragonsreach anytime. “Any Vigilant is welcome in our halls. Especially one that has done me a great service. If you need lodgings, come to the Bannered Mare and tell Hulda that your stay will be funded by the Jarl. It’s the least I could do.” 

Though grateful, Kiera hadn’t immediately accepted. But after some thought—and realizing how much she still didn’t understand about dragons—she agreed. It seemed her path would remain in Whiterun, for now. She’d written a long letter to her mother that same evening, telling the reason for her long absence. With any luck, a courier would find the Hall of the Vigilants within the week.

When she stepped off the dais, the Jarl’s housecarl, Irileth, a Dunmer woman wearing padded leather armor as well as a beautifully crafted steel longsword gave her a nod of acknowledgement, one warrior woman to the other. Kiera returned the nod with kind, before promising some sort of spar between the two.

Irileth had agreed without hesitation.

She was also introduced to the Court Mage, one Farengar Secret-Fire. It was very rare for a Nord to venture into the arcane arts. And from what she can tell, this Farengar was quite talented as well.

After telling the whole court regarding the events at Helgen, Farengar had immediately requested a private talk with her. At first she was quite suspicious of it, until the man started ranting and asked plenty of questions regarding the dragon that she had met.

“What did it look like? How powerful was it’s Thu’um? What was the color of its scales? How sharp were its claws?”

She was quite overwhelmed at first, which prompted Farengar to take a deep breath and ask questions in a more cordial manner. It didn’t take her long to realize that he was deeply fascinated by the large creatures.

Prior to meeting Vermithor, Kiera would be perplexed to see anyone fascinated by the large beasts. All she could feel was utter dread and fear after meeting the one from Helgen. But now, after seeing that dragons were as diverse as people, she could see where the interest an academic like Farengar could come from.

So she tried her best to answer his questions. She had told no one yet about her meeting with Vermithor. The Bronze Dragon might have been a kind one, but very few people had realized that fact as of yet.

She would rather bide her time. She didn’t know what she was really waiting for, but she felt that it was the right thing to do.

The next day, she was invited back to Dragonsreach for a formal dinner. Dragonsreach itself was a wonder to her. She’d seen many keeps and temples across Skyrim, but few compared to this. 

The dinner itself was a lavish affair she found a bit too polished for her liking. The Jarl’s children were curious, especially the youngest, Nelkir, who remained quiet the entire time. Hrongar, Balgruuf’s brother and the Master-at-Arms of Whiterun, spent more time drinking mead than talking, but his tales of the Great War had kept the table entertained.

It was a candid experience, one she surprisingly enjoyed.

…

The spar Kiera had with Irileth was one of the most interesting fights Kiera had experienced in recent memory.

Irileth was a proficient swordsman and enhanced her fighting style with destruction and illusion magic. 

However, Kiera’s mastery of Alteration was what won her the bout. Irileth had quickly realized Kiera’s trick of sharpening her blade with flesh spells when her sword chipped after their first clash. 

Irileth changed tactics after that and turned invisible. It wasn’t the first time Kiera fought an invisible enemy, but it was the first time she fought someone who paired invisibility with a natural talent for sneaking.

Kiera’s usual tricks of finding them through footprints or changes in the wind didn’t work. So she had to improvise. She planted Paralysis Runes around her in a circular pattern, leaving only a single open path.

Sure enough, Irileth attempted to strike from that path, but her dagger bounced off Kiera’s magically reinforced armor.

In the end, they both cast magic aside and clashed with pure steel—blade to blade, breathless and grinning through gritted teeth. Kiera had won, barely. And Irileth had laughed, clapping her shoulder and calling her "a damn tricky bastard."

From that moment, they were fast friends.

Now, Kiera sat at her usual corner in the Bannered Mare, sipping warm mulled wine while watching the light from the hearth dance on the wooden beams. The tavern was lively tonight—a bard named Mikael singing the old tale of Ragnar the Red, patrons drinking, and a small brawl happening in the center between Uthgerd the Unbroken and Sinmir.

When Irileth entered, her presence immediately toned down the atmosphere. Conversations dipped for a second as her eyes scanned the room, the leather and steel of her armor clinking softly. She nodded to Hulda, the barkeep, and made a direct path to Kiera’s table.

“Kiera,” she said, voice low and serious. “The Jarl has requested your presence in Dragonsreach. We have a situation.”

Kiera straightened at once, setting her mug down. “Do you know what happened?”

Irileth shook her head as they exited the tavern into the cool night. “We received a runner from the Western Watchtower. I haven’t heard the full report, but if the Jarl wants you specifically—it’s likely dragon-related.”

Kiera grimaced, brushing a loose strand of golden hair from her face. “Of course it is.”

Whatever awaited her in Dragonsreach, she hoped she was ready.

…

4E 201, Road to Whiterun

Gerron Ironbreaker

The journey from Windhelm to Whiterun was an interesting one—though in truth, Gerron preferred a quieter road.

After wrapping up his business at the White Phial—with Nurelion reminding him again of the promise to seek the famed item and giving a mixture meant to open the path to the Phial—Gerron had taken a short detour to a place that had caught his eye on an earlier pass through the city.

Calixto’s House of Curiosities, they called it. A museum, of sorts. The kind that claimed to hold “treasures” gathered from across Tamriel. It was the kind of bold claim that usually meant worthless junk, but Gerron had learned the value of keeping an open mind. Sometimes, what others consider junk might just be secret treasures they didn’t know what to do with.

Who knows, perhaps some of those treasures might trigger more blueprints to show. At least that was Gerron’s hope.

Unfortunately, the old place was closed up. The front door was shut tight and the windows had been boarded haphazardly. After asking a cloth merchant nearby, Gerron learned that Calixto had supposedly taken an interest in some new museum in Dawnstar. Gerron idly remembered some posters being set up around Windhelm about it.

Gerron merely turned away, disappointed.

With nothing else to do, Gerron set off for Whiterun the next day after buying all necessary supplies for the long journey. He restocked on provisions, bought a few more filled soul gems, and left the city with his coin purse a few pounds lighter.

The road south from Windhelm was a long one, but well-traveled. Snow thinned out as he moved west, giving way to pine woods and the golden plains of central Skyrim. The land was beautiful this time of year, with the sun melting the frost from the treetops and the wind carrying the scent of wet earth and new grass. It might have been peaceful, were it not for the growing number of bandits staking claims along the roads.

He passed a camp just beyond a riverside shack—a messy cluster of tents and poorly disguised traps. A gang of rugged men and women loitered about. Orcs, mostly, with a few rough-looking Nords mixed in. They didn't try to stop him. He suspected they knew better than to pick a fight with a heavily armored Nord with a warhammer as big as a man was tall.

Still, it gnawed at him. The Stormcloaks at Fort Amol were close—close enough to ride in and crush the whole lot—but they did nothing. Bandits ran free, so long as they didn’t bother the soldiers. Gerron shook his head. 

It was one of the reasons why Gerron believed that the Civil War was truly a mistake. Ulfric had his reasons in rebelling and Gerron had no love for the Thalmor. But letting outlaws fester like rot on the land wasn’t a sign of strength for Ulfric, nor the Empire.

He tried not to dwell on politics. He was just an ordinary blacksmith from a small town. Someone who had no place deciding the fate of Jarls and empires. He was content with merely making arms and armor for the good coin they gave.

At least he had been. He wasn’t so sure now. Ever since he’d acquired the Artificer System, Gerron couldn't ignore the uneasy weight settling in his gut. As if trouble awaited in the corner and time was the only thing holding it back.

But those thoughts were for another time. Especially since he’s approaching another set of abandoned towers. Valtheim Towers they called it, Two towers, joined by a crumbling bridge over the White River. Gerron could see figures moving atop the bridge before he got close—bandits.

History said that these towers were once a proud defensive line for Whiterun against raiders from the eastern holds, but those days were long gone. 

Fellglow Keep, which sat above the mountain overlooking the river, was meant as the main castle to garrison the towers. It was now nothing more than an abandoned ruin.

A Nord woman stepped into his path near the base of the first tower, leaning on a massive battle axe like it was a walking stick. “Hold there, traveler,” she said, puffing her chest. “This here’s our road. If you want to pass, you’ll need to pay the toll.”

Gerron snorted. “Toll? This is Whiterun’s road. You planning to send coin to the Jarl?”

She scowled, fingers tightening on her axe. “We keep this path safe from worse folk. One hundred septims, and you pass with your bones intact.”

Gerron merely snorted.

A single swing with his hammer was all it took, flattening her helm with a crunch that echoed off the cliffs. Shouts rang out from the towers as the rest of the camp stirred, but Gerron didn’t wait. He charged the tower steps, his warhammer roaring through the air. The fight was short, brutal, and cathartic.

By the time he left Valtheim, his armor was splattered with blood—but the road ahead was clear.

…

He reached Whiterun the next day.

From the hilltop, the sight of the city should’ve been a welcome one—its towering walls and the wooden spires of Dragonsreach reaching high into the sky. But something was wrong. Crowds of people rushed inside the city proper, and the gates were half-shut, with guards scrambling to and fro.

As Gerron approached, a patrol waved him forward at a sprint. “Hurry!” one called. “You’re one of the last—we’re closing the gates!”

He didn’t argue. He slipped in just as the heavy doors thundered shut behind him. Inside, the city was in turmoil. Guards barked orders and rushed civilians into their homes. Archers lined the battlements, their eyes turned nervously to the sky.

Gerron made his way toward the central plaza, where a large crowd had gathered. 

A bald man stood on a crate above the crowd, wearing the standard armor of the Whiterun guard. “My name is Commander Caius,” he shouted. “Three days ago, the Western Watchtower was attacked. Only one soldier returned alive. He said it was a dragon.”

The crowd erupted in murmurs in fear and worry.

“We have confirmed the sighting,” Caius continued. “And we have reason to believe the beast is still in the area. Jarl Balgruuf has authorized a hunting party. We will ride to the Watchtower, locate the dragon, and if possible—slay it.”

The man swept his gaze across the crowd. “We need warriors and volunteers. You will be compensated properly.”

Gerron wasn’t surprised to see the numerous hands that instantly. Nords truly were crazy folk who’d happily march off to fight a dragon if it meant dying in honor and reaching Sovngarde.

Hell, Gerron wasn’t any different, for his hand was the first to shoot up.

Chapter Text

4E 201, Outside Whiterun

Gerron Ironbreaker

The so-called hunting party was two hundred strong. A ragtag group of strangers, perhaps, but no less formidable for it.

The majority of them were made of hardened guards from Whiterun—all clad in solid steel and padded surcoats, with the horse sigil of Whiterun emblazoned on their round shields. Beside them rode ten members of the Companions, the legendary warrior order of Whiterun. 

Gerron had recognized some of them. Aela with her face streaked in warpaint and a bow behind her back. Vilkas and Farkas, who were said to be warriors without equal. And Skjor, the man lauded to be the next harbinger after the current one passes on. 

And then there were the volunteers. Mercenaries and sellswords who belonged to no faction, but burned with a hunger for glory. A woman in full steel plate named Uthgerd rode beside a scarred Nord called Sinmir. The Dunmer mercenary Jenassa flanked by the Redguard swordsman named Amren.

Gerron rode in the second column, the leather reins of his chestnut-colored horse gripped in one hand and Mercury Hammer slung across his back. 

The air was heavy with tension, but it was not fear that stirred in him.

It was fire.

The rhythmic beat of two hundred hooves striking the earth in unison stirred something ancient in his blood. The rhythm of war, he thought. The song of warriors marching to meet their fate. He hadn’t felt this alive in years.

Their destination was the Western Watchtower, an old outpost built atop a rise just west of Whiterun. The road was clear thanks to the Jarl’s proclamation. Farmsteads had shuttered, fields lay abandoned, and the villagers had sought refuge within the city walls. The road felt eerie in its emptiness.

The column was led by Irileth, the Dunmer housecarl to Jarl Balgruuf. She was accompanied by a few veteran guards, and just beside her rode a younger woman in Vigilant of Stendarr robes, her face pale and tight with nerves, though he could see the resolution behind them.

Her eyes kept glancing skywards, her brows furrowed in thought.

Curious—and perhaps sensing a kindred spirit—Gerron guided his horse closer.

“You alright?” he asked, voice even.

The woman turned to look at him, startled. Her eyes were an amber yellow color. “Yeah. I’m alright,” she said after a pause. Then she sighed, the act loosing the tension on her shoulders. “It’s just... I’m worried.”

Gerron arched a brow, “About the dragon?”

“I was at Helgen,” she said quietly, and understanding appeared on Gerron’s face. “I saw what one of those things can do. Nothing we threw at it worked—not steel, not not magic. It tore through the Imperial Legion like they were wheat before the scythe.”

Gerron’s face shifted. “I see,” he said softly. “Then you’re one of the few who knows what we’re actually facing.”

“I suppose so,” she replied, glancing back toward the column. “Most of these folks... I don’t think they yet believe what it is they’re facing. I mean I get it, Dragons were just creatures lauded as myth after all.”

“I don’t think they want to believe,” Gerron said, gruffly. “Hope’s a strange thing. But I’m sure we’ll all be ready as soon as the first arrow flies.”

She chuckled bitterly at that. “Well said. I’m Kiera by the way. Kiera Fendalyn.”

“Gerron Ironbreaker.” He offered a small nod. “Can you at least tell me what to expect?”

She shifted in her saddle, adjusting her grip on the reins. “Mobility,” she said after a moment. “That’s the worst part. It’s not just big. It’s fast. Really fast. You don’t expect something that size to move like it does. And it stays airborne, often circling in the air like a hawk.”

“That’ll make things difficult.”

She nodded grimly. “It’s hard enough to pierce their scales. Even when you do hit them, it’s like striking solid steel. Arrows merely bounce off and spells scatter on their scales. ”

At that moment, Irileth slowed her horse slightly, clearly having listened in.

“We’ve got about half the company equipped with bows,” the Dunmer housecarl said. “The Companions also possess Skyforged Steel, though I’m not holding out for miracles. Do you have any tactical suggestions? Anything to give us an edge?”

Kiera took a breath and nodded.

“The Imperials at Helgen had more archers than we do and none of it mattered. Part of it was due to them being caught in surprise, but it didn’t change the fact that the dragon flew too fast, too erratically. Most arrows missed. And even the ones that hit didn’t seem to do much.”

Irileth frowned. “Then what did work?”

“The wings,” Kiera said. “They seemed thinner. Not armored like the rest of its body. If we can cripple one of them... we might force it to land, where our swords can reach them.”

Gerron leaned forward slightly, interested. “Ground it, then hammer it.”

“Exactly,” Kiera said. Her voice was gaining strength now. “But we have to be careful. The dragon was capable of using the Thu’um. There was a burst of force that scattered men like toys, another that pulled meteors out of the sky. Keep spread out. Don’t bunch. And if you hear anything strange from its mouth—run or duck.”

“Dragon Shouts,” Irileth murmured. “I have heard the Jarl and his brother talk about it before. There are even stories how Ulfric Stormcloak used it to tear the High King apart.” She shook her head. “I always thought it was just a Nord myth.”

“Not anymore,” Kiera said, firmly.

Irileth’s expression darkened. “Fine. Then we use the archers to harass it. Focus fire on the wings. If it lands, we charge. Keep it surrounded, hit it hard. And pray.”

Kiera nodded. “We’re certainly going to try.”

Gerron grinned then, the heat in his blood flaring. “That’s more like it. I have something that might ground it, if that’s what's needed.”

He tightened his grip on the reins as the silhouette of the Western Watchtower appeared in the distance, a broken spire rising against the cloudy sky.

The hunt was about to begin.

…

Kiera Fendalyn

The air stank of smoke and blood.

Even with the fires dwindling and the corpses no longer burning, the stench was still prevalent in the air. 

As they approached the watchtower, her stomach twisted. The structure itself—now barely more than cracked stone and rubble—leaned ominously against the sky, the foundations having been troubled by whatever the dragon did to make it this way.

The ground was littered with death. Burnt bodies, limbs torn clean off, and unrecognizable heaps of armor and flesh. There was no time to count the dead. Dozens, perhaps more.

The Companions as well as the accompanying Whiterun guards growled as they saw what became of their brother and sisters in arms.

“Do not cry for them now. You can mourn later, we have a mission to compete.” Irileth said. “Fan out and keep your eyes open. Search for survivors.”

“Yes, Housecarl.”

The order snapped everyone back into motion. Groups of ten peeled off toward the ruins, scanning for survivors among the wreckage. All the horses were tied to a nearby post. When the battle eventually comes, having horses running around amidst the chaos was something none of them wanted.

Aela dropped to one knee beside a melted patch of stone, tracing it with her fingers. “Not even dragonfire leaves scorch like this…” she muttered. “It’s almost like—”

“Lightning.” Gerron completed, following her train of thought. “Which means the dragon possesses the Thu’um for the lightning breath.”

Kiera was quite surprised when the man approached her during their ride, but she was grateful for it. She had asked Irileth if she recognized him, for Gerron had the look of a seasoned warrior. Irileth had shook her head. 

If anything, he looked reliable, and the hammer behind him seemed like a powerful magical artifact. She hoped it would be of some help.

She offered a silent prayer over the remains of a fallen guard, fingers brushing the melted steel of his helm. 

A shriek broke the quiet. A survivor—barely more than a boy—stumbled out from the tower, face pale, eyes wild.

“N-NO! Get back! They’re still here somewhere! Tormund and Gjorg got grabbed when they tried to make a run for it!”

“Guardsman!” Irileth shouted when she spotted the survivor. “What happened here?! Where is the dragon?”

Kiera interrupted before the guard could answer. “Wait, did you say ‘they’? As in more than one dragon?”

Everyone heard what Kiera said, and the grim realization made everyone tense in shock and fear.

The tremor that followed was not from the earth—it was from the sky.

Twin roars split the clouds.

“Here they come!” Irileth bellowed, drawing her blade. “Positions!”

Chaos erupted as archers sprinted up the stairs and ladders of the walls and tower as the infantry spread across the field. With nary a word, Ebonyflesh glimmered across her limbs like dark glass.

“I see one!” Vilkas pointed to the north, where a shadow broke from the peaks.

“There’s another!” Uthgerd called, her voice hoarse with dread.

“Divines save us.” Sinmir said as the two dragons approached from opposite directions, stopping when they were a hundred yards from the watchtower. They hovered in midair, beating their mighty wings to remain airborne. 

From this distance, Kiera could tell both dragons were massive, though still much smaller than the one in Helgen. One had scales a darker shade of gold, it was much bigger than the second one, with scales the color of rust.

“What are they waiting for?” someone asked.

Then both dragons started to speak. “YOL—!”

Kiera knew what was coming. “Everyone take cover!” 

“— TOOR SHUL!”

Both dragons spewed a river of fire from their gaping maws. But instead of aiming at the cluster of humans, they aimed straight down to the ground.

Kiera realized what the dragons were plotting when the two great beasts began flying in a wide diamond like shape around the watchtower, creating a cage of fire that imprisoned everyone within.

“They’re caging us, making sure none of us run away!” Skjor growled as he observed the wall of fire.

Loud, uproarious laughter filled the air as the Dragons flapped their wings above them. “Puny Mortals, you look like naught but scattered vermin!”

Archers loosed a storm of arrows—most bounced harmlessly off dragonhide.

“Arkay save us, we’re all going to die,” one of the guards murmured. The others didn’t look any better, their swords and shields held slack in their arms.

The dragons took a deep breath once more. “QO SPAAN LOK!”

Kiera could see the sparks bubbling behind their throats. Yet before the storm of lightning could emerge, explosions covered both dragons in smoke.

The rust-colored dragon shrieked as it plummeted from the sky. The gold one staggered, wings flapping madly as shock rippled through the air.

Two hundred heads gazed at Gerron with his hammer transformed—its head split open like a blooming flower, pulsing with pure magicka.

“Come on!” Gerron roared before the defeatist mentality could affect the others. “Let’s drag these overgrown lizards to the ground and make them regret the day they messed with us! For Skyrim! For Sovngarde!” 

The Companions were the first to join his cheer.

“For the Nords!” Skjor screamed.

“For Whiterun!” Farkas bellowed.

Sparks ignited in every warrior's soul. Kiera felt it too—a rising fire that even the dragons could not smother.

Irileth seemed to nod in approval. “Archers, aim for the wings!” She commanded. “The rest of you follow me! Let’s go kill a dragon!”

Arrows sang once more. This time, some found their mark, piercing thin wing-membranes. The gold dragon bellowed in fury.

Kiera rushed behind Irileth and Gerron toward the downed rust dragon. It thrashed, already recovering. Fire bubbled in its throat.

Before it could unleash another shout, Gerron smashed its jaw sideways with a thunderous blow, sending the fire blast spiraling harmlessly away.

Kiera’s eyes widened in disbelief as a few fangs got knocked out of its mouth.

“Hyah!” Irileth had followed through, puncturing her sword through the gaps in the scales, but it merely bounced off, much to her chagrin.

Kiera however, had learned her lesson. Coating her blade in the strongest Ebonyflesh she could, Dawnbite flashed forward and cleaved a chunk of a dragon’s flesh.

The dragon staggered in pain from the wound, a large gash having been carved right at the side of its chest, far bigger than a person and gushing out blood like a fountain. It’s tail began to swing wildly, catching a handful of whiterun guards and slamming them away with bone-crunching force.

That was when the gold dragon began to speak. “Zah Kind… You wish to face us below?” it thundered, voice filled with cruel glee. “Then Rinik, very well—I shall oblige!”

It swooped in, ignoring the archers in the tower and landed right on top of a group of soldiers. six were instantly crushed to death underneath its clawed feet, while dozens more were flung away as it hit the ground with earth-shattering force.

“Let me handle him!” Gerron bellowed, sprinting toward the gold beast. “Companions, with me!”

The Companions followed without hesitation. Skjor, Aela, Farkas, Vilkas—each one surged toward the golden beast.

Kiera stayed with Irileth, flanking the rust dragon. 

“Surround it and pierce its sides!” Irileth commanded, the guards spreading out and began thrusting their spears at the dragon’s sides. While most of them merely bounced off the dragon’s scales, some got lucky and managed to stab soft dragon flesh.

Uthgerd and Sinmir were at the forefront, smashing their greatswords into its scales while Amren slammed his shield to the dragon’s eye.

But the dragon spun in fury—its tail whipped across the field, sending dozens flying into the air.

Kiera forced herself to ignore the men dying around her and rushed forward, ducking beneath the massive head that lunged towards her and swung her sword right at the dragon’s shoulder, where the wing met body.

Her sword cleaved through the scales easily. The rust dragon howled in agony, before spinning its large body in its fury. Before Kiera could react, the beast’s tail caught Kiera in the chest like a whip, sending her flying.

“Kiera!” Irileth screamed in worry.

Getting back up with a grimace, she sent a quick healing spell to fix her injuries. The Ebonyflesh held up, thankfully, but she had no doubt that her ribs were either bruised or cracked.

Looking back at the gold dragon, Kiera grimaced as the beast took a full bite of an axe-wielding Companion before spitting him back out, dead. 

Gerron was there instantly, making use of the small gap in timing and slammed his warhammer into the dragon’s left eye, crushing it. 

The beast shrieked and blasted wind in every direction as it took to the skies, stumbling midair. The now one-eyed dragon glared hatefully at Gerron, who met the glare with one of his own. 

Seeing his flight path, Kiera shouted to Irileth and the guards. “Everyone get back!”

They did so, quickly avoiding the gold dragon who landed beside its wounded companion. “Enough! We have played far too much, Silklovkul! Mey! Let us finish this and be done!”

She felt a hand lifting her up by the arm, to see Gerron standing there with a few dents and marks across his ebony armor. “You alright?”

“Yeah, I’m good.”

“Then let us continue.”

More arrows flew from the tower towards the two dragons, most of it embedding in their wings. The gold dragon snarled in frustration as it took the skies again. The rust one remained on the ground, incapable of joining in the air due to its busted wing.

“ YOL—!

“It’s another fire breath!” Skjor screamed. “Everyone take cover!” 

Everyone rushed for the safety of whatever walls remained in the tower. But they were too late. Most of the warriors were scattered across the field when they fought the dragons, their folly would be answered now.

“ —TOOR SH–!”

Once more, before their shouts could finish, a blast of pure magicka hit the golden dragon straight out of the air. It was more powerful than the previous one, leaving a good sized hole in the center of its chest as it fell from the sky.

The rust colored one however, was interrupted by none other than Kiera—who had rushed forward, her body moving swiftly with a speed enhancing Alteration spell—and with a leap, rammed Dawnbite through its tongue, pinning it to its jaw. Her hand, glowing green, slapped against its throat, planting the most powerful paralysis spell she could on the dragon before looking back.

“GERRON!” 

The large nord heeded her words. Preparing another supercharged blast, he aimed it straight at the rust colored dragon’s open jaws. Kiera could see the fear in its eyes as it found itself incapable of moving. The blast went straight through, its chest puffing slightly from the force as smoke emerged from its mouth. 

The paralysis ended, and the dragon slumped forward. Dead.

The Whiterun guards exploded into cheers as their first enemy was slain, but those same voices were rendered mute at what happened next.

The dragon’s body started to glow, and Kiera’s eyes widened. ‘Was the dragon reviving itself?!’

She prepared to swing her sword once more to end it. Much to her surprise, the dragon’s flesh dissolved into harsh streams of light and energy, all shooting straight for her.

She stood stunned and confused, as power she had never felt in her life rushed through her. It felt as if her veins were on fire. 

Her instincts took over then, looking into the air she shouted for the first time. “FUS!”

A wave of force erupted from her throat, slightly disturbing the clouds in the sky. The remaining guards stared. “Dragonborn…”

“It cannot be!” All heads snapped up towards the second dragon, who despite his injuries, remained hovering near the broken watchtower. “You…you are Dovahkiin!”

The Whiterun guards, who had been looking at Kiera with the respect any dragon slayer deserved, now looked at her with reverence.

The dragon hovered a moment longer. Then its voice turned low and solemn. “ Fah faal bormah … We came to feast, only to find ourselves prey. I, Mirmulnir, shall take my leave. Alduin shall hear of this.”

Wait, did that mean the dragon was running away?

“You dare leave, coward!” Kiera shouted.

Mirmulnir snarled. “Still, your tongue, joor . Dov does not flee. I am granting you an extension of your flightless life. Be grateful. Bo nu. ”

Suddenly, the howl of a wolf was heard as multiple werewolves emerged from the top of the tower and jumped towards the dragon's back. With them was Gerron, leaping from stone to sky.

He launched himself from the tower’s edge like a meteor, hammer raised high.

He slammed it down upon Mirmulnir’s back, massive sparks of lightning emerging from the impact. With the Werewolves crawling around its body like ants picking apart a much larger foe, the dragon could do nothing as it fell from the sky.

The dragon’s screech of alarm echoed across the plains and the battle outside the cage of fire began.

Chapter Text

4E 201, Western Watchtower

Gerron Ironbreaker

When the rust dragon started to break apart into orange, blue, and white lights, Gerron found himself mesmerized just like everyone else. But he wasn’t a man to remain spellbound for long.

Especially when he realized the opportunity when everyone, including the dragon, was entranced by whatever was happening.

When he saw the gold dragon hovering near the Western Watchtower, he had an idea. A mad and dangerous one, but an idea nonetheless. He tapped Farkas and Vilkas on the shoulders before gesturing to the tower and pointing at the dragon.

They got the idea immediately and grinned, pulling Skjor and Aela into the plan before they all slunk in the tower, passing by the terrified survivor who refused to leave the safety of the tower’s stone walls, and ascended up the six-story structure. 

From the top, they could hear the dragon speaking as well as the collective murmurs of the other guards. Something about dragonborn as well as shouts about the dragon wanting to escape.

Well they couldn’t allow that, could they?

They peeked over the tower’s edge, Mirmulnir hovering just fifty feet away. That’s a jump he knew he could make, but he wasn’t so sure about the Companions. 

“Can you make that jump?” He asked.

To his surprise, it was Aela who seemed most excited. “Oh yes. It seems it is now time for us to show this dragon our true might.”

And before his eyes, the four Companions shifted.

Flesh split into fur. Joints cracked, realigning. Their forms stretched until they stood taller, broader, faster into lupine monsters of war. Snouts extended with rows of sharp teeth, claws grew like daggers, and a deep, guttural growl resonated from each of their chests.

Gerron’s grin turned wild.

“Oh, now this is gonna be fun.”

In perfect synchronicity, the four werewolves lunged, hurtling through the air with predatory grace. They landed atop Mirmulnir’s back, snarling and tearing into flesh, claws and fangs digging deep. The dragon shrieked, flailing in the sky.

Gerron raced back to the opposite end of the tower to give himself some sprinting room. He got down into a sprinter’s four-point start. His muscles tensed, exhaling once, then he exploded forward, shooting across the tower and leaping off the edge.

The tower vanished beneath him. He soared—eighty feet above the ground, the wind roaring past his ears. He drew the Mercury Hammer mid-flight, and just before he landed, its twin thrusters exploded as sparks emanated from the head.

He slammed down between Mirmulnir’s wings with enough force to bend solid steel.

The impact sent a thunderous boom across the plains. Blue arcs of energy danced across the dragon’s scales. 

Mirmulnir howled as he—as well as Gerron and the werewolves—began to fall. The dragon was incapable of flying with his wings injured as such. When they crashed, it felt to Gerron as if every bone in his body was rattled when he was flung from Mirmulnir’s back and tossed across the ground. He bounced twice before skidding to a stop.

Despite the pain, he refused to remain idle. He forced himself to his feet—immensely glad that the Mercury Hammer remained tight in his grip—and faced Mirmulnir as the dragon was beginning to pick itself up.

A brief glance told him that the werewolves were all fine as they all began surrounding the dragon in a pentagram formation. They had landed outside the cage of fire the two dragons had created around the watchtower, which meant they were cut off from the others.

This was their fight alone now.

And by the gods, Gerron relished it .

With a war cry that split the air, Gerron charged. The werewolves howled and joined him.

Mirmulnir’s head lunged forward, its maw gaping wide and aimed straight for Gerron. The Nord dove low, sliding under the snapping teeth, and brought his hammer in a brutal arc up into the dragon’s throat. The power behind it enough to crack the dragon’s scales and draw blood.

The dragon shrieked and retaliated.

Its tail whipped around and slammed into Farkas, hurling the massive werewolf into a boulder. Skjor leapt onto its back, claws raking along the side of Mirmulnir’s face, aiming for the one remaining eye, but was shaken off before he could do so, falling into the ground beneath the dragon.

Vilkas and Aela tore at his legs, but one was slapped away by a tail while the other was smacked away by a wing. Gerron went close once more and slammed his hammer upon one of its hind legs, crushing the toes beneath.

The scream from the dragon was music to his ears. Mirmulnir leapt into the air with the strength of his one leg alone, before crashing back onto the ground. Gerron had to scramble to avoid getting squashed, but the whining of a wolf had him look to see Skjor trapped beneath Mirmulnir’s colossal weight. Before Gerron could stop it, there was a sickening crunch as Skjor’s ribs were crushed beneath its weight.

The other three wolves let out howls before rushing the dragon with renewed energy. Gerron felt the same way, as he rushed forth with them.

“YOL TOOR SHUL!”

Gerron rolled to the side to avoid the river of fire that emerged from his mouth. Farkas and Aela, who were among the ones at the very front, got bathed in the breath of fire that painted the lands around them in flames.

They whimpered and rolled on the ground to stifle the flames that marred their skin. It was successful to a degree, until they were forced back onto their human form. Unconscious and injured, but alive.

The dragon rose again, leaping once more into the air before crashing back down. It slammed to the ground with its entire mass, sending a quake so fierce the earth shook beneath them.

The quake made both Gerron and Vilkas stagger, which allowed Mirmulnir to lash out with its tail. Vilkas was the first to get hit, which gave Gerron enough time to bring up his hammer up in time to block, but the impact numbed his arms to the elbow and hurled him like a ragdoll.

He was flung pretty far. When his armored body hit the ground, he could feel the breath getting knocked from his lungs. He shook his hands to get rid of the numbness. He tried searching for the Mercury Hammer, but couldn't find it. It must’ve been knocked clean from his hands.

The consecutive tremors running through the ground—growing stronger with each seismic shake—warned Gerron that Mirmulnir was barreling towards him. 

Biting back a curse, Gerron rolled back to his feet and saw the dragon rapidly approaching, its gaping maw wide open. It was planning on swallowing Gerron whole.

Gerron didn’t have his hammer, didn’t have a single magic spell to his name. What he did have was his hands.

With a defiant snarl, Gerron planted his feet. He drew back his right fist, funneling every ounce of strength the Battle Smith perk could muster into his arm.

Then he unleashed it in a massive uppercut that connected right beneath Mirmulnir’s lower jaw. The dragon’s mouth snapped shut, and its head jerked skyward.

He followed suit with another sharp jab to where the dragon’s liver should be—not that he knew much about dragon anatomy—and finished it with a kick that slammed down to Mirmulnir's injured leg.

He jumped then—grabbed the horns at the back of Mirmulnir’s head, planted a foot against the base of the dragon's head—and pulled .

Mirmulnir began thrashing his head left and right to try and dislodge him. Bursts of fire began spewing from his mouth. But Gerron remained still as he kept a death grip on the dragon’s horns. He swallowed down the nausea that appeared from the constant movement and just kept pulling.

In panic, Mirmulnir launched upward, then fell back like a tower of stone, trying to crush him beneath its bulk. Gerron, once he realized what the dragon wanted to do, could only brace himself for the inevitable. Mirmulnir slammed Gerron to the ground, flattening him between the rocky ground and dragon body.

His ebony armor was the only reason he wasn’t killed instantly, but Gerron nearly blacked out then and there. He bit into his own tongue to let the pain keep himself conscious. Blood started to flow from his clenched teeth, but it kept him awake and aware.

Despite the pain of nearly being crushed alive, Gerron continued to pull, even when it felt like his back would break and his arms would tear.

“NO!” Mirmulnir screamed.

With one final roar of defiance, Gerron wrenched the creature’s head sideways—

—and with a wet, horrific snap, the dragon’s neck twisted where it should not.

The beast fell still. So did Gerron.

The silence was deafening.

He couldn’t move and everything hurt.

The dragon’s eye, dim and fading, stared at him.

“You…are Kril, brave ,” it rasped. “You might not be dovah…but you are…a worthy enemy.”

And with that, Mirmulnir died.

“Fucking hell,” Gerron wheezed.

“Gerron!”

He spotted Kiera, Irileth, and the rest of the Whiterun guard running towards him.

“That was incredible!” Kiera said before she noticed his current state. “You’re hurt!”

She immediately cast Healing Hands on him, and Gerron couldn’t withhold the sigh of relief as the cool sensation of the restoration magic washed over him. That, aided with the Ring of Restoration he has on his finger, should mean his injuries would heal sooner or later.

“Thanks.”

Around them, the guards murmured in disbelief.

“He killed a dragon… with his bare hands .”

“Talos, what a mad bastard…”

“That’s how Nords do it.”

That was when Mirmulnir’s flesh started to dissolve. Gerron made sure to study it as much as he can with the observation aspect of his System. As the lights once more began rushing towards Kiera, he understood the process well enough.

She was consuming the dragon’s soul. Its very essence was devoured by the dragonborn sitting in proximity with it.

Gerron was a proud nord, and he understood enough the meaning of having a dragonborn at his side.

Just wait for it, it should come about in three…two..one…

The skies quivered as a massive voice thundered across all of Skyrim.

“DOV AH KIIN!”

Gerron looked to the heavens and smiled.

“There it is.”

Chapter Text

4E 201, Jorrvaskr

Kiera Fendalyn 

Kiera had already known that Nords were a boisterous lot. But even she didn’t expect that the victory celebrations would be done like… this .

A drunken brawl had erupted in the center of the square where the tables had been arranged in a tight, uneven grid—wooden tables filled to the brim with tankards, meat, and mead. 

Kiera’s eyes strayed to the mess of bare-chested, bruised, and sweaty men pounding each other senseless, all while laughing and yelling like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Even stranger was how cheerfully the crowd egged them on. Women shouted in chorus, clapping and howling like it was some wild theatrical show. A few of them, just as drunk and spirited, leapt into the fray—one of them tackling a stocky Nord man to the dirt and cheering when she came out on top.

Kiera leaned back against one of the tables, arms crossed, lips twitching upward. It was so… Skyrim . Harsh and cold one minute, then alive with laughter the next.

The moment the battle was over, the Companions had been the first to declare a feast. The celebration had spilled out of Jorrvaskr like a rising tide—the steps that led to the longhouse, across the plaza and the training yard behind it all filled with the denizens of Whiterun. 

The turned battleship-turned-mead hall was lit from within like a forge. Fires crackled in braziers. Spit-roasted boar turned over flames. Children ran barefoot, their faces painted with war-paint.

Even Jarl Balgruuf and the entire nobility were here. Beside him, the hulking figure of his brother Hrongar laughed louder than anyone else, a cup of mead in each hand. A few Thanes could be spotted laughing and drinking alongside the many Whiterun Guards that took part in the battle, who were being lauded as the main stars of the party.

Somewhere in the chaos, Aela sat quietly at the foot of a memorial pyre, her eyes distant as firelight flickered over her painted face. The twins, Vilkas and Farkas, stood shoulder to shoulder nearby, along with Kodlak, the Harbinger of the Companions. Each of them accepting drinks in memory of their fallen shield-brother, Skjor. 

Kiera had asked about the Nord custom of celebrating the dead, and Farkas had answered simply. “He wouldn’t want us weeping. He’s in Sovngarde now, drinking with Ysgramor. He died well. So we drink well . ”

It was strange, Kiera thought, to find comfort in such things. Her faith in the Divines didn’t quite stretch to the Nord’s vision of the afterlife. But somehow… it helped. In their mourning, there was pride. In their pride, a strange kind of peace.

The other two dozen Whiterun guards who died in the fight were also celebrated as toasts were done in their name. The Jarl had even come to each of their families, flanked by Irileth and Commander Caius to deliver the news, along with a decent pouch of septims as recompense.

The werewolf revelation still sat uneasily with her, though. She wasn’t blind to what it meant. Ties to Hircine were no small matter. In Cyrodiil, that kind of daedric association would have had the Vigilants descending on Jorrvaskr like a divine hammer.

But here?

Here, it was celebrated.

The Jarl had even admitted he knew of the Companions' powers, yet verbally supported it. 

She was uncomfortable, but decided to respect their beliefs. After all, there were far worse Daedra to worship than Hircine. Her worship only comes in the thrill of the hunt for sport. Not something malicious.

Not like Molag Bal. Or Mehrunes Dagon. Or Boethiah.

Still, she’d be keeping an eye on them. Just in case.

She took another sip from the cup in her hands—Honningbrew, she thought—and winced. Too sweet. Nords loved their mead like they loved their axes: loud, strong, and dangerously sharp. She much preferred the quiet floral wines of Cyrodiil, or the earthy ales her mother used to brew in the Vigilants’ hall. Her mind turned briefly to the thought of her mother, and she felt a pang.

She missed her dearly, and yet here she was getting comfortable in Whiterun instead of making the trip to Dawnstar. She blinked away the thought and turned toward the one person whose name was on everyone’s lips tonight.

Gerron Ironbreaker.

The massive Nord stood tall amidst a crowd, his mane of blonde hair spilling over a thick fur mantle. He let out a boisterous laugh as he had one arm around Farkas. The two of them had become fast friends and were already drunk on glory, telling tales and clinking mugs.

None had known who he was, and from what the rumors say, he had only arrived in Whiterun and was among the last to enter the walls when Commander Caius had asked for volunteers.

His choice of weapons and armor had garnered plenty of attention, for very few men and women in Skyrim had access to ebony of such fine make. When questioned about it, the man had regaled the tale of how Shor’s Stone, a village in the Rift, was blessed by the gods when their dying iron mine was found to have veins filled with ebony ore.

He claimed to have smithed them himself, which had made Eorlund Gray-Mane to look at him in interest. In the end, he had earned the friendships of many of the people in Whiterun, Kiera included. 

After all, the sight of him breaking the dragon’s neck with his bare hands was one she would not forget in her lifetime. It was a story that had been regaled by many of the people who had seen it. By this time tomorrow, she wouldn’t be surprised if the whole city knew of Gerron’s feat.

“Gerron the Dragonslayer!” someone shouted.

“No, no—Gerron the Ebony Warrior!!”

“You blind, it was the Dragonborn that killed the second one!”

"They both did! They'll be in the songs together!"

Even now the bards were already singing their new ballad, "Breaker of Iron". A song dedicated to the man who broke a dragon's neck with his bare hands. It was sung alongside "The Dragonborn Comes", celebrating these two new champions that rose when the people needed it.

Kiera rolled her eyes. She didn't care for the spotlight. Every time someone called her Dragonborn, it felt… unreal. As if they were speaking of someone else. She still couldn't wrap her head around the fact that she's this supposed warrior of legend reborn.

Another boisterous laughter had Kiera’s attention whinging to the Jarl and his brother. Apparently, Jarl Balgruuf often spends his time drinking with the Companions. It wasn’t rare to see him walk down from Dragonsreach and visit the districts of Whiterun in his leisure. At least once every two weeks, he could be seen amongst the common folk gazing at the wares of the city square.

While he was most often accompanied by Irileth and a score of guards, it didn’t change everyone's perception of him. He truly was a good Jarl.

Jarl Balgruuf had approached her earlier in the evening, offering both a congratulatory toast and a request: to climb the mountain and make the ten-thousand steps of High Hrothgar. The Greybeards had called her. She was to answer.

“You’ve got a path ahead of you,” he’d said quietly, “one only you can walk. But know that Whiterun will always have your back, lass.”

She appreciated that. She really did.

But right now?

She was exhausted .

Yet again she found herself being forced on another merry quest. While she would always be happy and glad to help those who need it, she wanted nothing more than to rest and make her way to the Hall of Vigilants to meet her mother. 

It had been one thing after another. First she was ambushed by Imperials and nearly had her head chopped off, then a dragon showed up and called meteors from the sky. Then, she went to a tomb full of undead and fought a Draugr Deathlord, which then another dragon had showed up. 

Just when she thought things would calm down after reaching Whiterun, another two dragons showed up. 

Never say life in Skyrim was boring. Kiera wanted nothing more than to sleep for a week.

Finally feeling the fatigue that had settled in after she reached the land of the Nords, she rose from the bench with a groan. Irileth, standing by the Jarl’s side, arched a single brow in her direction.

Kiera gave a subtle shrug, and gestured to the door: I’m done.

Irileth offered a faint, understanding smile and nodded.

Threading her way through the crowd, past laughter and firelight, music and stories, she made her way down to the Plains District, her steps slow, dragging.

The Bannered Mare stood warm and inviting, lanterns glowing through its shutters. Hulda gave her a wave from behind the bar but didn’t try to stop her. She must’ve seen the bone-deep weariness in Kiera’s gait.

She climbed the stairs, wincing as the wood creaked beneath her boots. She didn’t bother undressing fully—just peeled off her coat, set her sword against the corner, and let herself fall into the bed.

Feathers. Real ones.

The soft kind you only ever got in inns with a little money behind them.

As her cheek pressed into the pillow, the sounds of celebration outside faded to a gentle hum—like the ocean in a shell. Her breath slowed. Her heartbeat settled. The weariness pulled her under like a velvet tide.

The last thought she had before sleep took her was simple:

‘Please. No dragons tomorrow.’

…

4E 201, Hall of Vigilants

Keeper Carcette

The candlelight flickered across the pages as Carcette Fendalyn dipped her quill once more into the inkwell. 

The scratching of ink against parchment was the only sound in the room besides the occasional howl of wind outside. The Hall of Vigilants was quiet this evening—eerily so. Even the hounds, typically restless by dusk, lay curled in their corners, subdued by the chill creeping in from the mountains.

Her study, tucked into the upper wing of the Hall, was a cramped but sacred space. Tomes lined the walls—some bound in cracked leather, others in strange metallic filigree from far-off lands. A locked chest in the corner held artifacts confiscated during raids, the most dangerous sealed behind layers of warding enchantments.

She sighed, eyes scanning the report from Morthal.

“...Several citizens claimed to witness a woman vanishing into thin air beside the marsh. Possible illusion magic, but a sigil matching that of Clavicus Vile was carved into the stone nearby. Investigation ongoing.”

Carcette set the letter down, her mouth tightening. Another one. That made five instances this month of Daedric sigils left behind as if mocking them. Worship was spreading like rot in damp timber.

Just last night, they’d purged a cavern in Winterhold. A circle of six—three of her senior Vigilants and three initiates—had raided the place after weeks of whispered rumors. Inside, they’d found a hidden cult to Vaermina, its members already lost to the madness she sowed. One of the initiates had suffered a psychic backlash from a cursed idol. He hadn’t woken up yet.

And now there were murmurs… dangerous ones.

She tapped a finger against another sealed scroll on her desk. Reports had filtered in from across the Pale: a red-robed figure seen near the coast, preaching of a new dawn, opening a museum of all things. She didn’t want to believe it. But the word Mythic Dawn had been used—spoken like a ghost from a darker time.

‘Talos preserve us,’ she thought. ‘ We don't need another Oblivion Crisis.’

Her door creaked open slightly.

“Keeper,” came a soft voice from one of her aides, Brother Edvar. “You’ve been working since dawn. Perhaps you should rest—”

“I’ll rest when Stendarr’s light is no longer needed in this cursed land,” she said, not unkindly.

Edvar hesitated, then nodded and backed out with a murmur of respect.

She returned to her desk, reorganizing letters from their field agents. Tyranus’s name caught her eye again. She frowned.

He had left a week ago for Markarth, intent on investigating reports of a strange door and increasingly erratic behavior among some of the city’s guards. Daedra had always lurked in the shadows of the Reach. Something about those mountains invited darkness.

She drummed her fingers on the desk. He should’ve returned or reported in by now. Maybe it was nothing—delays happened. A freak snowstorm. A collapsed pass. Or even just a longer investigation.

But her gut told her otherwise.

She reached for a clean parchment and scrawled out a deployment order. She’d send a small squad to find him—two senior Vigilants, armed and blessed. If it turned out to be nothing, so be it. If not… well. She wouldn’t leave one of her own to die in the dark.

She was sealing the letter when her mind drifted— again —to Kiera.

Her hand paused mid-fold, and her stern expression softened.

Her daughter. Her pride. Her heart.

Kiera had always been a headstrong child, too quick to throw herself between danger and the defenseless. It was what made her perfect for the Vigilants, even if Carcette had tried for years to keep her away from the darker corners of their work. But in the end, Kiera had followed the same path.

She had set out from Cyrodiil to join Carcette months ago. Carcette had expected her to arrive already, but no word had come—until a courier from Whiterun finally delivered a note.

She’d read the letter so many times she could recite it by heart.

“Mother, I’ve been delayed. There’s talk of dragon sightings—can you believe it? I saw one myself, massive with pitch black wings. I’ll make my way to the Hall once things settle down. I promise. Stay safe. I love you.”

Carcette had sighed when she first read it, exasperated but warmed all the same.

It was so like Kiera to stop for every injured pilgrim or missing villager along the way. That compassion— that will —was what made her shine. She had a healer’s heart, tempered by a warrior’s hand.

But even so…

The destruction of Helgen had rattled her. When word first reached them of the razed town, Carcette’s blood had run cold. Helgen was the southernmost outpost in Skyrim, meant to be a stop by for anyone visiting from the southern regions. The questions had rung her mind then. Had Kiera already passed by Helgen or did she not yet arrive? Was she present when Helgen attacked? Is she even still alive?

The letter had soothed that terror. Whiterun was one of the most secure cities in Skyrim, partly due to the Companions’ presence as well as Jarl Balgruuf’s ironclad stance of neutrality regarding the war. No Stormcloak or Imperials are welcome in his lands if they are there seeking trouble, which lead to plenty of headaches from both sides as they found themselves incapable of mobilizing their armies through the most central region in Skyrim.

The doors to her office burst open. Two Vigilants stood framed in the doorway, winded and wide-eyed. Their armor bore fresh snow, and one still clutched a half-tied scroll in his gauntleted hand.

“Keeper Carcette!” the first, a young woman named Sanya, called out. “We have visitors—Stormcloaks! They approached the sentries asking to speak with leadership!”

Carcette’s eyes narrowed. “Stormcloaks? Here? They know the Hall is neutral.”

Before she could form another thought, the second Vigilant stepped forward—older, sterner. “Keeper, I have news.” His voice was grim. “They say… they say Whiterun was attacked. By a dragon . ”

Carcette went still. 

Her hands tightened around the edge of the desk. “When?”

“Two nights ago,” the man replied. “News says it came from the west. It destroyed the Western Watchtower. Jarl Balgruuf sent out a hunting party to bring it down and they did so, though not without casualties.”

Carcette stood slowly, her robes whispering against the stone floor.

Carcette turned toward the window, where the mountains stood like silent sentinels beyond the frost-laced glass.

Another dragon. This one at the heart of Skyrim.

What in the name of Stendarr was going on?

Chapter Text

4E 201, Whiterun

Gerron Ironbreaker

“That’ll be four hundred septims, my good man.” The sleazy looking merchant smiled at him with pearly white teeth. Gerron blinked at the number, narrowing his eyes.

“ Four hundred? No no, two hundred. I specifically asked for a gemstone already appraised.”

Belethor’s oily grin didn’t falter. “Yes well, the appraiser herself needed to be paid for, not to mention the back breaking work of transporting the precious stone to and fro Old Fralia’s shop—her knees aren’t what they used to be. I'm just trying to keep commerce flowing in these difficult times.”

Belethor’s General Goods Store was appropriately named, for it was indeed a store where every bit of merchandise from the nine holds of Skyrim would be available. Whiterun was a trading powerhouse, mainly due to its central location in the lands of Skyrim.

It was here he decided to seek the gem of crystal worth two hundred septims to create his Homunculus Servant. But said owner of the store proved to be a capable haggle.

After a few more minutes of back and forth, Gerron managed to reduce the four hundred to a sum of three hundred and twenty septims. Still mind bogglingly expensive, but it was something. Gerron sighed as he handed over the coin. His coin pouch felt lighter. His pride, heavier.

“Much obliged.” Belethor nodded with that same sleazy smile. 

Gerron shook his head as he tucked the crystal away into his satchel, already picturing the next step of lacing the crystal with runes and sculpting it into the shape of a small skull. 

He had passed the hardest step of procuring the rare crystal. While it wasn’t so expensive, the crystal had to be imbued with magical receptivity, a rare trait in a crystal Belethor had somehow acquired, likely by means Gerron really didn’t want to know.

After all, Gerron had noticed the small mark carved onto the wood of his shop. Any trader who had worked in Riften would know of what it meant. 

Whiterun bustled as he stepped back into the main street. Even two days after the Dragon Hunt, as people called it, celebrations were still going strong. Streamers still hung across the market, fluttering in the breeze. Ale casks were being rolled toward the Gildergreen for yet another round of public celebration. Laughter echoed through the square as a crowd gathered around Mikael—the bard who frequents the Bannered Mare—spinning tales of the event.

According to him, Gerron had leapt onto the beast’s back and wrestled it from the sky with nothing but his fists, while Kiera had slashed through the neck of the dragon with a sword glowing a brilliant gold. The real story was far less romantic—and far more exhausting.

The dragon’s bones and scales had just finished being carried from the watchtower and were now being carted up to Dragonsreach for the court wizard to research. Farengar was a capable mage and an even better scholar. 

Gerron had half a mind to request some of the bones as his own spoils. His Artificer System was going wild for the things he could make with many of the dragon’s parts.

The dragon’s eyes, blood, and heart were powerful alchemical ingredients. Its nails and teeth would make sharp blades and scales would make good armor. Not to mention the potential of the dragon’s bones for armor and bows.

But seeing their size truly made the victory feel surreal. He could still feel the dragon’s weight in his hands, the strain in his arms when he cracked its neck. The dread he could feel when that damn gold dragon crushed him.

But he hadn’t misstepped. And now? Now the people called him the Dragonslayer. It was a cool name, but he’d honestly then call him the Artificer instead. Zenithar’s gift was the true reason why he survived.

The Companions had offered him lodging in Jorrvaskr after the battle—honorable and generous—but Gerron had opted instead for the Bannered Mare. The Jarl had seen to it that his room and board would be covered by the city’s coffers. He wasn’t going to turn that down.

Besides, the ale was better here. And the beds softer.

He descended the stairs of the inn the next morning, scratching his beard and wondering if he’d finally get a day without someone trying to hand him a child to bless or a tankard to chug. That’s when he spotted Kiera, seated near the hearth.

She wasn’t in armor—just a woolen doublet of earthen brown and a well-worn travel cloak clasped at the shoulder. Her snow white hair was pulled back into a low ponytail, and around her neck gleamed the Amulet of Stendarr that she never seemed to take off. The firelight caught the markings etched on the amulet, marking her as a Vigilant. 

She was a beauty and a fine warrior to boot. Gerron was proud to call her a friend.

Gerron approached and waved to Saadia, the Redguard maid who ran the floor with a quiet dignity and a sharp glare that kept hands where they belonged. She offered a small nod and went to fetch breakfast for him.

“Morning,” he said, pulling a chair beside Kiera. “What are you reading?”

“Oh, this.” She turned the book, allowing him to see the title. The Book of the Dragonborn.

“Ah, a good read.” Gerron chuckled as Saadia returned with plates of trencher bread, roasted venison, eggs, and a thick slice of goat cheese. Gerron dug in eagerly. “How are you handling things?”

Kiera looked into the fire. “Pretty well, I think. Just… hard to wrap my head around the idea that I’m supposed to be this warrior of legend.”

He followed her gaze and saw the tension in her posture—the slight furrow in her brow.

Just then, two children burst into the tavern behind them. They paused when they spotted her and whispered excitedly to each other.

“That’s her! That’s the Dragonborn!”

The younger of the two pointed, eyes wide.

Kiera flushed and quickly looked back at her book, trying to appear unbothered.

Gerron leaned back in his chair. “Don’t take it too seriously,” he said. “No one expects you to charge off and slay every dragon from here to Solstheim. You just found out about everything and haven’t even begun your training. These things take time.”

Kiera grimaced. “I’m not sure we have time. We were lucky back then. What if the other holds—or even the hundreds of defenseless villages—get visited by dragons even bigger than Mirmulnir or Silklovkul? How do we stop them then?”

Gerron scratched his beard. “I guess we might have to come up with some ways to combat them without relying on you every time. I’m proof enough that it doesn’t have to be your hand that does the killing.”

He reached into his pouch and pulled out the crystal he bought from Belethor, holding it up in the light. A smile appeared on his face. “I’ve got some ideas. I told you I was an artificer, right? We’ll get ready. You train, and I’ll build. Let’s face these dragons together.”

Kiera’s eyes widened slightly before a small relieved small appeared on her face. “Thank you, Gerron. Truly.”

Gerron tilted his head at that. Kiera was young, younger than him by a few years at least. This must all feel like a weight she never asked for and wasn’t sure she could carry.

Before she could answer, the tavern doors swung open again, Irileth walked through the doors and scanned the room until her eyes landed on them. Kiera. Gerron. The Jarl invites you to Dragonsreach. There is much to discuss.”

…

Dragonsreach

Kiera Fendalyn

The echo of their boots followed them up the winding steps into Dragonsreach. Kiera moved in silence beside Gerron, her fingers tightening around the straps of her cloak. The towering hall of the palace loomed above them—timber beams like ribs of an ancient beast, sunlight streaming through the narrow stained-glass windows like watchful eyes.

The guards who flanked the massive doors opened it at Irileth’s nod. The housecarl led them to an area above the main hall, where a massive map of Skyrim was set over a table.

Jarl Balgruuf sat on his high seat, flanked by his brother Hrongar, Commander Caius, and Farengar, who was currently busy transcribing the texts of an ancient tome regarding dragons.

They were already mid-discussion when Irileth gestured them forward. “My Jarl. Kiera Fendalyn and Gerron Ironbreaker.”

Jarl Balgruuf stood, motioning them closer. “Thank you for coming so quickly. Sit, if you wish. We’ve much to discuss.”

Kiera bowed slightly, eyes scanning the faces of Skyrim’s power players. Hrongar was here as the Master-at-arms of Whiterun. Caius, the commander of the guard sporting the usual armor. Farengar, the Court Wizard sitting on one of the chairs didn’t even glance at them as he was busy scribbling something down with a charcoal stick on yellowed parchment.

“I’ll get to the point,” Balgruuf continued. “That dragon was not the last. Grim news has reached us, Rorikstead has burned, with the survivors escaping in every direction. All the major holds in Skyrim have finally taken the dragon’s return seriously. While we might have repelled the first attack, there’s no telling whether they would return with greater numbers. Whiterun is exposed. We need options. Defenses. Ideas.”

That was when Gerron perked up. She watched him with something bordering on envy. If only she shared some of that confidence.

“I’ve thought long and hard about the dragon's potential weaknesses. Ballistas,” he said plainly. “Arrows pierced the dragon’s wings, but it took a lot of us—and luck. Ballistas would give us better odds. Mounted on the walls with trained crews, they could tear through a beast’s wing mid-flight.”

Commander Caius crossed his arms, considering. “We’d need to hire skilled arbalists, blacksmiths, carpenters, and more iron than we’ve got. But… aye. It’s feasible.”

Hrongar grunted. “We’d need to train the garrison to operate them. Whiterun’s never needed siege weapons before.”

“And we’ll need armor that can withstand fire,” Gerron added, turning to Farengar. “Have you studied the dragon bones and scales yet?”

“I’ve only just received them,” the wizard replied, reluctantly setting down his quill. “But the material is promising. The bones are light, yet harder than tempered steel. The scales are fire-resistant… naturally.”

Gerron nodded. “I’d like to request my share.”

Kiera blinked in surprise. “Your share?”

Balgruuf chuckled. “They’re your spoils, Gerron—and Kiera’s. I was the one planning to buy them off you. Not the other way around.”

Gerron smiled faintly. “Then consider it accepted. I have plans myself on creating a few things that will be useful in taking down the dragons.”

“Might I request you to join you in that endeavour?” Farengar questioned. "While I’m not a craftsman myself, I’m a capable enchanter and could help you in determining the dragon's properties.”

“Of course.” Gerron nodded.

Kiera let herself relax a little. For all the strangeness of the past few days, Gerron’s calm presence had been a lifeline. ‘ He doesn’t leave it all on my shoulders,’ she realized. 

She remembered his words from this morning. ‘ We’ll get ready. You train, and I’ll build.’

He said ‘we.’ Not ‘you.’

The discussion continued. Farengar rose with a scroll in hand. “There’s something else to consider. A source of knowledge, you could say. A friend of mine, from outside Whiterun. She’s… eccentric. But she knows more about dragons than any living scholar.”

Irileth scowled. “That woman again?”

Farengar didn’t meet her eyes. “Yes. Her knowledge could prove invaluable in helping us prepare.”

“She walks through Whiterun like she owns it,” Irileth snapped. “Always talking about her ‘ancient order,’ as if that gives her the right to order around Jarls and captains. I never liked her.”

“Granted, she’s rough around the edges,” Farengar conceded, coughing awkwardly. “But she’s studied the return of dragons for decades. Let me write to her. At the very least, her insight could be—”

“Enough,” Balgruuf said, lifting a hand. He was silent for a moment, gaze fixed on the banners swaying above them. Then he nodded. “Do it. But make it clear: she holds no authority in Whiterun. Any prancing or misdemeanors will not be tolerated. If she causes trouble, she’ll be gone.”

Farengar bowed. “Of course, my Jarl.”

Kiera exhaled slowly as the meeting drew to a close.

Balgruuf gave them a final look. “Rest while you can. The days of peace in Skyrim are ending. With the dragons and the war, the next few years will be plentiful in conflict.”

The others slowly filed out, their boots echoing against the marble floor.

Kiera lingered for a moment longer, looking out the tall window at the fields beyond Whiterun. The sky was clear today—no shadows on the clouds. No wings overhead.

Yet her heart was heavy.

Dragonborn. The word felt too large. Like a title borrowed from someone else’s legend.

But then again, isn’t it what she always wanted? To protect and serve, isn’t that what the Dragonborn does? 

She had read the book in full, and a particular line had interested her. Very few realize that being Dragonborn is not a simple matter of heredity - carrying the blessing of the Chief Divine, Akatosh Himself.

She would never say no to being blessed by the Divines. Hells, any Vigilant would do anything to even have an inkling of their blessings. 

Speaking of blessings, Kiera’s mind went back to the dream she had this morning. Of the special warmth that came from Stendarr when she saw Gerron. It could only mean one thing. He was blessed himself.

Which Divine had done it, she did not know. But it felt redeeming to know that she wasn’t alone. It wasn’t a weight she carried by herself.

And that made all the difference.

Chapter Text

4E 201, Shor’s Stone

Filnjar

The month since Gerron departure had reshaped Shor’s Stone in ways Filnjar would never have believed possible.

What once had been a sleepy mining village teetering on the edge of irrelevance now stood encircled by a sturdy wooden palisade, complete with sharpened stakes embedded in the earth just beyond its open archway. The faint thud of hammers and the rasp of saws filled the air, as a small twenty-foot watchtower rose near the center of the village—just tall enough to give archers a commanding view of the treeline and roads.

The militia was shaping up to be a decent force. Twenty strong now, a mix of former miners, woodsmen, hunters, and boys on the cusp of manhood, each one leaner, meaner, and tougher than they'd been weeks ago. ‘ Rough stone shaped under pressure’ , Filnjar thought with a private smile. And much of the shaping was thanks to Grogmar.

The orc was no gentle mentor. With Gerron's ebony axe strapped to his back and a scowl fixed like a carving on his face, Grogmar trained the recruits without mercy. Not only were they drilled with arms, there were also mock battles where two teams would take turns acting as bandits and defenders. When the day ended, they came back bruised, battered, and exhausted every time. But they were ready.

Or so Filnjar had hoped.

He stood beside Grogmar now, watching a line of militia practice shield formations just outside the smithy. Filnjar didn’t know much about warfare, but he had seen the Imperial lines before. The men and women in front of himi were far from reaching that level.

“The tower’s decent,” Grogmar muttered, eyes fixed on the archers atop the tower-in-progress. “But we’d need more than one and far taller towers to make this place defensible.”

Filnjar grunted. “We’ve got what coin can buy, and no more. Until Gerron returns with more deals with Whiterun and Windhelm, this is all we could do.”

Grogmar grunted. “I’ve lived my whole life in strongholds. While Shor’s Stone is far from being called one, it’s got a good start.”

Before Filnjar could retort, a young nord with straw-colored hair ran up, panting and wide-eyed. “Master Filnjar! Visitors—from the north road!”

Filnjar’s brow rose. “Bandits, lad?”

“No sir. Proper lot. Flying Windhelm’s colors.”

By the time they reached the archway, a small procession was already marching into the village. At the head was a stern-looking nord in his late forties, wearing the blue-and-silver tunic of Eastmarch’s court. He dismounted, glancing at the palisade with a mixture of surprise and approval.

“Are you the leader here? I’m the steward of Windhelm, Jorleif,” the man introduced himself, bowing politely. “I bring twenty guards and the Jarl’s seal. We’ve come to finalize the agreement of ebony with the city and the Stormcloaks.”

“Aye, that’s me.” Filnjar blinked. “Forgive me, but I’ve a hard time believing the steward of a hold himself will come all the way down here for a simple trade deal.

Jorleif chuckled tiredly. “Figured I’d stretch my legs after dealing with politics and serial killers in Windhelm. Thought I’d breathe some mountain air. Didn’t expect to walk into a bloody fortress. Nice defenses.”

“You’ll be glad we have it soon,” Grogmar grunted.

Not ten minutes later, they gathered in Filnjar’s longhouse, spreading documents and ledgers across the table. The rest of the Windhelm guards had spread across the village in respite from the long journey. Some had sparred with militiamen, others indulging themselves in the local tavern.

Jorleif was surprisingly easy to work with—none of the supposed arrogance that comes from a man of his station. He wasn’t a warrior by any stretch, but had a sharp eye for numbers and a good haggle to boot.

The negotiations had only just begun when the shouting started.

A voice screamed from the tower. “Riders! Dozens of them!”

Filnjar was up in an instant. He rushed outside, Jorleif close behind. They walked up the small tower to see what it was, and froze.

A horde of bandits—at least a hundred strong—were emerging from the woods and roads like ants from a hill. Ragged, mismatched armor. Some on foot, others riding scrawny horses. At their head strode a mountain of a man—a massive Redguard in ill-fitting steel armor, gripping a wickedly curved scimitar.

“By the divines, that’s Demir the Strong!” Jorlief exclaimed.

“Who?” Grogmar questioned, already palming his ebony axe.

“He’s an Alik’r warrior who deserted just prior to the end of the Great War. He came to Skyrim and became the leader of a band of bandits. The Jarl has seen fit to put a bounty of five hundred septims on his head.”

“They must be here for the ebony,” Filnjar frowned.

“Stormcloaks!” Jorleif barked at his guards. “To the walls!”

The village scrambled into motion. Militia and the Stormcloaks manned the palisade while archers took positions along the half-finished tower. The ground before the archway was already dug with wooden spikes, just as Grogmar had ordered.

Grogmar, along with eight of the militia’s best swords and the rest of the Stormcloaks, remained on the ground in preparation to block the bandit’s advance.

“Archers! Loose!” Grogmar shouted.

A hail of arrows rained down, felling the first wave of bandits. Bodies crumpled onto the sharpened stakes, impaled and writhing. But the attackers kept coming, screaming and howling, driven by greed and bloodlust.

As if driven by instinct, Filnjar grabbed his maul and shield, both forged by Gerron and the one he used to clear Rebelly from the spiders. The steel felt warm in his grip, like a trusted friend. As he rushed toward the front lines, Grogmar intercepted him.

“Back in the village, old man!” the orc barked.

Filnjar bared his teeth. “This is my village. I’m not hiding behind walls while others bleed for it.”

Grogmar growled but nodded. “Then don’t die.”

The battle clashed in brutal earnest. Bandits slammed into the palisade and spikes, cutting down the walls with axes. Arrows and blades met them. Screams filled the air.

Filnjar fought like a man possessed, hammering aside one bandit’s shield before crushing his leg. Another leapt at him with a dagger, only to be bowled over by his shield and crushed underfoot. Two came at him then, and Filnjar struggled to keep them at bay. He took a cut to his forearm and another beneath his eye before one of the militia stabbed one of his assailants from the back and Filnjar broke the other’s neck with a hammer to the cheek.

Stormcloaks fought beside villagers, blades flashing. Grogmar carved a path through the enemy, his massive ebony axe cleaving through mail and bone alike. Every strike was final. 

Still, the bandits pushed forward.

Half a dozen militia had already fallen—many to arrows, some simply overwhelmed. Demir was at the center of it, laughing as he slashed with his scimitar, carving through Stormcloaks like parchment. His reach, strength, and speed made him a terror.

Seeing him from this close, Filnjar finally noticed the ugly, jagged scar that stretched from Demir’s left brow to under his right lip. Seeing him behead a young nord militia with a single swing made Filnjar’s blood boil.

But before he could approach, Grogmar roared, and the two titans collided in a storm of steel.

Scimitar met axe, and the clang of metal rang across the field.

Demir ducked low, slicing toward Grogmar’s legs. The orc leapt back, then swung downward, forcing the bandit to side step and let the axe dig to the soft ground beneath. The Redguard snarled and spun, trying to hamstring him, but Grogmar caught the blade with the haft of his axe, then surged forward.

The axe sank into the man’s pauldrons and Filnjar heard a crack. While the axe didn’t sink into flesh, there was no doubt that the bones in his shoulder broke from that impact. 

Before Demir could recover, Grogmar headbutted him—his steel horned helmet crashing into the Redguard’s face like a hammer. The bandit reeled, dropping his scimitar.

With a final bellow, Grogmar ripped his axe free and buried it in the man’s neck.

The Redguard gurgled—and fell.

At the sight of their leader’s death, like a wave collapsing, the bandits broke. One by one, they turned and ran. Some limped through the forests while others dropped their weapons and fled.

Filnjar leaned on the wall, blood running down his arm, heart pounding on his ears. Grogmar stood in the field of corpses, chest heaving, his axe dripping with gore. 

‘By the gods, Gerron was right’ . Only a month since word of the ebony spread and already bandits prowled, looking for weakness.

Jorleif stepped forward, grimacing. “Well,” he muttered, “this certainly complicates things. How did a band of a hundred men walk around Stormcloak territory without anyone noticing?”

Filnjar just laughed hoarsely, a shaky one.

“It was nothing we didn’t expect.” He looked to one of the villagers, who all started to get out of the safety of their homes. “Help the injured and bring them to the long hall. Have others start sweeping through the field. We’ll bury our own and leave the bandits for the wolves, after stripping them of everything they have.”

…

4E 201, Dragonsreach

Gerron Ironbreaker

The clang of steel rang out one final time, echoing like a drumbeat through Farengar’s workshop in Dragonsreach. Gerron exhaled through his nose, the scent of hot metal and oil mixing in the air around him. Wiping his brow with a soot-streaked cloth, he stepped back from the workbench, admiring the mechanical marvel before him.

On the bench was a mixmatch of brass colored steel and dwemer cogs and gyros, all crafted and engineered in the shape of a mechanical owl. Its wings, still folded, bore inlaid dwarven glyphs, and its eyes were twin orbs of black crystal, waiting for the last piece of the component to be inserted.

“I admit, I haven’t seen this kind of crafting before,” Farengar said, leaning against a wooden support beam with arms crossed and an inquisitive look in his eye. “You say this ‘Homunculus Servant’ could work similarly to a conjurer’s familiar? I can certainly see the use in such a thing.”

“Aye,” Gerron replied, his voice gravelly from the smoke. “That’s what the crystal’s for. It’s laced with enough magicka to last three months—longer if I ration the commands. Eventually, I’ll need to swap it out or recharge it.”

Farengar stepped closer, studying the design. “Fascinating. So it works akin to a soul gem, but tailored for a specific construct. Ingenious.”

Gerron reached into a nearby case and pulled out the enchanted power core — the crystal from Belethor’s he had carved in the shape of a skull, etched with delicate blue runes that shimmered with magic. Carefully, he slotted it into the owl’s chest. The gears inside clicked and whirred as the internal mechanism came to life.

The owl’s eyes lit up in a soft, radiant blue. Its body gave a shudder as the feathers ruffled mechanically, and then, with a sudden leap, it sprang to Gerron’s extended arm. Its talons locked with practiced ease onto a reinforced brass vambrace strapped to his forearm.

“Hoot!”

The sound made Gerron smirk. “I think I’ll name him Bronze.”

“Very creative,” Farengar quipped with dry amusement. “Nevertheless, it’s refreshing to see such a new way of craftsmanship. The owl reminds of the Dwemer in a way.”

“That’s the idea.” Gerron gestured toward the owl as it took flight, circling overhead with the faint whirr of tiny gears. “I studied one of their ruins—Kagrenzel. Got a look at their inner workings and studied their design myself.”

Farengar’s eyes widened. “Kagrenzel, you say? I’ve read of it but never dared venture that deep. I always believed that knowledge of the dwemer and their creations were far beyond our capability and it would take centuries—if not more–for anyone to replicate it.” He shook his head good naturedly. “And yet here you are.”

Gerron chuckled and tapped a rune on his vambrace. A small orb embedded in its wrist flickered, displaying a soft projection of Farengar and himself from Bronze’s perspective, high above. The mage’s eyebrows raised in appreciation.

“So you connected the owl’s vision to your bracer, allowing you to see what he sees.” Farengar nodded, impressed. “A mix of illusion and alteration magic—clever. It’s similar to the Clairvoyance spell in a way.”

“That’s where I got the inspiration,” Gerron confirmed. 

With another tap, Bronze tucked in his wings and spiraled downward, landing neatly on the bench. In one smooth movement, he curled in on himself, gears clicking into place until he became a compact brass sphere—no larger than a fist. Gerron clipped the orb to his belt.

Farengar clasped his hands behind his back. “In any case, I do believe your talents are wasted on mere smithing. Between this, your hammer, and even the ballista schematics, I daresay you're on your way to rivaling the College’s more... unconventional minds.”

“I have been planning on visiting, but never had the chance to.” Gerron let out a low grunt of appreciation. “That reminds me—how goes the dragon studies? Anything we can actually use?”

“Nothing new I’m afraid.” Farengar's smile faded. “Your idea with the ballistae is the best we’ve got so far. What I did find was that dragons come in all shapes and sizes. From what I can tell, the dragons you had faced in the Western Watchtower were among the smaller ones.”

He stepped over to a nearby table and unrolled a weathered parchment. “Records say that Alduin, the World Eater, could swallow entire cities in the shadow of his wingspan. Even their mastery of the Thu’um is different with each dragon. Some could only use the most rudimentary of shouts. Fire Breath, Frost Breath, Lightning Breath. But Alduin? They say he can turn entire cities to ash with a single word. Compared to that… arrows and swords feel woefully inadequate.” 

Gerron frowned. Indeed, the current level of technology in Skyrim was very much underwhelming. They haven’t even begun to utilize Soul Gems the proper way they could be used. 

Gerron was careful to not share any of his more dangerous blueprints with anyone. Some of the creations he has in his mind were ones that could potentially change the world. It was the type of change that could either turn it for the better, or for worse.

Still, there were some ideas that could work well in the defense of the city. Repeating magicka turrets, as well as a siege version of his hammer that could shoot out magicka blasts, which has proven to be capable of knocking dragons from the sky. Though the resources needed to create them were woefully outside of Whiterun’s capabilities..

There was a beat of silence before Farengar decided to break it. “I heard you plan to accompany the Dragonborn on her way to High Hrothgar.”

“She needs the support,” Gerron nodded, “though I don’t plan on making the ten-thousand steps myself. She told me she plans to make her way to the Hall of Vigilants to visit her mother before going to Ivarstead. Coincidentally, I have a personal project in mind that takes me to the Pale. I’ll accompany her all the way to Ivarstead before making my way back home to Shor’s Stone.”

Farengar raised an eyebrow. “I thought you just finished one? Is this next project something I’d be interested in?”

“Maybe, you ever heard of the White Phial?”

Farengar paused, no doubt trying to remember if he’s heard the term before shaking his head. “I can’t say I have.”

“It’s a legendary artifact, almost every master alchemist has heard of it. Though I can’t say for sure if it really exists until I find it myself.” Gerron strapped the vambrace tighter, his gaze already shifting toward the window, where the horizon of Skyrim stretched as far as the eye can see. “Can’t really sit idle while the whole of Skyrim is bleeding.”

“You’ve done more than most,” Farengar said. “When you return, Whitreun will be fortified with your defenses. Your ballista towers will be manned, and the walls reinforced. You have my word.”

Chapter Text

4E 201, Borders of Whiterun Hold and the Pale

Kiera Fendalyn

Watching a mechanical owl fly through the sky was something Kiera never thought she’d witness in her life.

She’d seen Dwemer machines in ruins before—lifeless brass husks programmed to do their masters bidding—but Bronze was different. 

He was alive—well, active, at least. The way he circled overhead, scanning the skies with glowing eyes and diving low before swooping back up to rest on Gerron’s shoulder, made the thing feel more like a real creature than a construct. She had to admit—it was impressive.

Gerron Ironbreaker had called himself an Artificer, and she’d believed him. But seeing it? That was another thing entirely.

The four-day journey since they’d left Whiterun had been long but not unpleasant. They’d ridden past the golden fields and gentle hills of the plains, through quiet pine forests and creaking wooden bridges. But by the third day, the trees began to thin. The grass disappeared and the air grew colder.

Now, they were truly in the north, in the hold of the Pale proper. The green had faded into white, and the once-warm winds of Whiterun were now bitter gusts that stung her cheeks and bit through her cloak. Snow crunched beneath their horses' hooves, and even the sky seemed paler here—bleached by the wind and the altitude.

Despite the cold, Kiera found herself enjoying the journey. Gerron was great company, and reliable too. He was a good conversationalist, sharing stories of the Rift and his home of Shor’s Stone. Riften was one of the few major cities she never had the chance to visit during her time in Skyrim a long time ago, it was refreshing to hear more of the land she had once called home.

They’d been given their horses after the dragon incident at the Western Watchtower. Balgruuf had insisted they needed them if they were to cross half of Skyrim. Kiera didn’t protest—she didn’t mind riding, though she was still getting used to how sore it left her legs after a full day.

Now, as they approached a fork in the road, Kiera tugged her horse to the side and raised a hand.

“This is it,” she said, nodding toward the split. “Left takes us to the Hall of the Vigilants—just beneath Fort Dunstad’s southern cliffs.”

Gerron pointed toward the right path. “But our road leads this way.”

“Yep,” she confirmed. “This fork leads to Windhelm eventually, but there’s a stop along that mountain path. That’s where you said the Forsaken Cave is, right?”

“Aye. That’s the one.” He glanced skyward, gauging the sun's descent behind the jagged peaks. “It’s getting dark. We should think about making camp.”

Kiera grinned. “No need. If I’m remembering right, there’s an inn about an hour ahead. I traveled this path years ago with my mother—we stayed there overnight. It’s called Nightgate Inn. Sits right on a frozen lake.”

“Truly?” Gerron raised a brow. “Well, that’s a relief. I’d rather not sleep under another pine tree with frost in my beard.”

They pressed on.

The road narrowed as they rode up into the mountains. Snow flurried around them, and the wind picked up, whistling through the rocky pass. Gerron didn’t seem fazed by the cold—if anything, he looked like he belonged in it. Nords were always said to have ice in their blood, it seems those stories were true.

His massive frame was wrapped in slim furs over his armor, and his breath came slow and steady, like the puff of a forge bellows. Kiera, meanwhile, was layered in her Vigilant robes beneath a thick wool cloak, her gloved hands gripping the reins tight.

Just as night fully descended, they spotted the warm glow of lanterns up ahead. A crooked wooden sign swung gently in the wind, creaking on its hinges: Nightgate Inn.

It looked exactly as she remembered it. Nestled beside a frozen lake, the inn was an old, sturdy thing—half-buried in snowdrifts and crooked with age. A small wooden pier jutted out into the water where a patch of lake hadn’t yet frozen over. A few fishermen lingered near the edge, bundled tight against the cold, their lines cast in silence.

They dismounted, leading their horses into the small stable on the side of the inn before stepping through the front door. A blast of warm air and firelight greeted them.

Inside, the inn was quiet but cozy. The hearth at the far end burned low, and a few scattered patrons sat hunched over mugs of mead. The smell of roasted goat and bread filled the room. Kiera sighed in contentment—days of riding and sleeping on rocky ground made her body ache uncomfortably. This was exactly what she needed.

They approached the bar, where a gray-haired man nodded at them. “Rooms? Three septims a head, five if you include a meal. Hearth’s open, if you want it.”

Gerron tossed a small pouch onto the counter. “That’ll cover us both for a day.”

“Fair deal,” the innkeeper muttered, taking the coin. “There’s stew on the pot. Goat meat and some salmon. Fresh.”

Kiera sank into one of the chairs near the fire, stretching her legs. Gerron stood nearby, removing his vambrace and setting it beside him as he scanned the room. Bronze, in his compact orb form, hung from the warrior’s belt like a brass trinket.

Then she noticed it.

Gerron’s eyes weren’t scanning the room idly—they were focused. Sharp. Watching.

She followed his gaze.

At the far corner of the inn sat a man—mid-fifties, maybe older, with a weathered face and a permanent scowl. He nursed a half-empty bottle of mead and stared into the flames as if seeing something long gone. His clothes were rough and patched, but what caught her eye was the bundle beside him: a long object wrapped in leather, carefully kept within arm’s reach.

She remembered seeing him even years ago. What was his name…Fultheim? Mother had asked about him, with the owner simply saying the man to be a local drunk who was happy to waste away his septims drinking.

He never caused trouble and always kept to himself. That wrapped bundle had always made her wonder, but her mother had warned her not to ask.

Now, Gerron was looking at him the way a one would a potential enemy.

Kiera narrowed her eyes, suddenly alert. There was something more going on here.

…

Gerron Ironbreaker

[Akaviri Katana]

A light and quick weapon, utilized by members of the ancient order of the Blades.

‘Well would you look at that.’

Gerron had asked Farengar about his supposed friend and the ‘ancient order’ Irileth had mentioned. The man had given little more than vague mentions regarding it, but it wasn’t hard to piece it together. 

The Blades—once the protectors of Tamriel and the Septim bloodline—had been systematically hunted down since the signing of the White-Gold Concordat. The Thalmor had done their work well, scattering survivors to the wind. Some had died while others went underground.

And Gerron had just found one wasting away in a bottle, in the middle of nowhere.

Gerron looked away, sighing through his nose. “I’ll explain later,” he murmured to Kiera when she followed his glance with a curious look. 

She nodded, sensing it wasn’t the right time.

They weren’t alone in their observations. That night, a Stormcloak soldier stomped into the inn, shaking snow from his cloak and brushing ice from his hair. Young—barely twenty—with shaggy blond hair and eyes of dull grey. 

Five minutes later, another man entered wearing a worn brown travel cloak.

Gerron watched him carefully.

He wasn’t a local. Didn’t talk much, merely ordering the bare minimum of a cup of ale and a sweet roll. Then spent his time in the corner near the back, eyes shadowed by his hood.

When Gerron and Kiera retired to their rooms for the night, Gerron put it away from his mind. But by morning, both the Stormcloak and the cloaked man were gone.

They left Nightgate Inn the following morning. They rode northeast along the narrow mountain pass, Bronze circling overhead once more, a small dot of gold amongst the morning mist. 

The air was so cold their breaths were visible in thick, white plumes. The trees had thinned further, now barely appearing every few hundred meters.

It wasn’t long before they found the stormcloak boy again—though not in the way they hoped. He lay face-first in the snow beside the trail, half-covered in frost. Gerron dismounted, eyes narrowing as he turned the body, a dagger wound on his neck that pierced all the way up to his head.

“That’s the soldier from last night,” Gerron said quietly.

Kiera let out a small exhale, a wisp of breath exiting her mouth in the cold air. “What is Skyrim coming into, if the roads aren’t even safe to travel anymore?”

She shook her head before whispering a soft prayer. Together, they moved him beneath a snow-laden pine and fashioned a makeshift grave of stones. It was nothing fancy, just enough to keep the wolves from tearing apart his corpse.

Gerron gave a long glance back down the road. No prints remained in the storm’s wake. But he knew who to blame. The man with the travel cloak was suspicious, he hadn’t talked to anyone, hadn’t even spoken a word. An empire spy most likely. Quiet work for a loud war.

It didn’t really matter in the end.

They continued on their way, reaching their destination not ten minutes later. 

Forsaken Cave was aptly named. Its mouth gaped open like the wound of some great beast, half-covered by fallen snow and jagged rock. Icicles hung from the stone like fangs, and cold mist poured from the entrance. 

Kiera lit a magelight as Gerron led the way, Bronze activating with a click and shifting from sphere to bird as it glided ahead to scout.

“Keep alert,” Gerron muttered, drawing his Mercury Hammer from his back. 

The first sound they heard was the snarl before a pair of wolves lunged from the side passages. Gerron swung his hammer low and crushed the ribs of the first. Kiera’s sword flashed as she sliced the second across the neck. The wolves dropped in seconds, but their howls echoed down the stone corridors—warning everything else that intruders had arrived.

Past the wolves, deeper into the cave, came worse.

“Frost trolls,” Kiera warned, narrowing her eyes.

Three of them emerged, all muscle and matted fur. Gerron ducked the first’s wild swing and brought the Mercury Hammer crashing upward into its gut. A satisfying crunch echoed through the cave. The second tried to flank him—until Kiera shouted, “FUS!”

The force slammed it back against the wall, chunks of ice raining from above. Gerron turned and his foot thundered forward into the third troll's knee, shattering it, before delivering a finishing blow that had it crumpling to the ground.

“Not bad,” Gerron grunted, wiping blood from his weapon.

“I’ve been practicing,” Kiera said, smiling. “Though I should probably be careful in doing it while we’re inside.”

“Yeah, don’t want to bring the whole mountain down on us.” Gerron agreed.

They moved deeper, the walls closing in around them. The next chamber revealed that the cave was used as a Nord crypt of some kind—an old one. 

Several Draugr patrolled the inner caves, clad in rotting armor and all kinds of ancient nordic weaponry.

“Let’s not wake them all at once,” Gerron muttered, pulling out a spare hand axe he kept in his inventory.

He flung it hard, and it clanged off a wall. Four draugr stirred, just as Bronze dropped in from above and slashed one across the face. Gerron followed up, hammering one of their heads and sent it flying.

Kiera weaved from beside, her blade flashed as she decapitated the one Bronze distracted and immediately followed up with a stab through another’s neck. The Draugr let out a few growls before the magic that moved them died and they fell unceremoniously.

It was when they arrived in the next chamber that Kiera paused. Gerron was busy opening a large chest filled with gold when Kiera stumbled onto a stone wall etched with ancient script.

Gerron knew immediately what he was seeing.

[Word Wall: Krii — Marked for Death]

There is considerable mystery surrounding the ominous Word Walls dotted all across Skyrim. The ancient carvings etched into the stone are believed to be words in the Dragon Language, for the characters of that language very much resemble claw marks or scratches.

It is believed that these walls were constructed by the ancient Nords who lived in the time of the Dragons. Either out of fear or respect, they somehow learned the language of the ancient beasts so they could use it for their own ends.

This particular Word Wall contains the Thu’um for the Mark of Death. The first word, Krii, means Kill.

Kiera—who was still entranced by the word—blinked.

“Are you alright?” Gerron asked.

“Yeah, it’s just another word. I think I understand it.” She closed her eyes before grimacing. “This one’s power is quite disturbing. It weakens the lifeforce of anything affected by it.”

“Sounds useful.” He grinned. “Hope you don’t use that one on me.”

“I’ll try not to.” She matched his grin.

Finally, they passed a hallway lined with swinging axe traps and reached the final chamber.

The tomb of Curalmil. 

As soon as they stepped in, the sarcophagus in the center groaned open. A massive draugr, adorned in ancient ceremonial robes, rose with a shriek—his eyes burning blue.

Three more draugr emerged from alcoves. Kiera struck first, casting Ironflesh as she dove toward the nearest one. Her blade met nordic axe with a screech. Gerron moved toward Curalmil himself, blocking the draugr lord’s frost spell with the head of his hammer. He surged forward, catching the undead alchemist in the gut and sending him sprawling.

Curalmil rose again, laughing with a voice like grinding ice.

Kiera unleashed the shout she had just learned, ”KRII!” and the draugr around her shuddered as their armor started to rust and their bones turned to dust. The curse sapped their strength with each second.

Gerron took the opportunity, swinging his hammer in a wide arc. He broke the ribs of one, then pulped the skull of another. Kiera finished the last one with a clean thrust to the chest.

Finally, it was just Curalmil.

The ancient draugr hissed and launched a stream of flames toward them. Kiera raised a ward to block it, Gerron hiding behind her. Once the wave of fire ended, Gerron closed the distance with a roar, swinging the Mercury Hammer overhead and slamming it down.

The impact shattered the draugr’s chest, sending the body flying. Curalmil’s body hit the tomb, revealing the small hidden passage underneath it. Gerron blinked before nodding. “All according to plan.”

After making sure Curalmil was actually dead and wouldn't rise again, they walked through the passage. A basin stood at the end, to which Gerron poured in the mixture that Nurelion had given prior to leaving Windhelm. Stone ground against stone as another hidden door slid open, revealing a sealed chamber.

The air was thick with the scent of old herbs. It smelled rotten, ingredients long having been rotted to dust and time.

On the pedestal at the center sat a delicate bottle—white, etched with swirling patterns.

The White Phial.

Gerron stepped forward, a small smile on his face.

He reached out slowly.

It was quite beautiful, and he could tell the white bottle would do wonders for his future projects.

That’s when he saw it. A small crack, running down its side like a jagged scar.

He exhaled. “Damn.”

Kiera looked disappointed. “Is it… broken?”

“Cracked,” he said, carefully lifting it from the pedestal. “But not beyond repair. I’m sure I could fix it somehow.”

“You think it’s still usable?”

“With some work.” He tucked it gently into his satchel. “And a little luck.”

Kiera nodded, then glanced behind them. “Let’s get out of here, then.”

They followed the final tunnel upward, through a winding stair and a pressure-locked door that Gerron opened with a crank. The stone wall slid aside.

They emerged back into the cave’s entrance—where they’d first fought the wolves. Pale light greeted them from the distant sky. Dawn had come.

Gerron stepped out into the snow, the cracked phial secure in his bag.

Chapter Text

4E 201, Hall of Vigilants

Keeper Carcette

The letter still rested on the long stone table in her chamber, partially crumpled from how tightly she'd been gripping it earlier.

The Stormcloaks wanted an alliance.

Carcette paced across the prayer hall of the Hall of Vigilants, the sound of her boots echoing across the marble floors as snow lashed against the narrow windows. 

The Stormcloaks had arrived unannounced, requesting an audience with the Keeper of the Hall. The leader of the group, a younger nord named Marros, was respectful in his words—but Carcette had seen the fire in his eyes. The same fanatic fire she’d seen in old crusaders who’d lost the path, their zeal turned to blind rage.

They carried with them a letter, the words practically burned on the parchment.

“To Keeper Carcette, in faith and fire—

The time has come to stand with Skyrim. The Empire has abandoned the True Sons. Your Vigilants know the truth of the Daedra, the threat of corruption, the rot festering within the Empire’s rule.

We ask the faithful of Stendarr to stand against the false Empire and its elven masters.

Let us reclaim it together.

—Frokmar Banner-Torn, Stormblade of the Pale”

She'd read it three times now. Each time, her brow furrowed deeper.

The Vigilants had never involved themselves in politics. Their swords were forged not for kings or thrones, but for those who trafficked with Daedra. The storm was coming, Carcette knew that, but dragging the Vigilants into the civil war?

It wasn't that she didn’t understand their position. The Empire had betrayed its own faith when it outlawed Talos worship. The White-Gold Concordat was nothing short of a noose handed over to the Thalmor. The Vigilants had felt the slow, growing choke of elven interference for years. Temples shuttered. Priests exiled. Old tomes destroyed.

However, she also wasn’t blind to the fact that Ulfric’s civil war was only making things worse. The only people to gain something with the Stormcloak rebellion are the Thalmor, for they are the only ones whose forces would remain untouched while the Stormcloaks and the legions continue bleeding the other.

She shook her head. It didn’t matter in the end. The Vigil’s mission wasn’t to police the squabbles of men. Their charge came from Stendarr himself.

To fight the Daedra.

To protect the innocent.

To purge the profane.

And now, while cults of Molag Bal and Mehrunes Dagon were growing bolder with each passing season, the Stormcloaks wanted them to turn their hammers and spells on fellow mortals.

Carcette closed her eyes, pressing her fingers to her temples. “Stendarr, give me patience…”

The door creaked open behind her.

"Keeper," came a voice—one of the junior Vigilants. A Redguard boy, newly sworn, still shivering and uncomfortable in the cold. “There are riders on the road. Headed straight for us.”

She looked up, frown deepening. “More Stormcloaks?”

He shook his head. “Hard to tell. Snow’s coming down thick. But…” He hesitated, squinting out the window. “One of them looks like they’re wearing our robes.”

Carcette raised an eyebrow. ‘Could it be Tyranus? The man has gone quiet ever since his mission in Markarth.’

She moved to the window, brushing aside the frost-rimed curtain. Visibility was poor, the wind howling across the landscape like some great wolf. But there—emerging through the white haze—two riders approached.

One of them, she saw immediately, was a giant of a man. Ebony-black armor gleamed even through the storm, and a massive warhammer rose behind his shoulders like a steel pillar. He seemed to be laughing at something, head tilted back, his voice carried faintly even through the wind.

But it wasn’t him her eyes locked onto.

It was the rider beside him.

Her breath caught in her throat.

She didn’t wait.

Carcette turned from the window and ran for the doors, side stepping over a junior Vigilant on her way out. She pushed through the front gate. The cold hit her instantly, biting deep into her bones, but she didn’t feel it.

Outside, the snowstorm howled like a wild beast.

But there—standing at the foot of the stone steps—were the riders.

The Nord dismounted first, shaking snow from his cloak with a grin, then looked up toward the Hall with the ease of someone who wasn’t easily impressed. He was older, scarred, and looked like he could knock down a bear with a single punch. Ebony plate covered him head to toe, and that warhammer—how did he carry something that size?

But none of that mattered to her.

Kiera dismounted slowly, brushing snow from her sleeves. She pulled back her hood, letting her white hair fall around her shoulders. Amber eyes, the same molten-gold shade as Carcette’s own, met hers.

Years had passed.

Carcette opened her mouth, but only one word came out:

“...Kiera?”

Her daughter gave her a sheepish smile.

“Hey, mom. It’s been a while.”

…

Kiera Fendalyn

The warmth of the Hall’s interior had always felt different than any other place in Skyrim. Even with the wind howling just beyond the stone walls and the snow sticking to her boots, Kiera felt something close to home as the firelight danced along the stained-glass windows.

It had been years since she'd last stood here.

“Come,” her mother said softly, the corners of her lips curved upward in a rare, gentle smile. “We’ll talk inside.”

They sat near the fire at a heavy wooden table, mugs of spiced tea steaming between them. Gerron stood nearby, arms crossed, his massive warhammer resting against the wall. He remained respectfully quiet—though clearly intrigued by the old relics and Vigilant tomes scattered about the chamber.

Kiera set her cup down. “There’s a lot I need to tell you, Mother.”

Carcette nodded. “Then tell me. All of it.”

And so she did.

She spoke of Helgen, of the dragon attack, of her escape to Riverwood. She told her of the dragons in Whiterun. Of High Hrothgar and the Greybeards, and the voice that now stirred within her soul. She recounted the draugr-infested tombs, the battles with beasts of frost and fire, and the ancient walls that breathed power.

“I am the Dragonborn.”

Carcette said nothing at first, simply studied her with that hawk-eyed gaze she used on all wayward acolytes. It was Kiera’s mother’s way: stern, focused, deliberate. Then, a slow nod.

“I had suspected as much when word came from Whiterun,” Carcette said, her voice calm. “But it is good to hear you say it.”

“You’re not angry?”

Her mother chuckled. “Why would I be angry? I am your mother, Kiera. And I’m the Keeper of the Vigilants. I know what burdens can do to a person.” She reached across the table and gently touched Kiera’s hand. “But I also know you. You’ve never been one to run from duty.”

She gave her a small smile—wry, but warm.

“You always stood between others and danger. Whether it was a schoolyard bully or a rabid skeever during your first field patrol. You protect. That’s your nature.”

Carcette leaned back and folded her arms.

“Being Dragonborn is no different than being a Vigilant. The only thing that changes... is the enemy. You once hunted daedra. Now you’re facing dragons.”

Kiera let out a shaky breath, her fingers curling tighter around the tea mug. “I didn’t ask for any of this.”

“No,” Carcette said softly. “But not once have you said you wouldn’t do it.”

That made Kiera smile.

The moment passed, and Carcette’s face turned grave. “But you need to know what’s happening in Skyrim.”

Gerron stirred.

“Deadric cults are crawling out from the shadows like cockroaches,” Carcette continued. “We burn one nest, another appears somewhere else. They’ve grown bolder. Blood rituals, sacrifices… Some claim they're just bandits running from the war. But I know better.”

Kiera frowned. “Are they organized?”

“Not in the way we’d fear. Not yet. But there’s a pattern forming. And the most troubling rumor we’ve heard... is that of the Mythic Dawn.”

Kiera stiffened. “The cult of Mehrunes Dagon?”

Carcette nodded grimly. “Long thought extinct after the Oblivion Crisis. But whispers in the underground say otherwise. No concrete proof. Not yet. But if they are returning... we must be ready. I’ve already dispatched my best to investigate. If we confirm their presence, we’ll strike.”

It was then Gerron stepped forward, arms uncrossing. “Speaking of cults,” he said, his deep voice echoing softly in the stone hall, “what do you know about vampires?”

Carcette raised an eyebrow. “You encountered some?”

Gerron nodded. “In a cave just north of Riften. They disguised it as a Skooma den , but it was a front. A whole coven down there, and they were organized. I heard them whispering about a place—Dimhollow Crypt. They were trying to keep it quiet, like it was important.”

Carcette frowned deeply. “Though not all vampires serve Molag Bal, the ones that do often form cult-like structures. Organized covens are rare—and dangerous. And Dimhollow Crypt... I’ve heard the name before. Some ancient ruin here in the Pale, I think.”

“There was a leader,” Gerron added. “Named Venarus. Called himself a scholar. He was trying to create something he called a bloodspring . Ever heard of it?”

Carcette went quiet as she wracked her brain. It certainly sounded familiar.

“We have tomes of ancient vampire lore from before the Second Era,” she said. “But nothing I've read ever mentions that term.” She stood, hands folded behind her back. “Still, it sounds like something worth investigating.”

Then she turned sharply to Gerron.

“You’ve fought them. You survived their coven. You understand what we’re dealing with.”

Gerron straightened slightly, catching on to her tone.

“I’d like to request for you to spearhead the investigation,” Carcette said. “I know you’re not a Vigilant, but you seem capable and Kiera calls you a friend. Go to Dimhollow. Find out what they’re doing and stop them if you can. I’ll assign Vigilant Tolan to accompany you. He’s one of our most seasoned members.”

There was a long pause. Then Gerron gave a single, firm nod.

“Alright,” he said. “I’ll help.”

…

4E 201, Dawnstar

Calixto

The cold didn’t bother him. It never had.

Calixto hid his face beneath his hood, boots crunching in the frostbitten snow as he strode through the waking streets of Dawnstar. The sea air was sharp, tinged with brine and smoke, and the sky overhead brooded with clouds the color of ash. 

While Dawnstar was considered to be one of the major cities in Skyrim, it paled in comparison to Windhelm. Calixto sneered as he eyed the broken tower that was situated atop the hill that overlooked Dawnstar.

The walls that surrounded the city weren’t massive, though clearly well made with whitewashed stone. Hold guards could be seen patrolling the battlements as well as the streets in their white brigandines and round shields that depicted the star sigil of the Pale.

Despite the lacking visuals, Calixto couldn’t deny the clear wealth that was present amongst the populace. Dwanstar was the capital of the Pale and is known for its rich mines and harbor. With plenty of trade going through, there was no doubt that Dawnstar was among the richer half of the Skyrim holds.

Though as he walked through the streets, Calixto furrowed his brow at the sight of the cityfolk. They all looked miserable, the hollow eyes, the hunched shoulders, the limp gait. Miners, sailors, traders... all of them walking corpses under the guise of daily life. Even the guards wore weariness like a second cloak, their gazes dull, their movements sluggish.

‘So... the nightmares are real,’ he mused .

He’d heard of them, of course. Dreams that left people screaming in their sleep, waking soaked in sweat with the taste of sulfur on their tongues. The Daedric Prince Vaermina’s influence, perhaps—but that was not Calixto’s concern.

The owner of the House of Curiosities in Windhelm and secretly the Butcher—the serial killer that had been plaguing Windhelm—was here for only one reason.

Silus Vesuius was a known fanatic to the Mythic Dawn cult, having been obsessed with their history. He’s the only man Calixto suspected to know the way of fixing the Mehrunes Razor and get the dagger to gain its full power.

It was truly only a stroke of luck that allowed Calixto to find it. It was on one of his regular jaunts outside of the walls of Windhelm when he found a small handle sticking out of a pile of snow. Curious and intrigued, he dug it out, only to find the famed artifact of Mehrunes Dagon in his hands.

His gloved hand brushed against the concealed dagger beneath his robes, nestled in its crude wrappings. He could feel it pulsing faintly, like the heartbeat of something long buried. Calixto had spent sleepless nights studying it, tracing the jagged edges, deciphering the sigils that shimmered beneath the surface. There was power here. Ancient, terrifying, and incomplete.

But not for long.

A set of posters had led him here. A museum, devoted to the Mythic Dawn, curated by none other than Silus Vesuius.

Calixto smiled when he found the house he was looking for. The house was quite isolated, far from the hustle and bustle of the city due to Silus’ infamous reputation. The man didn’t even try to hide it, with Mythic Dawn banners hanging from the walls of the house. 

A man stood outside, sweeping snow from the patio. Dark-skinned, with a sharp jawline and eyes too bright for the Pale’s gloom. He looked up, smiling with the enthusiasm of someone starved for company.

“Good day,” Silus greeted. “Is there something I can help you with?”

Calixto merely looked at him before replying. “I was told you know things on the Daedric cult known as the Mythic Dawn.”

Silus smiled at him. “It’s been a long time since I have met anyone who wishes to know about that. Most people would rather forget about them, ignoring the significant impact they had created in history. Had the Mythic Dawn not existed, the Septim Empire wouldn’t have collapsed and the world would be much different than the one we live in now. But I digress, this isn’t a topic meant to be talked about in public, please come in.”

Calixto followed Silus into his home and he could see that the man lived quite a simple life. There was a small bed and some furniture; but the main take away were display cases which held historical items that Calixto assumed were connected to the Mythic Dawn in some way.

“Have a good look around, there are a lot  of things in here about the Mythic Dawn. I found many of them in old hideouts of the Cult.”

Calixto did so, first looking at some robes in a display case.

“Those robes were worn by the members of the Mythic Dawn during their ceremonies and rituals. My readings say that they were dyed red using the blood of sacrificed victims.”

There were other objects here, to which Silus continued education. The four large tomes which were the Commentaries of the Mysterium Xarxes, a few weapons that were held by some of the more notorious members of the cult. But it was the final case that Calixto finally found what he was looking for. The Scabbard of Mehrunes Razor.

“Ah, the Mehrunes Razor. This is just the scabbard for it you see. See the symbol in the center? That’s the mark of an Oblivion Gate, one of the symbols of the Mythic Dawn and their leader, Mehrunes Dagon. That stone fragment is part of the the pommel stone which was broken when the Razor was shattered.”

Calixto had heard enough and he looked at Silus. “Can you restore the power of the Razor?”

“Restore the power?” Silus questioned back, eyes widening in shock. “To do that, you would need all of the pieces, and—”

“I have them right here.” For the first time since finding it, Calixto pulled out the dagger in front of someone else. Silus went slack jawed.

“Incredible, to think I could gaze at a complete set with my own eyes.” He shook his head. “The legends say that only Mehrunes Dagon himself could repair the Razor to full strength. To contact him, we need to go to his shrine. There is an abandoned one just a few leagues west of here in the hills.”

“I’ll meet you there then.” Calixto smiled as he left Silus to prepare for the journey.

Chapter Text

4E 201, Somewhere in the Mountains of the Pale

Calixto

The climb was not difficult. The snow crunched beneath Calixto’s boots, and his breath misted before him in the sharp mountain air, but he barely noticed the cold. He had grown up in Windhelm, the freezing heart of Skyrim. The Pale was no different.

Above him, the Shrine of Mehrunes Dagon came into view, carved directly into the bones of the mountain.

It was… glorious.

The shrine towered over the path like a divine monument to apocalypse. The statue of Mehrunes Dagon was sat upon a throne. Four arms extended outward with silent judgment, each limb thick with power, clawed hands resting on his great axe and the sides of his seat. His face, carved in eternal snarl, looked down at all who approached.

Below the statue lay the altar—a black stone slab framed by reliefs of Dagon’s many-headed visages, writhing and snarling. Beneath the altar, a heavy, locked stone door led deeper into the mountain.

Silus was already waiting.

He stood at the altar with reverence, his hands trembling slightly as he arranged the relics: the scabbard, the pommel fragment, and soon, the Razor itself.

“You’re here. Good.” Silus didn’t look up. His voice was calm, steadying itself with purpose. “If you place the Razor on the altar, I should be able to contact Lord Dagon and ask him to restore the blade to its full glory.”

Calixto said nothing. He stepped forward, pulled the broken Razor from beneath his cloak, and placed it gently beside the other components.

Silus lifted his hands above the altar, voice rising like a priest at a midnight mass.

“Mehrunes Dagon, Lord of Destruction, Prince of Change and Ambition, hear our plea! We return your sacred Razor to you, piece by piece, blood-earned and carried in reverence. Grant us your voice! Restore the blade and let it once again cut the veil of this world!”

Silence.

The wind howled around the shrine, curling like a predator through the peaks. But there was no reply. No fire. No voice. Nothing.

Calixto frowned as Silus looked deflated. “It seems… it’s not working,” he said quietly. “Perhaps… perhaps it must be you . Place your hands on the altar, and speak. You’ve touched the Razor more than anyone in centuries.”

Calixto raised an eyebrow but complied. Curious, he thought. He placed his fingertips on the cold stone.

Then came the voice.

“ You, mortal… ”

It wasn’t a sound that thundered through the heavens, but something spoke from inside him.

“You are worthy of speaking to. A life of embracing destruction, change and ambition. It has been an amusing game to witness. You are worthy to wield my Razor, but Dagon does not claim a winner while there is a pawn on the board. Kill Silus, for his family have served their purpose. Take your rightful place as my champion!”

Calixto’s mouth widened into a sneer. “It shall be done, Lord Dagon.”

His whispered words caught Silus’ attention. “What was that?”

In a swift move, Calixto pulled the spare dagger he had strapped to his hip and plunged it into Silus’ chest. He gasped, eyes wide, as Calixto twisted the blade. Blood poured down the man’s tunic, darkening it like spilled ink. 

“No—wait—” Silus choked.

Calixto ignored him, pulling out the blade and plunging it once more into Silus’ heart.

Silus fell to his knees as his legs gave way, collapsing beside the altar, blood pooling around him, steam rising where it met the snow.

Calixto smiled as he wiped the blade clean on Silus’ robes, then placed both bloodied hands upon the altar.

“ I am pleased, mortal. ” Dagon’s voice thundered again, this time with unmistakable satisfaction. “ Take my Razor and wreak havoc upon the world! ”

The Razor rose into the air, glowing faintly with infernal energy. The pommel stone hovered with it, rejoining the blade as ancient runes flared red along the edge. The scabbard opened like a mouth, swallowing the completed dagger with a hiss.

Calixto reached out and took it.

“Fill this world with destruction in my name! Witness the power of Mehrunes Dagon for yourself!”

Power surged through him. Not warmth. Not cold. Just force —pure and unfiltered. His senses sharpened. His thoughts felt clearer, crueler, as if some greater mind were now sharing space with his own.

He raised the Razor and swung at the edge of the altar. Stone was cleaved like scythe through a field, the corner sliced away cleanly.

Calixto laughed.

“With this…” he whispered, “I will kill any who stand in my way.”

“Perhaps we can help each other then.” 

A sudden voice had Calixto spinning, dagger raised. 

Ten feet away, standing calmly on the snowy steps that led to the altar, was a tall figure robed in blood-red. His face was shadowed beneath a deep hood, but Calixto immediately recognized the robes—the same kind he had seen in Silus’ museum.

“The Mythic Dawn?” Calixto claimed in surprise.

“So you know of us? That makes things easier.” the figure said smoothly. “You may consider me a friend, Calixto, for you and I share the same interests. I admit I only followed you here due to our mutual friend over there,” he said, gesturing to Silus’ body. “A pity. He was the descendant of one of our agents. But he lacked vision. You, however… Imagine my surprise when you came in carrying the Razor of Lord Dagon himself.”

Calixto clenched the Razor in his hand. Seeing the act, the figure chuckled. “Relax, I won’t be taking it from you. Lord Dagon has made it abundantly clear that you are his chosen champion. We wouldn’t dare interfere with that. On the contrary…”

He stepped forward and pulled back his hood.

His face was unnervingly calm. Golden skin, sharp features, and piercing amber eyes that seemed to glow in the dying light. An Altmer.

“What offer? And why would you even want to help me?” 

“Our interests align, for we serve the same Lord. My name is Mankar Camoran, and I am here to invite you to join the Mythic Dawn.”

…

4E 201, Mountainous path to Dimhollow Crypt

Gerron Ironbreaker

Vigilant Tolan was a tall man, standing just a few inches shorter than Gerron. With a shaved head and mutton chops for a beard, none would ever call him good looking. But that didn’t really matter since the man made for a fine warrior. A decade of faithful service to Stendarr had hardened him into something between a soldier and a crusader.

The man looked more like a battlemage than a priest, though most vigilants looked that way. His broad shoulders draped in the traditional brown-and-cream robes of Stendarr’s Vigil, yet reinforced by steel pauldrons and a half-plate cuirass. A long ebony greatsword was strapped to his back, sharp as any other.

He was friendly and took his duties quite seriously. A practical man, one who held his beliefs like iron nails in his heart. It reminded Gerron of Filnjar.

They pressed up a winding trail carved along the Pale’s frigid cliffs. Somewhere beyond the peaks lay Dimhollow Crypt, an ancient tomb a few leagues west of the Hall of Vigilants. Kiera had initially wanted to accompany him, but Gerron bid her to stay to spend time with her mother. 

Halfway to their destination, they came upon a ring of worn stones surrounding an ancient monolith.

“The Lord Stone,” Tolan murmured. “Been years since I saw this one.”

The Artificer System flared to life in Gerron’s mind, a familiar soft glow framing his vision.

[The Lord Stone]

Being one of the standing stones dotting the province of Skyrim, the Lord Stone is inscribed with the Tamrielic constellation of the Lord, capable of granting greater resistance to physical and magical damage.

Gerron raised an eyebrow at the description, before the next bit appeared and he widened his eyes.

[Tamrielic Inscriptionist]

With intense study of the constellations, you are capable of inscribing them into objects with sufficient magical power, granting them the gifts to rewrite fate according to the constellation inscribed. Be warned, for this requires a masterful knowledge of enchanting and a higher than average pool of magicka.

Gerron couldn’t help the massive grin that erupted on his face. Was this not the answer to all his woes? Ever since he awakened the Artificer System, the one thing he had found trouble in was magic, for he had no true counter against them. 

And now, with dragons waking, daedra meddling, and vampires crawling from ancient tombs, he’d need every advantage he could muster.

If he could inscribe the constellation to his ebony armor and enchant it, that would serve as an adequate protection against his future foes.

Though this did bring a new problem. For one, he was not a master of enchanting. At least not yet. While the system gave him plenty of knowledge regarding the subject, he still needed plenty of personal experience and experiments to be considered a true master.

Not to mention the amount of magicka it would take, as well a sufficient soul to power it. He had no qualms in believing nothing short of a grand soul was needed for this. The question is where he could get one.

Perhaps a visit to the College of Winterhold is in order?

“Interested in the standing stone?” Tolan questioned with an amused look. “The Lord Stone is far from the worst you could take. I personally have been blessed with the Lady Stone, allowing me to heal much faster than usual without the use of Restoration magic, as well regain energy and stamina in half the time.”

“Not a bad one.” Gerron nodded. “Though perhaps not today. I have a personal interest in getting the Warrior Stone, though I have yet to make the journey to earn it.”

The three major standing stones were called as such due to the role it had done to shape the men and women of Skyrim. The Warrior, the Mage, and the Thief were all roles that many had chosen in their long journeys of pursuing life. 

In a realm where physical prowess was looked upon favorably, the Warrior Stone was by far the most popular, for it grants any who was blessed by it greater power than the normal man. It made one stronger, faster, and enhances one's instincts in battle like no other. 

Gerron was curious how strong he could become after combining the Warrior Stone with the Battle Smith perk of the system. Even without it, he could already snap the neck of a weaker dragon. What could he do when he had both blessings running through his veins?

“Respectable.” Tolan nodded while chuckling. “It is the single most sought after stone by any respectable nord. Though after spending a decade as a Vigilant, I find the quick regain of health and stamina to be much more valuable.”

…

It didn’t take long then to arrive at Dimhollow Crypt, which was easily accessible by heading up a worm path up the mountainside. 

The interior of the cave was dark, though it wasn’t so bad that they couldn’t see through it. Gerron took out the brass orb on his belt before throwing it ahead, the sphere opening and taking the form of Bronze. 

The mechanical owl flew ahead as Gerron activated his vambrace, showing a pure screen of magicka that connected with the owl’s vision. There were two vampires guarding the entrance deeper, engaged in conversation. Gerron couldn’t scout further with them blocking the way.

With a quick nod to Tolan, they creeped further in, making sure to slow their steps and not letting their heavy armor clinking too much from the movement. They got close to the two vampires, managing to hear their conversation.

“…damned Vigilants keep snooping around. We should’ve killed the lot when we had the chance.”

“It’s not like we didn’t try. I heard Daroanos and his pack went to chase them and never came back.”

Tolan frowned. “That doesn’t make sense. Carcette hasn’t sent anyone to engage vampires… Not that I know of.”

“Then let's ask them, shall we?” Gerron grinned. The conversation between the vampires ended abruptly when Bronze let out a shriek. The startled vampires turned just in time to see the hammer swing.

CRACK.

One vampire’s ribcage caved in as Gerron smashed through him. The other barely raised his hands before Tolan’s greatsword cleaved him down the middle. Blood sprayed the cavern walls.

A death hound lunged from the shadows, only for Bronze to dive downwards and claw its eyes out. Gerron finished the hound by stomping the beast’s skull, ending it with a crunch.

“I thought we were going to ask them questions?” Tolan blinked.

Gerron just chuckled. “Well, there’s bound to be more of them ahead.”

They descended deeper. The air grew colder, thick with old blood and rot. A spiral staircase carved into ancient stone carried them downward into the heart of the crypt. Gerron yanked a rusted chain set in the wall; a groaning screech echoed far below as an iron gate opened somewhere ahead.

They pressed forward.

The next cavernous chamber was filled to the brim with vampires and death hounds. Gerron and Tolan stayed by the entrance, which was an elevated position, and merely rained down magicka bolts and fireballs from above.

The vampires didn’t last long from the surprise attack, the ones that survived the initial volley shot back with bolts of ice and frost spikes. Gerron charged forward to engage them in close combat, caving in skulls and shattering ribs. One vampire, a pale nord with bone charms in his hair, raised a frost spell before being flung off a ledge by Gerron.

Further ahead was a large room, with urns and old chests put together by the corner. A few lanterns lit up the room and gave it a strange orange hue. Though what got their attention were the numerous vampire and draugr corpses that littered the ground around them.

“Looks like they fought each other,” Gerron muttered, nudging a skull with his boot.

Tolan nodded. “This used to be a Nord tomb. My guess is they came looking for something. Perhaps an artifact, or a weapon?”

“Figures. I always wondered why our ancestors loved burying themselves with cursed heirlooms.” 

A splash echoed ahead. The two men sprinted toward the noise, following a passage that opened to an underground lake lit by glowing fungi and dim torches. Across the water, a small war raged—vampires and skeletons fought against a large swarm of frostbite spiders.

One vampire, a redguard woman clad in necromancer’s robes, shouted commands while slinging bolts of magic.

They didn’t hesitate to charge forward. 

Gerron sprinted, launched himself over a broken bridge, and slammed into her with the full weight of his armor. She flew backward, slamming into a boulder.

Tolan lifted a hand covered in pure light before slamming it forward. An invisible wave was ejected from his fingers that turned all the skeletons to ash, their necromantic magics purged by the Light of Stendarr.

Gerron was a whirlwind of steel. His hammer turned every spider into mush. Globs of poison splat harmlessly against his armor. The smaller ones were harder to hit, climbing all over Gerron and webbing his limbs to slow him down.

Lifting his hammer, he simply slammed it down as a shockwave of lightning erupted from the impact. Numerous spiders were blown apart. Looking to the side, he saw Tolan finishing the last of the critters with a swing of his blade.

Bronze shrieked as he clawed a spider off Gerron’s shoulder. Gerron turned and kicked it away, the spider hitting the surface of the lake with a splash.

“You good?” He asked the Vigilant, earning a nod in return.

They relaxed slightly while taking a look at their surroundings. It was as serene as it was beautiful. The lake glowed a green color from the numerous glowing mushrooms that were visible beneath the waters. 

A wider hall loomed ahead with an open iron gate. Gerron and Tolan shared a look before walking forward. 

The first thing they noticed was the corpse of a massive Frostbite spider. It had black fur, with numerous cuts adorning its body. Its many eyes were closed in death, though it only took a single touch to realize the death was recent.

“Must be the spider’s queen.” Gerron mused. “Whoever did this must be a decent warrior.”

Soft sounds of footsteps emanated from the other side of the chamber. A tall and gaunt Breton woman, with the classic glowing red eyes of vampires, walked into view.

She froze in place when she saw them. “Vigilants!” 

Wielding a wicked axe on her right hand, her left lunged forward clad in dark purple magic towards the corpse of the spider queen. “Rise, beast!” 

The corpse rose up, reanimated. Gerron rolled to the side to avoid the massive limb that slammed to his position before swinging his warhammer into the spider’s carapace. 

The creature let out a screech. Gerron moved in, ducking under the mandibles that jerked forward to take a bite and swung his hammer down the spider’s head, sparks unleashing from the lightning enchantment. 

Lifting the hammer back, it revealed the spider queen crushed into paste, the soul no longer forced to live after the reamination.

Looking back to his current partner, he saw Tolan engaging the vampire, the two of them clashing in a blur of steel and blood as ebony sword met the vampire’s axe. Gerron had to admit that the vampire was skilled—parrying and countering with speed—but she couldn’t hold her own against both.

Tolan slashed across the vampire’s chest, with her hissing in pain. Gerron took the chance to barrel and tackle the vampire into a wall, pressing his hammer to the vampire's throat.

Tolan kicked the axe that fell from her hand away before conjuring an orb of light that seared the vampire’s cheek. “Talk,” he growled. “Or die slower.”

The vampire laughed bitterly, coughing blood. “You Vigilants sure are determined. You’ve already burned our lair and even followed us here. ”

“By who?” Tolan asked, confused. “We haven’t sent any patrols.”

“Not yours?” the vampire sneered, amused. “He wore your robes, fought with your spells. Wields a hammer made entirely of light. Eyes like burning coals.”

Gerron furrowed his brow, while Tolan grimaced.

“You know him?” Gerron asked.

“Aye, only one man I know is capable of something like that. It’s Isran. He left the Order years ago. Said we were weak. Said we lacked… conviction.”

The vampire grinned through broken teeth. “He doesn’t lack it now. You may kill me, but you haven’t begun to realize the ruin you have sought. Soon, all of humanity shall tremble before us. You’ll see.”

Tolan wanted to hear nothing more. With a quick swing, her head flew from her shoulders.

Chapter Text

4E 201, Dimhollow Crypt

The Dragonslayer

Swinging his warhammer sideways, Gerron crushed the rotted ribcage of the draugr before him, bone fragments scattering across the crypt floor. The undead creature folded inward, only to be followed by another. Without missing a beat, Gerron pivoted and drove the haft of his hammer into the next’s throat, the sound of vertebrae shattering echoing through the damp chamber.

“These things just don’t stop coming,” he growled, shouldering the corpse off with a grunt.

“They never do,” Tolan replied, wiping his blade clean with a tattered cloth. His breath misted in the cold air of the crypt. “It’s why most deem tombs like these are considered a fool’s errand. Look around you.”

Gerron did so and took a sweep of his surroundings.

The cavern they stood in was immense—dark, cavernous, and choked with the reek of rot and dust. Dozens of draugr lay strewn about, slain by Gerron and Tolan’s collective effort. Others remained in their alcoves, still as death, yet Gerron knew that a single wrong step could awaken more.

Tolan gestured broadly. “What we’ve slain barely makes a tenth of what sleeps here. And sleep they shall—until some poor bastard dares step foot in this place again. They’ll rise once more, fueled by whatever cursed magic binds them.”

Gerron grunted. “A trap that resets itself, then.”

“Exactly. Kill five, wake ten. Kill ten, wake twenty. It’s a never ending loop that became the bane of many tomb raiders alike.”

He nodded grimly, his thoughts shifting. ‘ Reminds me of the Dwemer Ruins’, Gerron mused. ‘ Mechanical sentries still active centuries after their creators vanished…’  

Then a frown tugged at his lips. ‘ Now that I think about it, how are Dwemer ruins so self- sustaining? Are the constructs capable of recreating themselves? Is something or someone building more to replenish their numbers?’  

It wasn’t an answer he liked not knowing. Still, that was a question for another day.

They pressed onward.

Eventually, they came upon a set of ancient stone doors. With a groan of age-old stone, the doors opened to reveal a crumbling balcony high above a dark underground lake. Most of the platform had eroded and collapsed over the years, leaving only a precarious path forward. But Gerron’s eyes were drawn not to the drop or the ruin—but to the central island rising from the lake’s still surface.

“By Stendarr…” Tolan whispered beside him. “What is this?”

Gerron narrowed his eyes, the Artificer’s System flaring to life as glowing lines traced across the island in his vision. “Some kind of mechanism. A ritual site, maybe. No… wait—look at that pillar. That’s a control obelisk.”

He sent Bronze ahead to scout the terrain. Down below, a strange circular pattern lay etched into the stone like a buried sun. At its center stood a raised sarcophagus, encircled by a shallow trench and three braziers waiting to be lit or moved. The layout sang of ancient magic and even older secrets.

His Architect perk activated instinctively.

[Architect’s Insight]

Puzzle Mechanism Detected. Rotational locking sequence linked to pedestal pressure plate. Activate the plate, align the braziers—platform will descend.

“Simple enough,” Gerron muttered. “Pedestal on top, three braziers to align… Hold on.”

He vaulted over a broken section of the railing and landed hard on the stone below. The echoes of his boots vanished into the silence of the chamber. Tolan followed, landing with less grace.

It took only moments to solve.

Each brazier was rotated and pushed into position, guided by ancient grooves in the floor. When all three locked into place, a deep rumble shook the cavern. The floor beneath the sarcophagus began to lower, grinding stone against stone until it came to a stop.

The silence that followed was thick with dread.

“Ready?” Tolan asked, weapon raised.

“As I’ll ever be,” Gerron replied. He shifted the Mercury Hammer to a combat-ready grip.

Together, they approached the now-revealed sarcophagus.

A click sounded—a mechanism unlocking.

The stone lid trembled, and with a sudden, unnatural force, it slid open. Dust billowed into the air, disturbed for the first time in likely centuries. Out of the sarcophagus rose a woman—no older than thirty by appearance, but pale as snow, who stumbled out and held her head in pain.

But it wasn’t her figure that caused Gerron to pause, nor was it the blood red eyes and fangs that revealed her to be a vampire. No, it was the item that hung on her back, a clear and golden artifact that had the system flaring bright.

[Elder Scroll]

Artifacts of unknown origin and quantity, simultaneous archives of historic, past and future events. Some say they are older than the Aedra and Daedra themselves, others calling them fragments of creation that exist outside of time. Those untrained in the sight who reads an Elder Scroll shall forever risk themselves to insanity.

‘By Zenithar and all the Divines beside him…’ Gerron’s eyes widened, his grip tightening on his hammer.

‘What the fuck did we just stumble into?’

…

Serana, Daughter of Coldharbour

When she awoke, it was to the cold bite of air against her pale skin, and the oppressive silence of a long-forgotten tomb.

Her eyes fluttered open slowly, protesting the sudden brightness. Not that there was much light in the cavern—just a faint glow from braziers and... what looked like a mechanical bird circling above. But after the utter void of stasis, even that felt blinding.

Everything felt wrong. Her limbs, stiff and unresponsive, trembled as she shifted, forcing herself to rise from the sarcophagus. Her back ached, her tongue was dry, and her body was starved. ‘ Gods’, she thought as she braced herself on the stone edge, ‘ how long was I asleep?’

She stumbled out with all the grace of a newborn fawn, knees nearly buckling before she found balance. She took a good look around, seeing the same jaded and dark cavern that her mother had hidden her in. Only this time, she wasn’t alone.

Two men stood nearby, weapons drawn. The first wore robes of blue and brown, with the symbol of Stendarr glinting on his chest. His aura was filled with wary discipline and a tinge of divinity. A godly man, perhaps. His sword trembled just slightly in his grip. Fear? Or restraint?

The second was larger—much larger. Towering in full ebony armor, with a warhammer of black and bronze metal slung across his shoulder. His eyes weren’t on her face. They were locked onto something behind her.

She didn’t need to turn to know what it was.

The Elder Scroll.

‘He knows what it is.’

That alone made Serana alert. But something distracted her, for he smelled oh so sweet. And that’s when she realized how thirsty she really is.

The scent of blood—iron, heat, and vitality—rolled off both men like a feast, the latter more than the former. She pushed it down, for there were far more important matters to deal with.

“She’s a vampire.” the godly one said, voice tense. He stepped slightly in front of the larger man.

“Aye,” the armored one replied. “But I doubt she’s a normal one. That thing on her back is a damned Elder Scroll.”

‘So they weren’t here for it.’ Serana’s gaze narrowed. That was… something. A flicker of relief stirred in her chest. If they had come seeking the Scroll, they’d likely have come with more numbers, and would have been far more aggressive.

Still, it doesn’t mean she was out of trouble yet. She straightened her posture, summoning what poise she still possessed. “Who are you?” she asked, her voice hoarse but steady. “Who sent you here? How did you find me?”

“Not like we wanted to,” the Vigilant said. “Forgive me, lady, but I find myself struggling to answer questions from a vampire.”

Not exactly hostile. Just wary. That was something she could work with.

“Peace Tolan. There are much bigger things going on here than we initially believed.” the armored one said, lifting his helm.

He had a strong, weathered face—blonde hair slightly matted from sweat, sharp cheekbones, and deep-set eyes of blue that didn’t flinch when they met hers. She could smell the sweet blood on him and something else beneath. Power. Not magical, but more divine in nature.

“My name is Gerron. You are?”

She hesitated, weighing the moment. Then gave the truth. “...Serana.”

“Lady Serana then, we mean you no harm.” She detected no deception from his words. “Only if you could tell us what’s going on here.”

“Do forgive me, but I did just meet you.” Serana let out a breath that eased the tension in her shoulders. “While I’m quite grateful you freed me from that prison, there are things I’d rather not speak of. Not yet.”

“Fair enough.” Gerron said with a sigh. “Though I’d ask what you plan to do now. As I said, a vampire buried with an Elder Scroll is far from normal. The fact that this is all happening the moment the dragons returned and the Daedra are spurning makes it all too much of a coincidence.”

Dragons and Daedra? What the hell had the world turned into?

“Wait,” Serana was surprised. “What year is it?”

“It is the year 201 of the Fourth Era.”

‘By the gods, it had been that long? What happened to mother? Or worse, what of her father?’

Dark things certainly moved in her absence. A small thought that believed her father was the cause of all this was swept away immediately. For all his power, not even her father was capable of commanding dragons and daedra to do his bidding.

Returning to him undoubtedly means going back to the politicking that had ruined their family in the first place. If this Gerron’s words were true, it seems things were far worse than she had imagined. 

Despite her wanting to go travel and see the world for herself, the Elder Scroll behind her back made her pause. She was in a new world filled with many forces that would undoubtedly covet the Scroll, a world she knew nothing about.

Truth be told, she wanted nothing to do with this thing behind her back. The Scroll had brought nothing but ruin to her life and the cause that broke her family apart. It was the catalyst that caused her mother to seal Serana away after all.

Having allies was paramount. Looking back at Gerron, despite the clear dubious look he gave the scroll, it was clear it was due to the sheer power the scroll contained rather than an ambition to covet it. He seemed cordial so far, and was obviously a powerful warrior judging by his smell and the clear presence he contained.

She was still weakened after the centuries of being sealed. If he wanted it, there was no doubt in her mind that he could forcibly take it from her right here and now.

But he didn’t.

“Would it be possible for me to accompany you on your travels for the time being?”

Gerron blinked, then turned to Tolan who gave him a calculating look. “Sure. I guess the Vigilants would at least need to be informed of the current state of matters.” His words made her tense subconsciously. 

She looked into his eyes to determine the truth of his words and found no deceit. She allowed herself to relax. In any case, seeing how the world had changed after centuries would be entertaining.

And maybe… a way to stop her father, if it came to that.

She took a breath. “Then I’ll come with you.”

Chapter Text

4E 201, Blue Palace

Legate Rikke

The stone walls of the Blue Palace had always struck Rikke as cold, no matter how many braziers burned along the columns or how thick the velvet drapes were drawn over its high windows. And today, the chamber felt colder still.

Legate Rikke stood at the round council table in the Blue Palace, posture straight, hands clasped behind her back like a soldier even now. Around her, the highest powers in Skyrim gathered around the table.

General Tullius, her superior and the face of the Empire in this province.

Jarl Elisif the Fair, widow of the late High King Torygg, and current ruler of Solitude, the capital hold of Skyrim.

Sybille Stentor, Solitude’s mysterious court mage, who Rikke had long since suspected to be a vampire. Though it didn’t really matter as long as her allegiances aligned with the Empires.

And lastly—and unfortunately—Elenwen. The Thalmor emissary. Dressed in gold-threaded robes. Her presence was as unwelcome as it was impossible to avoid.

The discussion had turned from rumors of dragons, especially since the destruction of Helgen that led to Ulfric Stormcloak escaping their grasp. Since then, more and more news came about from every province in Skyrim regarding sights of dragons prowling the countryside.

The most recent one of course being the attack on Whiterun. Specifically, news that the dragons were killed.

Many spouted doubts, most coming from the veteran legionnaires who survived Helgen. But all those doubts disappeared the moment Jarl Balgruuf had the dragon’s carcassess paraded through the city like a trophy.

"Though we don’t know their identity yet,” said Tullius, continuing their discussion, “it won’t take long for my spies to find out. Actions such as that begets attention."

Of course, he was talking about the lauded Dragonslayers. The Dragonborn and the man in ebony armor who’d helped drive the beast back. The stories sounded ridiculous, how the Dragonborn split the wing of one of the dragons with a blade shining with peerless golden light and the ebony warrior breaking the neck of another with his bare hands.

There were still too many unknowns. And Rikke hated unknowns.

“Yes,” murmured Sybille, her voice like silk over steel. “But the world keeps moving while we grasp at shadows. I’ve heard news from the south. Rorikstead has fallen.”

Everyone turned to her.

“They say a dragon, with scales as red as blood, descended on the town. Burned it to the ground.” Her expression didn’t change, but Rikke noticed the subtle twitch in her fingers. “A man named Erik rallied the survivors and led them to Falkreath.”

General Tullius leaned forward, brow darkening. “An entire town lost… and not ten leagues from our Imperial camp.”

“They did what they could,” Rikke interjected, she had received word of this prior to the meeting. “Legate Quentin Cipius responded within the hour. Over half the garrison was lost trying to protect the civilians. If not for him, this Erik would be leading corpses.”

“Yet this bears another problem entirely.” Tullius sighed. “Balgruuf had made his stance clear. The man dislikes to see legionnaires or even Stormcloaks in his territory. The damn dragon had forced Legate Quentin to reveal the force we had precariously hidden within the hold of Whiterun.”

“Traitors, all of them,” Elenwen scoffed. “Balgruuf’s inaction is treason by another name. I propose a full offensive. We seize Whiterun, remind the Jarls who commands Skyrim.”

Tullius pinched the bridge of his nose. “Doing that would push Balgruuf straight into Ulfric’s arms.”

“He already leans toward rebellion,” the Thalmor woman replied.

“No,” said Elisif, her voice soft but steady. “Skyrim cannot be fractured further. A civil war while dragons burn our villages? That is not strategy. That is suicide.”

Discussion continued then. Borders of the war efforts,  more dragon sightings, garrison rotations. No details were spared.

The doors to the chambers opened and a courier in Imperial red stepped inside, saluted, and handed a sealed letter to General Tullius. He dismissed the man with a glance and broke the seal.

Rikke watched his brow furrow as he read. When he didn’t speak after a moment, she prompted, “What is it, General?”

Tullius looked up, frowning. “One of our agents intercepted a courier bound for Windhelm. It appears Ulfric is attempting to bring the Vigilants of Stendarr into the war. We have no word whether or not they accepted.”

“The Vigilants?” Elisif asked, eyes wide. “But they’ve never involved themselves in matters of state. They are holy men.”

“That’s exactly why it’s troubling,” Tullius said. “If the people see them side with the rebellion, it legitimizes the Stormcloaks in a way even their worship of Talos can’t.”

“They’re few in number,” Elisif continued, almost thinking aloud. “Only a few hundred in Skyrim, as per the treaty signed by the High Priest and my late husband. But their presence is symbolic. If they call for righteous war, the common folk will listen. And many will flock to Ulfric’s banner.”

“They’d be dangerous allies for the rebels,” Tullius agreed. “The average Vigilant is trained better than most raw recruits in the Legion.”

“A show of force should suffice,” Elenwen said, her voice steeled. “A Justiciar with a detachment of Thalmor agents could put them in their place. Show them what happens when religious fanatics overstep their bounds.”

Rikke felt her stomach twist.

“That won’t be necessary, Lady Elenwen.” Elisif replied, giving the Thalmor emissary a measured stare. “Skyrim does not need more foreign boots on its soil. Nor do we need to provoke another faction into rebellion.”

Only Rikke caught the subtle twitch in Elenwen’s lip—the faintest smirk, like a cat watching its prey scurry.

“Oh? And what do you suggest, child?” the Altmer said sweetly. “Surely you don’t mean to do nothing.”

Elisif sat straighter. “I am no child, Thalmor. And I never said we’d do nothing. The Vigilants were approached by appeals to divine worship. We will do the same. Extend a hand in cooperation. Offer them Imperial support to better combat Daedric threats. Not just words but soldiers.”

Tullius blinked. “You’d reinforce the Vigilants?”

“They are spread thin,” Elisif said. “Let us not forget that Skyrim’s wilderness harbors every manner of unholy thing—vampires, necromancers, Daedric cults. Why not help them do what they already intend to do?”

Tullius looked thoughtful. “That… could work,” he admitted, stroking his chin. “Though pulling soldiers from the front lines risks weakening our defenses.”

“Then I will provide men from Solitude’s guard,” Elisif said without hesitation. “Captain Aldis has trained a fresh cohort this past year. They’ll be ready within the month. I’ll lend them to bolster the Vigilants, as a gesture of faith. Let the people of Skyrim see who truly protects them.”

Tullius leaned back and gave a rare nod of approval. “Very well. Your orders shall be heeded, Jarl Elisif.”

“Thank you, General,” Elisif replied. She allowed herself the smallest smile.

Rikke was glad. This solution was much better than what Elenwen suggested. Though speaking of the Altmer, Rikke watched her to see any changes in her expression. 

The placid, yet calculating smile on Elenwen’s face nearly sent chills down her back.

…

4E 201, Hall of VIgilants

Serana Volkihar

They crested the final hill just as the rising sun spilled over the horizon, turning the snowy plains to gold. Serana pulled her hood further down, eyes narrowing at the light. Even now, after everything, the sun still made her bones ache.

Gerron walked beside her with a smile, watching his mechanical owl flying overhead. And behind them, Tolan cursed under his breath, squinting into the sun. The Vigilant still hadn’t grown used to traveling with a vampire at his side, but he'd stopped keeping his hand near his blade all the time. Serana counted that as progress.

The Hall of the Vigilants came into view—modest and sturdy, like its occupants. Snow-dusted stone walls, a tall watchtower in the center, and smoke curling from the chimneys.

Gerron and Tolan had caught her up as much as they could with the current situations in Skyrim. Specifically regarding the many historical events that had happened in the near seven centuries she was buried.

The Vigilants of Stendarr were among them, and Serana can’t help but be intrigued by them. Established in the Third Era of the year 433, the Vigilants were created in response to the widespread opening of the gates of Oblivion by a cult called the Mythic Dawn. 

To think the Daedric Prince of Destruction himself attempted to take over Tamriel. How dangerous, and interesting.

They were greeted by many of the Vigilants as soon as they entered the establishment. Though she had noticed many eyes follow in her direction, it seems they all trusted Tolan and Gerron enough to leave her alone for the most part.

In the clearing before the Hall, there were two figures danced steel against steel.

Serana stopped walking and watched, interested. “Who are they?”

“That’s the Keeper Carcette and her daughter, Kiera.” Tolan replied.

Carcette, clad in partial plate and the robes of their holy order, moved like a seasoned warrior—a blur of efficiency and power. Her opponent, a younger woman with her own brand of white steel armor, met every strike with equal grace. Blonde hair tied back, sharp eyes locked on her mother’s blade.

For a moment, Serana simply watched. They didn’t hold back—not even a little. Sparks flew as swords clashed, feet churned the snow into slush, and their breath misted in the cold air. It was beautiful in a way Serana hadn’t expected. Not brutal, not reckless, but disciplined. 

The duel ended in perfect symmetry—both swords halted, tips at each other’s throats.

“…Tie again,” Kiera said, smiling despite the sweat on her brow.

Carcette let out a small chuckle. “Your time in Cyrodiil has done you wonders, daughter mine.”

She sheathed her blade and finally noticed the three onlookers. “Tolan, Gerron, You’ve returned. Come. We’ll speak in my office.”

They followed her into the Hall, warmth immediately wrapping around them as the heavy door shut behind. Inside the office, Carcette removed her gauntlets and gestured for them to sit. Tolan remained standing. Serana didn’t bother to lower her hood.

“I sent you two to clear a vampiric tomb and instead came back with one,” Carcette began, her gaze settling on Serana. “I assume this must be important.”

Serana had thought long and hard in their journey here whether or not to be forthcoming to these strangers. She had sensed no lie coming from either of her new companions and they had been far more cordial to her than her father ever did.

Seeing Carcette and Kiera had even sparked many memories she had with her own mother. It was a question she had asked numerous times after waking up. What happened to Valerica? Serana being sealed for seven hundred years was never the plan. 

Did her mother abandon Serana to be forever buried beneath that tomb? It made sense in a cruel, twisted way. It had even succeeded. Her father had not found her and the Elder Scroll for that long.

And so, despite only meeting them for the first time, she opted to trust this set of strangers who had thus far proven to be trustworthy.

“This is about the Volkihar. My… father.” The word tasted bitter. “Lord Harkon.”

Carcette’s expression sharpened. She nodded once, signaling for Serana to continue.

“It’s been centuries since then,” Serana said. “He holds a court of the pure-blooded. They’re not like the regular vampires you tangle with, these ones are the closest to being regarded as ancient vampires.”

Carcette’s brows knit. “Does he mean to go to war with Skyrim?”

“Yes. And not just against mortals. Harkon seeks to fulfill a prophecy. One that involves blotting out the sun.”

“Is something like that even possible?” Kiera questioned. “Blotting out the sun…that takes a level of magic most people could only dream of.”

Serana gave a tired nod. “It’s real. I don’t know how my mother confirmed it, but she said it is all mentioned in the Elder Scrolls.”

Serana gestured to the scroll on her back, and she watched Carcette and Kiera looking at it in interest. To their credit, they merely gave it a passing glance.

“In that case, the scroll must be protected.” Carcette looked thoughtful then. “The scroll is under your protection. So by extension, you are under our protection. The realm takes precedence over anything else. What you’re saying… this is far beyond the capacity we’re used to deal with.”

Serana let that sit in the air. The weight of it. The truth of it. 

Then Tolan stepped forward.

“There is… something else,” he said, voice lower now. “There’s someone I know that we might need to bring into this. He’s been preparing for something like this years ago, before the civil war broke out, he tried to revive an old order. The Dawnguard. Vampire hunters. Was laughed out of the Hall for it. Some said he was mad. Said the threat was exaggerated.”

Carcette took a deep breath.

“…Isran,” she said. “I remember.”

“He was rigid and arrogant,” Tolan muttered. “But he saw something we didn’t. And now? Maybe he was right all along.”

Serana crossed her arms. “If he foresaw the threat my father had before it happened, it seems like he’s a good ally to have.”

“Maybe…,” Carcette murmured. She stood from her desk and walked to the window, gazing out into the snowy woods beyond.

“If Harkon is truly making his move… we can’t face him with our numbers alone. The Vigilants were never meant to face a disciplined army of vampires. We root out cults and covens. But this? This is war.”

She turned back to them.

“Isran has the right to it. Then the Dawnguard must be reborn.”

Tolan blinked. “You mean—?”

“Find Isran, Tolan. Ask him if there’s still a place for his order. Tell him the Vigilants are prepared to cooperate. We don’t have the luxury of pride anymore.”

Tolan nodded, his usual skepticism replaced by a quiet determination. “It’ll be done.”

Serana said nothing.

For the first time in centuries, she had stepped back into the world of mortals. And it seemed that the world was readying for battle.

She wasn’t sure if she belonged in either place anymore.

But she knew one thing for certain.

Harkon had to be stopped.

Chapter Text

4E 201, Hall of Vigilants

Gerron Ironbreaker

As Tolan and Serana stepped out of the office, the heavy wooden door thudded shut behind them, muffling their voices as they moved down the hall.

Carcette turned, her expression shifting from measured composure to quiet fatigue. She looked older in that moment—shoulders tense, the corners of her mouth creased deeper than before. The day had worn heavily on her. No wonder. Threats from within and without. Vampires, dragons, politics, prophecy.

“Sit,” she said, gesturing to the two remaining chairs before her desk.

Gerron complied. Kiera remained standing for a moment longer, arms crossed, before relenting with a resigned sigh and taking her seat.

Carcette steepled her fingers, then glanced between them. “Now that it’s just us… what are your plans?”

Kiera was first to answer. “I need to go to High Hrothgar,” she said plainly. “The Greybeards summoned me. If I’m Dragonborn, then I need to learn what that means.”

Carcette gave a thoughtful nod. “That’s a wise course. I’ve met the Greybeards before. Arngeir will guide you well.”

“I hope so,” Kiera murmured. “Right now, I can barely shout down a bear.”

Carcette turned to Gerron. “And you?”

“I’ll head to Shor’s Stone for a while,” he replied, folding his arms across his chest. “Check in with my home and pick up the fresh batch of Ebony they’ve mined. After that, I’ll make my way back to the College. If war really is coming—and with vampires, and daedra, and dragons in the mix—we’ll need enchanted weapons, wards, and countermeasures. I need some time to do some research and give our side the best kind of gear.”

Carcette’s eyes lit with approval. “Good. That’s exactly the kind of foresight we need.”

Then her tone shifted.

“But before you go,” she said, leaning forward slightly, “I have a request. About Serana.”

Gerron’s brow furrowed, and he glanced at Kiera, who mirrored the reaction.

“She can’t stay here,” Carcette continued. “The Vigilants are trained to uphold Stendarr’s mercy—but she is a pure-blooded vampire carrying an Elder Scroll. Her very presence is an affront to some of our more… devout members. I’ve seen the looks. None would act on it openly, but unease brews like rot beneath a floorboard. It’s only a matter of time before someone does something stupid.”

Gerron nodded slowly, understanding. “And you want me to take her.”

“You’re capable enough to subdue her if she turns hostile,” Carcette said, matter-of-fact. “And strong enough to protect her if Harkon sends his hounds. Kiera already told me how you wrestled a dragon to the ground.”

Gerron chuckled. “Sure, I’ll keep her close and out of trouble.”

“And the scroll too,” Carcette added. “As much as I want to keep an eye on it myself, I know enough to realize that many daedric cults or even Harkon himself have ways of spying on our halls. We can’t let something like that stay here.”

“Got it.” Gerron nodded.

“I’ll hold down the fort till the both of you finish with your business. Tolan will go find Isran. One of our priorities is to find a way of alerting the Emperor and getting the Legions to mobilize. This damn Civil War needs to stop.”

They left the office a few minutes later and found Serana standing near the hearth, arms folded, her expression as unreadable as ever. Tolan was gone—no doubt already preparing to depart in search of Isran.

Kiera approached first. “Hey. Small change of plans.”

Serana arched a brow. “Am I being exiled?”

“In a sense,” Gerron replied with a shrug. “Carcette thinks it’s better if you leave the Hall. Too dangerous to keep you here. She’s asked me to travel with you for protection.”

A faint smirk touched Serana’s lips. “So Tolan gets to run off on a manhunt for this ‘Isran’ and I get to tour the new world in a new Era I found myself in? Neat.”

Her tone was dry, but not bitter. Gerron took it as a good sign.

Then she turned to Kiera, her gaze curious.

“By the way, I’ve been meaning to ask you this,” she said. “Something about you smells quite odd.”

Kiera blinked. “Excuse me?”

“I mean that literally,” Serana said. “Vampires have an enhanced sense of smell. Especially pure-bloods like me. Gerron there smells like fire, ash, and perhaps a touch of divinity. You? You smell… reptilian . And some odd kind of magic I’ve never seen before.”

Kiera sighed, running a hand through her hair. “Reptilian, huh? Figures. I’m apparently Dragonborn. Found out just a week ago.”

Serana’s eyes widened, just slightly. “Truly? You two really are fascinating. And I thought my era was dramatic.”

Gerron rolled his eyes. “Anyway. Since you’ll be traveling with me, we need to figure out a way to hide the scroll. Even if no one can read it, it's still a big glowing target strapped to your back.”

Serana frowned. “You can’t just hide an Elder Scroll. It’s an artifact of infinite knowledge and divinity. My mother took great pains in layering spells and wards to conceal it. How are you going to—”

Gerron held up a hand and casually gestured toward the scroll leaning against the wall.

It vanished.

Serana’s mouth hung open for a moment. Kiera blinked.

“…What did you just do?” Serana asked, walking toward where the scroll had stood. She waved her hand through the empty space.

“It’s a skill I have,” Gerron said, smirking. “Think of it as a… pocket realm. I can store a handful of things there—keeps them safe, hidden, and untouched by time.”

“That’s the same thing you used in the Forsaken Cave to pull that crazy axe out of nowhere isn’t it?” Kiera gave him a sidelong look. “Is that also why you never carry any bags or pouches with you? 

“Exactly.”

Serana rubbed her chin. “Intriguing. Dimensional magic is quite rare. I would be very interested in learning this spell if you’re willing to teach it.”

Gerron didn’t really know if it was possible to teach someone else skills from the system, but he was willing to entertain the idea. “We’ll see.”

“So,” Kiera continued the conversation. “We leave at first light?”

“Agreed,” Gerron nodded. “We head east towards the Rift. We’ll split on the branch of the road that leads to Shor’s Stone and Ivarstead.”

Serana sighed. “No offense, but I’m not thrilled about marching through the sun and snow again.”

“Then you’re really going to hate the College,” Gerron chuckled.

…

4E 201, Unknown Location

Calixto

“You want to conquer Tamriel with the Oblivion Gates? To start another Oblivion Crisis?” Calixto questioned as he and Mankar Camoran stood on a balcony that overlooked the training area where several members of the Mythic Dawn were practicing. 

Below them, the courtyard was filled with acolytes in crimson robes dueling with weapons, while others were busy practicing Daedric spells and incantations, 

“The Gates cannot be opened if a Septim sits on the Throne of Cyrodiil. But the Septim line has long since died.” Mankar replied, hands folded calmly within the sleeves of his ornate robes. “The Dragonfires remain unlit. The barriers between our world and the planes of Oblivion grow thinner with each passing year.”

He turned his gaze to the horizon, where a veil of crimson mist hung low over the jagged mountain ridges. “We have been waiting—working in the shadows since the fall of the first Dawn. Patient, prepared. And now, with the return of the dragons and the forging of the Razor once more, I am certain: this is the era to rise.”

“And yet we’re still hiding.” Calixto’s eyes narrowed slightly, gesturing towards the distant mountains. “It’s been centuries since the first Crisis. How long do we wait before we make Tamriel bleed again? How many Oblivion Gates can we open now?”

Mankar exhaled, as though he had anticipated the impatience. “One, by my hand alone,” he said. “My children—Ruma and Raven—can summon a second if they act together. But that is the extent of what we can do.” 

He glanced at the training acolytes at the courtyard below. “The rest of our Order pale in comparison to the old Mythic Dawn. It will take many years before any of them can be even close to aid in summoning a Gate. Our Lord Dagon has granted them the power to summon armor and weapons over themselves. A few are capable of conjuring a Dremora Lord or two. But a true Gate—an opening to the Deadlands—requires more.”

Calixto frowned. “Two Gates won’t conquer Tamriel.”

“No,” Mankar agreed, his voice low and almost mournful. “I learned that from the Hero of Kvatch. Strike too soon, and the world rallies against us. Strike too small, and they laugh.”

 He turned to Calixto, his eyes glittering with unholy zeal. “But strike with fire enough to burn the sky , and no army will stand.”

“But word of the revival of the Mythic Dawn has spread plenty to those who are listening.” Calixto noted. “I have no doubt the Vigilants have already noticed.” 

“All by design, of course,” Mankar smiled. “Why do you think we’re doing this in Skyrim, rather than Cyrodiil? The Vigilants in this country are much less in number than the capital of the Empire. Spread thin across the holds. Skyrim is in chaos—the civil war, dragons, the Thalmor. The world is distracted. If we rise here, we rise under shadow.”

“...And the rumors?”

“Bread crumbs,” Mankar said. “Signals to our lost brothers and sisters. Those still hiding in the wilderness, in ruins, in the sewers beneath cities. They will hear our call and come home.”

Calixto nodded, understanding the logic. “Is there not a way then to increase our ability to summon more Gates? To speed things along?”

“Of course there is.” Mankar replied, making Calixto raise an eyebrow. “The Elder Scrolls are magical objects of immeasurable power. Having one in our hands would be an immense boon. We could expand the reach of the Deadlands a hundredfold.  I’ve sent agents across the provinces, searching. Sooner or later, one will return with what we seek.”

“Then what am I supposed to do while we wait?” Calixto asked.

“For now, you practice.” Mankar replied. 

Calixto bristled slightly, feeling the old pride rise in his chest. “I wield the Razor and I have killed plenty. I’m good enough.”

“You’re adequate ,” Mankar said. “But ‘adequate’ is not enough. You are Mehrunes Dagon’s champion, Calixto. You will lead our legions. You need to be more than good enough —you must be unstoppable.”

The Altmer raised a hand, and the training below came to a sudden halt as the air shimmered with heat. A great ring of dark red flame exploded outward in a burst from his palm, flying through the air and putting a heat haze across the mountain in a display of power both terrifying and casual.

“The Razor is a blade of legend,” Mankar said. “But a blade is nothing without a strong hand to wield it. And you…” He pointed a finger toward Calixto’s chest. “...will become that hand.”

Calixto stared down at the courtyard, his thoughts burning with anticipation. Visions of war filled his mind—Oblivion Gates erupting in every city, daedra pouring from the rifts, banners of fire unfurled across the sky.

He imagined the screams. The blood. The silence after.

He grinned.

Chapter Text

4E 201, Road in Eastmarch, Six days later

Kiera Fendalyn

The soft rhythm of hooves on dirt echoed as Kiera, Gerron, and Serana rode side by side. The air was crisp, with the occasional whisper of snow carried down from the Throat of the World. 

That was her destination, and by Stendarr did it look intimidating. So tall it was that the peak of the mountain went above the clouds, Kiera couldn’t imagine what the harsh winds would be like that high up. The stories said that there were ten thousand steps that had to be made from Ivarstead to reach High Hrothgar, the home of the Greybeards. 

It was meant to be the first trial, to cull anyone unworthy from ascending and learning the tongue of the dragons.

They had departed from the Hall of the Vigilants six days ago and now were well into Eastmarch territory. Kiera breathed in the cool evening air. 

This was the part of the Vigilant life she had loved. The long travels through well-trodden roads, the unique and sprawling views, the cool night air. Skyrim’s lands may be wrought in war, but it remained breathtaking in the rare moments like these.

Doing it with companions made it even better. She glanced at the new addition of the group. Serana, cloaked and hooded against the sun that had only recently dipped below the trees.

She was a surprisingly good conversationalist once she went past the whole pure-blooded vampire thing. Kiera had learned that Serana was quite an accomplished mage, with near mastery of the Destruction, Conjuration, and Illusion schools of magic.

It was initially quite difficult for her to see Serana as the witty and sarcastic woman that she was outside of the vampiric exterior. But she has learned her lesson with Vermithor and the Companions that not everyone deserves to be stuck with that kind of prejudice.

Speaking of the bronze dragon, Kiera wondered what happened to the dragonstone? Vermithor mentioned a name called Paarthunax, which she assumed was another dragon. Kiera hadn’t heard of any dragon on dragon battles lately, how are they doing in their attempts to combat Alduin, she wondered.

Their journey through Skyrim was also wrought with many troubles. They had to fight off a number of wolves, bears, and even a few trolls. They were never caught off guard due to Bronze, the mechanical owl being their eyes in the sky.

Not to mention the numerous bandits that are running around doing whatever they want.

“Give us all your valuables!”

Four men emerged from behind a small outcropping, weapons drawn. Bandits, of course. Ragged armor and faulty weapons. Kiera counted two rusty axes, a chipped sword, and a wooden spear that looked ready to snap in half from its own weight.

Kiera merely gave them a deadpan stare. 

What made these people think they were easy targets? Did they not see her clothes that obviously marked her as a Vigilant of Stendarr? Or perhaps the seven foot tall, ebony clad, mountain of a man with a magical hammer on his back?

Even Serana, despite her modest garb, had an air of unshakable poise and confidence.

She pitied them.

Gerron turned to her casually. “Do you wanna handle this or should I?”

Kiera was busy chewing on a piece of dried beef and just shrugged. “You go ahead.”

“Got it.”

Four thuds and a heartbeat later, it was over.

“You two have a very amusing dynamic.” Serana muttered amusedly, dismounting and approaching one of the corpses. “You wouldn’t mind if I feed, do you? It’s been years and I’m quite parched.”

Gerron just shrugged before looking at Kiera.

She hesitated for a second before shaking her head. In the end, it was a necessity. She’d much rather let Serana do it on these bandits rather than innocents.

A few hours passed as they continued eastward. The moons, Masser and Secunda, had begun their ascent, bathing the land in silver and crimson hues. They approached a bend in the road when Serana pointed at something.

“What is that?”

Kiera followed her gaze. Perched upon a small rise near the road was a ring of ancient stones, surrounding a low mound of some kind. 

“I have no idea,” Kiera admitted. She looked to Gerron, who’s usually a lot more learned regarding these things, only to see his gaze a bit clouded, as if he was seeing something that Kiera couldn’t.

Not a heartbeat later, it disappeared, and he spoke. “They’re dragon burial mounds. Places where dragons were laid to rest in the Merethic Era. There’s one that’s quite close to Shor’s Stone. I used to play on it when I was a kid.”

He looked directly at Kiera then. “An interesting thing about them is that dragons do not truly die once their mortal body is slain. Their souls linger and remain dormant. If my theory is correct, it should mean that you could devour the soul of the deceased dragon that’s laying here.” 

Kiera’s mouth went dry. She dismounted slowly, her feet crunching in gravel as she approached the ring of stones. There was a hum in the air, faint at first, like the vibration of a distant string being plucked. Then it deepened—more sensation than sound, a trembling in her bones.

She could feel it, a similar rush of power that she received after the Dragon Hunt. Color spilled from the mound in long, ethereal strands—crimson, gold, and a deep cobalt. They coiled in the air before rushing toward her. She cried out as they pierced her chest, filling her with heat and raw, unbridled power.

And with it, rage.

She fell to a knee, her breath labored.

“Kiera!” Gerron caught her before she hit the ground, “What happened?!”

Serana appeared at her other side. “She’s burning up!”

“I—I’m fine,” Kiera managed, her voice ragged. “It’s just… the soul. It’s getting a little too much. I gain their strength, but also something else.”

“Could it be their senses or instincts?” Serana raised an eyebrow. “Souls are quite nifty little things and are said to hold much more than a creature's power. You’re absorbing the dragon’s very essence. Its senses, its emotions, its memories.”

She spoke softly then. “It’s quite similar to when I first turned into a vampire, there was a period of time where I needed to get used to the new sensations being a vampire brings. Could it be the same for you?”

Kiera was quiet for a moment, the worst of the pain ebbing. She looked up at them through sweat-soaked lashes.

“A dragon’s senses are much sharper than regular humans.” Gerron added with a frown. “Perhaps I can help you, we can add daily spars to our routine. Get you used to your new strengths. You’ll need to relearn your limits.”

“But I could hurt you by accident.” Kiera said with worry.

Gerron just chuckled. “I can take it, don’t worry. Besides, you’re an accomplished healer aren’t you? Just fix me up if you accidentally break anything.”

“I can also help.” Serana said. “There’s no doubt that your magicka levels also took a steep rise after absorbing a dragon’s soul. I can help tutor you in balancing your spells to not overload it accidently, as well as getting you used to your enhanced senses. I have them too after all.”

Kiera looked between them—these two who had no obligation to stay by her side. The fact that one of them was a vampire, standing with a Vigilant of Stendarr was enough to make her laugh, if she weren’t still shaking.

Instead, she smiled through the sting in her eyes. “Thank you. Both of you.”

Gerron grinned. “What are friends for?”

…

4E 201, Windhelm

Galmar Stone-Fist

“We have yet to receive word from Frorkmar regarding the Vigilants,” Galmar said with a frown, his voice low and gruff with concern. “I fear the courier carrying their reply was intercepted.”

“I’m not surprised.” Ulfric replied at the war table, his hands resting firmly on either side of the map stretched across its surface. The map was cluttered with carved wooden markers—blue for Stormcloaks, red for Imperials, and black for unknown threats. Too many black ones lately.

“Information is as powerful a weapon as any sword,” Ulfric continued, his gaze tracing the river routes and mountain passes of the Pale. “Tullius is no fool, he has seen fit to blind our intelligence as much as he could. News of the other holds has certainly slowed in recent weeks. It is a good idea, I admit. To sever our veins before we can strike. But none of it would matter as long as the heart still beats.”

Galmar glanced up at the man before him. His friend. His Jarl. The true High King. The Jagged Crown resting atop Ulfric’s head suited him. It made him look every bit the King Galmar believed he was.

“Jorleif returned just days ago from Shor’s Stone,” Galmar reported. “Said the troubles are dealt with. Brought back a good supply of weapons and armor—some of it quality Ebony.”

Ulfric nodded. “Good. We’ll need it.”

“He also spoke of something else.”

Ulfric turned his head slightly. “And that is?”

“Shor’s Stone was attacked by bandits.” Galmar’s voice was tight. “A hundred strong, and well-armed.”

Ulfric’s eyes narrowed. “A hundred? How did such a force remain hidden?”

“The lands of Skyrim do not lack ruined castles or ancient tombs to hide in.” Galmar said grimly. “The war is turning the holds into chaos. Displaced cutthroats prowling the countryside. They pillage villages and claim roads as their own. This is no longer just rebellion against the Empire. Skyrim is bleeding, Ulfric.”

Ulfric let out a slow breath. “Aye. I’ve heard it before. But if we peel away fighters from the front to police the wilds, we risk losing the war entirely.”

“It speaks ill of your rule to let your people suffer,” Galmar said, not unkindly, but firmly.

Ulfric's jaw clenched. He paced for a moment, then turned with resolve in his eyes. “Windhelm has a standing garrison of three hundred Stormcloaks and five hundred city guards. I’ll send Brunwulf out with a hundred men—skilled riders and lightly armored to move fast. He’ll move between Fort Amol, Greenwall, and Riften. Clean the roads between them.”

Galmar grunted approvingly. “The Civil War's in a stalemate. Rorikstead was burned to the ground, and Whiterun’s been attacked by dragons. We’ve been lucky none have flown east into our skies. And now we have this business with the Dragonborn and some... so-called Dragonslayer.”

Ulfric raised an eyebrow, but before he could respond, a sound split the sky.

It was a primal roar that sent chills down Galmar’s spine. The kind that made grown men forget they were warriors and remember they were prey.

Galmar and Ulfric’s eyes locked for only a moment. Then they moved.

They rushed out the Palace of Kings to see mayhem, six of the Snow-Hammers fell in step behind them—the royal protectors of the Jarl. They were all clad in full plate armor, tabards of blue and brown with the bear of Eastmarch etched on the cloth, a fur cloak covering their forms to protect them from the cold.

These were the best warriors Windhelm had to offer, serving as Ulfric’s personal retinue and bodyguards.

When they came outside, it was to a city in chaos.

People screamed and scattered through the main square. The sound of bells clanged in alarm, and horns blared atop the ramparts. The scent of smoke and something... unnatural hung in the air—sulfur, perhaps, but tinged with copper.

A runner nearly stumbled into Galmar, breathless. “Jarl Ulfric! A dragon is sighted! From the east! It came down from the mountains and burned the harbor! Our fleet is gone!”

Ulfric didn’t hesitate. “Man the battlements and rouse the Stormcloaks! Evacuate the citizens to the inner keep and the Palace of Kings, now!”

Galmar moved to follow his Jarl, remaining half a step behind him. The city guard were running around heeding Ulfric’s orders while Stormcloaks were rushing up the walls. The screams and roars of the dragon became more pronounced.

They were half-way up the battlements when a familiar voice called out.

“Jarl Ulfric!” 

Brunwulf Free-Winter rounded the corner, screaming himself hoarse. Gray haired and battle-scarred, Brunwulf was a former veteran of the Great War and is now serving as Captain of the Windhelm Guard, as loyal as he was noble hearted—having disagreements with Ulfric on certain policies.

“What of the Gray Quarter?! They're the easternmost district in the city! They’ll be the first to burn!”

Ulfric paused in the steps—only for a heartbeat. “My order still stands. They are citizens of Windhelm and are adhered to the same protections. Take what guards you can and lead them to safety Brunwulf.”

The older man slapped a hand to his chest, respect gleaming in his eyes. “Yes, my Jarl!”

When they reached the top of the outer walls, Galmar felt his breath catch.

Below them, the great ships of Windhelm’s navy—fishing vessels, trade barges, and warships alike—burned in the harbor. The dragon soared above the waters, wings wide enough to cast a shadow across the bay. Its neck was long and spindly, with scales the color of blood. Two curved horns jutted from its brow as its mouth glowed red as if molten rock burned inside its throat, revealing hundreds of dagger-like teeth that could crunch through even the strongest of steel.

It was the single most impressive and terrifying thing Galmar had seen in his long life.

“Gods preserve us...” Galmar muttered.

“Ready the ballistas!” Ulfric barked. “Archers, to your marks!”

Windhelm was a fortress city, built to withstand sieges. The walls and towers held many siege weapons capable of bringing the beast to the ground. Catapults and burning oil were useless against a dragon, but ballistas capable of launching massive bolts as tall and thick as trees should do the trick.

The siege engineers rushed into motion, turning the weapons upward—but they were too late.

“WULD NAH KEST!”

In one moment, the dragon was above the bay a few hundred yards from the outer walls. In the next, it was past the battlements and was inside the city proper. Its immense wings crashed against rooftops as it landed.

“YOL TOOR SHUL!”

Flames unlike any Galmar had seen before swept through the streets. Not orange nor yellow, but an eerie crimson color that clung to stone and steel alike, burning through walls and melting cobblestones.

“The ballistas can’t turn inward, my Jarl!” one of the guards cried. “We’re defenseless!”

Galmar grimaced. It was a precaution in case any invading force managed to take over the outer walls. All siege weapons were fixed to point outwards so that they wouldn’t be used on the defenders in the inner city. It seems that decision had now bit them in the arse.

“No, we’re not,” Ulfric said grimly. “Keep that beast’s attention on us, buy time for the citizens to escape. Archers surround it and loose at will! Stormcloaks, with me! 

He took one step forward, raised his voice to the sky, and shouted. “ MID VUR SHAAN! ”

And there it was. The famed war cry of the north . Called by many as the Battle Fury of the Thu’um. Ulfric’s blessing to the Sons of Skyrim.

Galmar felt it immediately—the tingle of strength in his arms, the clarity of purpose in his mind. Around them, every warrior stood taller. Their strings drew faster. 

A single man unleashed four arrows in the span of a second, and they had over three hundred archers moving in.

That day, the air sang with the whistling of a thousand arrows.

Like a rain of steel, the volley pelted the dragon. Most bounced uselessly on its hide—but they’d found a weak point. The wings. The thin, veined membranes were vulnerable. Arrows pierced them, and the beast shrieked in pain, staggering slightly.

Galmar and Ulfric took up bows themselves, unleashing arrow after arrow. They were much better with axe and sword respectively, but until that damn dragon landed in a place where their weapons could reach it, the bow would have to do.

The dragon roared again and spun in the air, sending masonry flying as it clipped a tower. It rose, a river of crimson fire still spurging from its maw, and plunged downward again toward the inner wall, crushing the guards beneath its weight.

Galmar clenched his jaw and notched another arrow. Markarth’s dwarven bows would’ve helped now. He realized. They were better made, with a much higher range than the regular bows most fletchers could make. He made a mental note—if they survived this, he'd get a few.

Chapter Text

4E 201, A day later

Gerron Ironbreaker

Gerron swung his training sword in a wide arc towards his opponent, Kiera ducked under it as she rolled forward and struck at his shield with a two-handed thrust. The blow cracked against the wood, causing his arm to shudder.

They’ve been at this for over ten minutes. They circled each other on the flattened patch of grass they'd claimed for their morning sparring session. In the distance, the wind rustled the treetops. Serana stood to the side, watching over the spar with interest.

Gerron twisted his stance and forced her back with a shield bash. Despite his preference for a warhammer, he wasn’t a stranger to the sword. He had done plenty of training in his youth in the field hacking one to a training dummy, not to mention the Battle Smith perk improving whatever flaws there were in his technique.

Kiera had certainly gotten stronger. The blow she had done to his shoulder still stung even now. He couldn’t imagine what the wound would look like had she used proper steel.

He made good on his promise to help her get used to her newfound strength. Kiera was right in the way that using actual steel for this kind of practice was not only dumb, but also needlessly risky. So Gerron fashioned some training swords using the thick barks of the trees around them. 

While they were obviously far from the quality of Kiera’s Dawnbite or any work Gerron could have made with a proper forge, it was good enough to at least handle the strain of Kiera’s strength for a few swings.

Kiera charged again, this time with a low feint followed by a high slash. Gerron caught it on the edge of his shield, parrying with enough force to spin her off balance. But instead of falling, she pivoted and landed in a low crouch, her blade ready again.

How many souls had she absorbed at this point? Three? Four? How strong would she be when she absorbed ten? Were there differences when she absorbed a regular dragon and an older one? What about when she took it straight from their burial mounds? It certainly seemed the newest soul had affected her more than Mirmulnir and Silklovkul, the two dragons in the Western Watchtower.

It made him wonder just how far she could go.

Then again, Gerron was no ordinary Nord either.

Any other person would struggle fighting Kiera one-on one, yet he was matching her strength blow for blow. The Artificer System certainly wasn’t lacking compared to dragon souls, and he could even feel his own strength rising day by day.

The system was divine by nature, a gift from the divines as Zenithar named him his champion. 

The Battle Smith perk was what allowed him to have all this monstrous strength, though Gerron had suspicions that it wasn’t all it gave. While it had certainly boosted his strength, its true purpose was that it erased the mortal limits on his physical form. He could keep on working on his body and improve it without worrying about hitting a ceiling. 

If Akatosh gave Kiera the soul of a Dragon, then perhaps Zenithar gave him the body of a Demigod. 

It made sense in a way. It was power born from purpose, discipline, and hard work. The three things that Zenithar is praised for.

Gerron didn’t know why he was chosen for all this. Why he—of the hundreds of thousands of people in Skyrim—was chosen to bear this weight. But that thought disappeared the moment it came. 

Who cares what the reason was? Skyrim was a land of snow and fire, steel and survival. You lived your purpose—or you died searching for it. Gerron had learned long ago to not ponder such things for long.

He was the chosen of Zenithar. And by the Divines above, he would live to be worthy of that title.

…

An hour later, Gerron, Kiera, and Serana were back on the road.

It was approaching autumn as the chill of Eastmarch wrapped around them like a shroud. Gerron and Serana were largely unbothered by the cold, but the same couldn’t be said for Kiera, who had wrapped herself in thick furs and was still shaking on her saddle.

Their path curved eastward, and Gerron spotted Fort Amol’s silhouette cresting the ridge before them, smoke curling lazily from the wooden watchtowers.

They hadn’t reached the crossroads before several riders emerged from the fort, clad in Stormcloak blue.

“Halt!” the lead rider barked. “I am Bone-Breaker Ignar, castellan of Fort Amol. Name yourselves and your business.”

The man was broad-shouldered with a beard thick as a bramble bush. A massive axe hung from his back.

Kiera stepped forward, lifting the marked Amulet of Stendarr from her cloak. “We’re traveling under official business of the Vigilants of Stendarr. We mean no harm.”

Ignar’s eyes flicked to the amulet, then to Gerron and Serana. He hesitated at Serana’s pale features, but ultimately nodded. “Aye. We have no quarrel with the Vigilants. Be careful of the roads, brigands have been spotted prowling about.”

‘As if they care.’ Gerron snorted. He still remembered the group of bandits camped out by the riverside shack back when he first journeyed to Whiterun.

The sound of pattering horses woke him from his muse as Ignar and the rest rode back to their fortress.

They continued on their journey largely unbothered. Fort Amol was a good mile behind them when they heard it, a thunderous roar that rippled through the hills and sent schools of birds scattering through the skies. The sound spooked the horses, their hooves skittering as they tried to bolt.

Gerron calmed his mount with a sharp whistle as he looked up and saw it. “There!”

A blood-red dragon arced through the air in the distance, arrows jutted out of its leathery hide. It was limping, if such a term could be used for flight. Blood gleamed on its scales. One wing beat slower than the other.

“It’s injured,” Serana observed, narrowing her eyes. “Those wounds are fresh.”

“Could it be from Windhelm?” Gerron asked. “That’s the closest city in that direction.”

They watched as the dragon swooped down and disappeared behind the hills. Kiera turned to Gerron. “You know this land better than either of us. Is there anything interesting past that hill?”

He considered for a moment. “There is a small abandoned tower up there, Nilheim, if I’m not wrong. An old outpost overlooking the river. If the dragon needs shelter, that’s the closest spot large enough to roost.” 

Gerron then looked towards Kiera and Serana with a bit of a smile. “What do you say? Care for another dragon hunt?”

Their smiles turned predatory.

…

They left their horses tied beneath a dense copse of pine trees and advanced on foot, boots muffled by moss and mud. As they crested the final ridge, Nilheim came into view—a solitary spire perched on a bluff above the river.

The dragon lay coiled atop it, sleeping from the looks of it. Around it were crimson flames that eerily burned against the stone and the waters as freshly burned corpses littered the ground at the base of the tower—bandits perhaps, or unfortunate travelers who took shelter in the tower before the dragon came.

“So what’s the plan?” Serana questioned. “You two have much more experience than me in dragon hunting.”

“We need to cripple it.” Kiera said. “Slow down its wings so it doesn’t fly.”

“Agreed.” Gerron nodded. “Once it’s on the ground, it should be easy pickings for the three of us.”

A minute of planning later, and they were ready to pull off the ambush. Gerron braced the Mercury Hammer against his body, its runes pulsing as magicka surged into the chamber. He aimed down the etched barrel and fired.

A shriek of pure arcane energy tore through the air and struck the dragon’s left wing.

The beast howled in pain, pitching off the tower and crashing down below. Smoke and dust billowed

“Who dares interrupt my praan, my slumber?!” 

“That would be me, you damn overgrown lizard!” Gerron announced with a large grin.

“ Joor, you shall pay for this transgression, for I am Caraxes, the Blood Wyrm!” The beast roared.

“Yeah, I don’t give a falmer’s ass who you are.”

The sounds of opening portals had the dragon turning to see Serana with a smirk on her face, two lumbering frost atronachs charging towards the Dragon.

Right on cue, the dragon opened his mouth as a river of crimson flame bathed the entire area in flames, drowning the frost atronachs and evaporating them in an instant.

But that was the bait, for a silver missile appeared from the opposite flank, stepping out of perfect invisibility and plunging her sword deep into Caraxes’s opposite wing. Kiera then raised her head up, “KRII!” The Thu’um rushed forth and swallowed Caraxes.

The dragon bellowed in agony, wings now useless and its soul weakened.

Kiera had achieved something of an impossibility with Alteration magic, capable of turning her entire skin into steel, an upgrade of the usual flesh spells. She was quite proud of showing it to Serana, who had a look of perplexity and interest at the spell. It was quite amusing to see the cool headed vampire show such an expression.

But of course, Serana couldn’t allow herself to be one upped like that and showed her own mastery of Illusion magic. Double layering overpowered versions of the Invisibility and Muffle spells and applying it to Kiera. 

It was quite possibly the deadliest combination for ambushes in all of Skyrim.

“Dovahkiin!” Caraxes moved quickly, spinning in place and striking Kiera with his tail, her body slamming into a tree trunk.

Gerron hit the beast on the back with another blast from the Mercury Hammer, eliciting another roar of pain.  

“WULD NAH KEST!”

Much to Gerron’s surprise, the dragon vanished and reappeared directly in front of him.

The tail smashed into Gerron’s chest like a battering ram. His armor took the brunt, but it still knocked the wind out of him and sent him flying backwards. 

“ WULD NAH KEST!”

Once more, the dragon dashed. This time towards the still recovering Kiera. The Vigilant found herself being stuck beneath the weight of the dragon’s paw, two arms holding up the limb to avoid being crushed all together.

A frost atronach barreled into the dragon’s side, making it stumble. Cold magic laced in Serana’s hands as a veritable storm of ice erupted from her fingertips, blanketing Caraxes in a blizzard.

Ice formed on its previous wounds, slowing its movements.

Gerron had already gotten up then, rushing to the dragon and grabbing its tail with inhuman strength. “Your turn, lizard.” He growled.

With a guttural roar, Gerron lifted Caraxes by the tail away from Kiera and slammed it to the earth. The ground trembled from the impact.

Again, he lifted and hammered him down. BOOM.

Then, with one final heave, he hurled the beast into the stone tower, the masonry cracking on impact.

The dragon shook his head before looking at them with its long spindly neck and breathed. “YOL TOOR SHUL!”

The river of crimson was met by a wall of ice and snow, courtesy of Serana. 

Gerron and Kiera rushed past the resulting steam, having recovered their weapons, appearing in opposite directions of the dragon.

Gerron swung sideways and broke the dragon’s jaw with his hammer, while Kiera dived down and plunged her sword deep into Caraxes’ underbelly and opened a large gash that began gushing out blood like a fountain.

Gerron stored his hammer in his pocket space and put both arms on Caraxes’ upper and lower jaw. His muscles strained as he held the dragon’s mouth open.

Serana followed up instantly, her hands glowing with pale, freezing light. The Expert-level destruction spell coiled in her palm, and she hurled it straight into Caraxes’ snarling maw.

Fire appeared on the back of the dragon’s throat, but Serana beat him to it.

A blizzard of ice and snow exploded inside his mouth. His scream choked off instantly. She stepped closer, eyes hard, and fired again.

And again.

Each spell forced deeper until the dragon’s body convulsed.

A final blast of ice pierced through its throat, exiting out the back of its neck.

The Blood Wyrm let out a soft, dying growl—and collapsed.

The flames around Nilheim Tower flickered, then died.

Gerron stood beside her, breathing hard, battered but triumphant. Kiera limped over, bloodied but alive. All three of them stared at the fallen wyrm in silence.

A moment later, the wind began to stir. The familiar hum of ancient power filled the air as the dragon’s soul began to rise and shoot towards the Dragonborn, who merely closed her eyes and accepted it.

Chapter Text

4E 201, Darkwater Pass

Kiera Fendalyn

How many did that make? Four? Five?

No, it was five. Alduin, Vermithor, Caraxes, and the two from the Western Watchtower.

Five dragons that she had met a few months into her time in Skyrim. What a truly adventurous land.

And it was not just them. Skyrim was home to a whole bunch of creatures and beasts that Kiera now had the pleasure to slay.

Sinking her blade into the Falmer in front of her, she wondered what other crazy beasts and monsters call these lands home. She’s heard that giants and their wooly mammoths could be found all over Skyrim in their small camps, but she hasn’t seen one as of yet.

After killing Caraxes, they looted Nilheim towers, which told them plenty regarding the previous people who camped there before Caraxes decided to use it as a roosting spot.. 

Tools and weapons clearly stolen from the local villages, pouches and chests filled with a decent amount of gold, even some pots and pans that they wanted to fence to the Thieves Guild in Riften.

Any sympathy Kiera had for them disappeared and they simply harvested the bones and scales from the dragon, some food found in sacks and the kitchens,and stored them all in Gerron’s odd storage space. 

To this day, she didn’t fully understand how it worked. Gerron had explained it once while she and Serana bombarded him with questions, both women intrigued by the spell’s potential. The answer was… strange. According to Gerron, his spell allowed him to store non-living objects in a pocket dimension that served as a stasis field, locking them in time. A loaf of bread would remain eternally fresh. A broken sword would stay broken. A potion would never spoil.

Kiera had immediately imagined the implications. A walking, talking fortress of supplies. An infinite rucksack. An army logistician’s dream. She almost felt sorry for the Empire and Stormcloaks—almost—because whichever side didn’t get Gerron would be at a severe disadvantage. 

She was immensely glad he chose to not take sides.

Nightfall came quickly as they continued down the road, the sky a veil of black velvet streaked with stars.

It was already late at night when they arrived at the crossing where they’re supposed to split up, as the branch that led further east would take them to Shor’s Stone. Kiera’s journey involved the branch of road—which was more of a well-traveled dirt path really—that winded south west, which would lead her to Ivarstead.

They decided to camp in the crossing and continue on their journey tomorrow. Gerron had found a good cave a stone’s throw away that would serve as a good camp spot. 

According to Gerron, the cave was called the Darkwater Pass. Kiera remembered Ralof telling her that he and the Stormcloaks were ambushed on the roads near Darkwater Crossing when they got captured by the Empire and led to Helgen. It must’ve been around here somewhere.

Gerron had sent Bronze ahead to scout the interior, and came back with news that the cave was apparently a falmer nest. 

Kiera and Serana had merely shrugged, and they went forward for a purge.

The falmer weren’t that powerful as warriors. The problem was that they fought like a swarm as they just kept coming and coming with no regard for their felled companions. Gerron of course just took it as a challenge as he let out a boisterous laugh, charging towards the swarm and swinging his hammer with reckless abandon. He had no worries since the falmer couldn’t even hope to pierce through his ebony armor.

The relatively tight space disallowed Serana to merely bury them in mountains of ice.  So the vampire switched seamlessly to lightning. Arcs of blue danced across the caves, alighting the interior as they bounced from Falmer to Falmer in a chain succession.

Kiera shook her head with a smile before following her companions, her sword slicing through falmer flesh. Each swing felled another of the former snow elves, leaving screeches as they died unceremoniously. And then came the chaurus—the oversized insect-pets of the Falmer. Tougher, more dangerous. Acid dripped from their fangs and hissed on stone. But still, nothing the trio couldn’t handle.

It didn’t take long for them to finish off the falmer, the three of them relatively unharmed as Falmer and chaurus corpses littered the cave floor. 

Thankfully, they were spared from the indignation of cleaning all their bodies when Serana simply raised all the dead and had them all march out of the cave before turning into dust. Kiera didn’t really like necromancy, but she could certainly admit to its uses after seeing that.

Once it was clean of all corpses, they could finally see the cave in its entirety. It wasn’t terribly large, used as a tomb of some kind as several chests and burial urns could be found throughout. 

Shrugging her shoulders, she approached one of the random chests in the corner. She was no Priest of Arkay and had no qualms in looting them to gain more supplies for the road ahead. She frowned when she propped it open. There was a crystal orb inside, though looking slightly crooked as every side was flattened and reflecting some kind of odd light.

She went to grab it, and—

“A NEW HAND TOUCHES THE BEACON—”

“Oh, by Stendarr’s holy light,” she hissed, clutching the side of her head. “What now?”

The so-called "beacon" pulsed once with light.

Of course. Of course this would happen.

She had just wanted a place to sleep.

…

Serana

She was just studying some inscriptions on a burial urn when all of a sudden, the interior of the cave was engulfed by light. 

Her instincts kicked in immediately—she pivoted on her heel, a frost spell half-formed in her hand, but the light didn’t come from an enemy. It came from Kiera.

Or rather, the object in her hand.

Serana’s eyes narrowed, adjusting to the radiant glow. She spotted Kiera standing frozen, the strange crystalline orb still clutched in her palm. Her eyes widened as she recognized what it was. Gerron was beside her, his hammer already in hand.

Then, from the light, she emerged.

Outlined in glorious, near-painful golden radiance, the shape of a woman hovered above the cavern floor, her voice echoing like it came from the skies themselves.

“Yes, it seems you are fit to be my champion, Kiera Fendalyn. A follower of the Divines, bane of all undead.”

Serana stiffened. Her lips parted in both awe and wariness.

“Meridia…” she whispered, heart pounding. “The Daedric Prince of Life and Energy.”

“You are tainted, Daughter of Coldharbour. I should command that you be destroyed for what you are, vampire spawn! But I shall permit your survival should you aid my new champion in her endeavours.”

Serana bristled at the insult. Tainted. Oh she hated that word. It wasn’t the first time someone had said it, and it wouldn’t be the last. Still, she bit back the instinct to respond. Instead, she caught Gerron’s eye and subtly shook her head. He was tense, muscles coiled like a spring, his grip tightening on his hammer. Antagonizing a Daedric Prince was suicidal , no matter how righteous the cause.

“Wait, hold on!” Kiera interrupted. “What do you mean by champion?”

“Molag Bal, that fiend, has chosen himself a champion. Even now, his brood walks the lands with no fear. The foul stench of undeath has seeped into my temple. A darkness that you will destroy. I charge you with this task. Return my beacon to Mount Kilkreath and cleanse it of the corruption. In return, I shall grant you my aid against your enemies, whether they be dragon… or Daedra.”

The light dimmed all at once and they were once more left standing in the quiet of the cave. Only the faint drip of water and their own stunned breaths filled the silence.

Kiera stared at the beacon in her hand, her brow furrowed in disbelief.

“A real Daedric Prince…” Gerron said after a long pause, lowering his hammer. “I never thought I’d witness such a thing.”

“Should I do what she asked?” Kiera asked, hesitantly. “Can I even trust her words?”

“Ignoring Meridia would be a foolish thing to do, Kiera. Having a Daedric Prince as an enemy is worse than having my father hunting you down.” she answered. “On the other hand, Meridia despises undead above any other, it’s why she dislikes me so much.”

She took a breath, trying to keep her voice steady. “Still, if she’s offering aid—against Molag Bal, no less—then I’d consider taking her up on it. Her power may prove vital if we’re to stand a chance.”

“But this ‘champion of Molag Bal’ thing… That sounds like a problem that’ll come knocking soon enough.” Gerron muttered, shaking his head.  “It’s one thing after another. Just put it on the list and we’ll get to it soon enough.”

He sighed, turning toward the far corner of the cavern they cleared. “Let’s get some sleep first. Divines know we earned it.”

…

The night wore on quietly, and though sleep came quickly for Gerron with his familiar deep, rumbling snores, Serana’s rest was more troubled. Her thoughts tangled with memories of Coldharbour and the sting in Meridia's words. Tainted.

She stirred when she felt the breeze. Opening her eyes, she found Kiera gone from her bedroll.

Rising without a sound, Serana followed the faint draft until she reached the mouth of the cave. There, sitting beneath the stars and leaning slightly on a rocky ledge, was Kiera.

She looked so small beneath the vast expanse of the sky, the Beacon faintly glowing at her side like a captured star.

“Are you alright?” Serana asked gently.

Kiera turned, slightly startled, then relaxed. “Yeah… I’m okay. Just thinking.”

“My mother often told me that thoughts are easier to carry if you have someone to share it with.” Serana moved to sit beside her, putting her knees close to her chest as she withdrew a potion of blood from her satchel, given to her by Gerron.

According to the larger man, he had stumbled into a coven of vampires that were experimenting a way to create potions to increase a vampire’s innate abilities. She was quite intrigued about the idea and had plans to do her own research once they arrived in that college of magic he told her about.

However, it was very clear that the current version of the potion would only work for lesser vampires, making them addicted. To a pure-blooded vampire like Serana, they merely served as a delicious source of blood. It certainly helped since she was observant enough to notice that Kiera was a bit uncomfortable whenever she fed on living people, even if they were bandits.

Kiera chuckled, the sound short and dry. “I suppose that’s true. I just… I was raised in the Hall of the Vigilants. We were taught that the Daedra were the enemies of man. Monsters in disguise. Meridia might be one of the ‘good’ ones, but she’s still a Daedric Prince. Seeing her… speaking to her—it’s like watching a myth step out of a story.”

“I get it.” Serana chuckled. “Reality is quite often different from the stories or lessons we hear about growing up. I grew up idolizing my father, thinking him the grandest and most loving father to ever exist. Who would ever think that his ambitions proved to be bigger than the love he bore for his wife and daughter.”

Kiera turned to her, eyes quietly searching. “Can I ask you something?”

“Of course.”

“…What does it mean to be a Daughter of Coldharbour?”

Serana looked away. Her jaw clenched for a moment before she spoke, voice low. “There’s a ritual. A… violation, really. Molag Bal forces it on mortals he deems ‘worthy.’ It’s how he creates pure-blooded vampires. My mother and I… we were volunteered by my father. For the power. For the promises.”

She hesitated.

“I don’t remember much of it. I choose not to. But what I do recall… was pain. And fire. And a feeling of something sacred being torn away.”

Kiera didn’t speak immediately, and Serana didn’t expect her to. She’d laid bare something raw and ugly.

But then she felt a hand gently settle atop hers.

She looked over and saw Kiera’s eyes—not judging, not pitying, but steady.

By the end of it, it was as if a weight was lifted from her chest. She didn’t really know what it was about Kiera and Gerron, but she found herself lowering the walls that she had set up slowly but surely.

They were certainly kind hearted people. Strong too, judging from the things she had seen. She knew without a doubt that they would never betray her, that they wouldn’t run. Call her naive or foolish, but after spending centuries of her life in slumber, was it so wrong to seek companionship?

“…Thank you for telling me,” Kiera said. “For trusting me.”

Serana gave her a small smile.

Chapter Text

4E 201, Shor’s Stone, Two days later

Gerron Ironbreaker

“So what exactly can I expect from your home?” Serana asked, her eyes narrowing slightly as they rode down the mossy trail leading to the village’s outskirts.

Gerron chuckled. “It’s just a village in the Rift. We’ve got miners, smiths, a few stubborn farmers trying to grow in less than fertile land, and the occasional goat who walks by thinking it owns the place. Our main trade comes from the mine. But…” he paused, his eyes flicking toward the distant palisade now visible through the trees, “...I have plans to change all that. With time, Shor’s Stone will be more than just a mining town.”

It came into full view shortly after.

A half-finished curtain wall of quarried stone curved around the village perimeter, built a few hundred yards from the wooden palisades that stood behind them to leave room for expansion.

A few dozen workers toiled atop the scaffoldings under the sun, voices shouting orders. The walls weren’t finished nor were they perfect—but they were tall enough to give bandits pause. More than that, they spoke of ambition.

And ambition brought people.

Ever since word of the ebony mine came out along with their ability to protect, people have been coming to Shor’s Stone in droves, seeking new opportunities. Merchants, miners, former soldiers. Each looking for a new home for their families in this war torn land.

Tents and lean-tos lined the outer road, and within the walls, new homes of brick and timber were rising. Children ran between them barefoot, shouting and laughing, while older folk carried crates or led livestock through the winding paths.

Gerron slowed his horse to a walk. His gaze swept over the village, feeling fondness and pride. Though he also realized the consequences of the added population. More mouths to feed and more lives to protect.

From atop the gate, one of the militiamen cried out. “It’s Gerron! He’s back!”

Another answered. “Call for Master Filnjar and Grogmar!”

The gates opened to let them in. Gerron nodded at the guards, many of whom bore scars from the bandit attack he heard a month ago, but they stood tall and saluted with earnest pride.

The village had changed.

Right at the center stood a new watchtower—twenty feet tall with a bronze bell fixed near the top. An early warning system for bandits or worse.

The clanging of smiths and shouts of recognition echoed as he and Serana rode past. Many people pointed at his ebony armor, no doubt recognizing him.

“Well, I’ll be damned! If it ain’t the famed Dragonslayer!” boomed a deep, amused voice.

A grin cracked across Gerron’s face. “Grogmar!”

The orc strode forward, his bulk hidden beneath the steel plate armor, ebony axe on his back. They clasped forearms in the warrior’s grip.

“I’m sure all the tales you’ve heard are exaggerated.” Gerron said. “It’s good to see you, my friend.”

“Hah! Shor’s Stone doesn’t have many bards passing through, but even we’ve heard of the new ballad, the Breaker of Iron.” Grogmar chuckled.

Gerron rolled his eyes before gesturing to Serana. “This is Serana, she’s been traveling with me. A capable mage, and a friend.”

Serana inclined her head with a slight, polite smile. “A pleasure.”

Grogmar gave her a once-over, then grunted approvingly. “Looks like trouble. I like her already.”

“She grows on you,” Gerron deadpanned, earning a subtle smirk from the vampire.

They made their way to the long hall, one of the oldest structures in the village but now reinforced and expanded to house Shor’s Stone’s growing leadership. Inside, parchment and scrolls lay scattered across the long table where Filnjar stood, frowning over something with a quill in hand.

“Congratulations, Filnjar,” Gerron greeted with a smirk. “A town as big as this needs a Master. Looks like you’re doing well.”

A sigh tore out of Filnjar’s lips as he met Gerron’s eyes with a smile. “Truth be told, lad, you’re supposed to be the one sitting at this table. But it’s good to see you all the same.”

Gerron shrugged. “Maybe in the future, but not today.” He gestured to Serana. “This is Serana, she’s a friend of mine.” 

Serana gave a smile. “Greetings.”

Filnjar nodded in greeting. “Any friend of Gerron is a friend of mine. Well met, Lady Serana.” He then met Gerron’s eyes. “Well, now that you’re here, might as well put you up to speed.”

Gerron nodded as he took a seat, Serana sitting beside him. Grogmar leaned lazily by the doorway as he listened in. 

Filnjar reported on everything that happened in the months since he was away. After the initial bandit attack by Demir the Strong, Grogmar had rode with four militiamen and a dozen stormcloaks to sweep the area around town in a three mile radius for the surviving bandits or other bandit camps. 

Two minor groups were discovered and likewise killed. According to Grogmar, they shouldn’t be facing any more troubles from bandits for the next month at least. 

The field had been cleaned and the dead buried. Filnjar had made sure that the families of the militiamen who died were compensated. The one good thing about this was that they stripped all the bandits of all their gold pouches and equipment. The ones too damaged were to be melted down and reforged while the good ones were kept in the newly built armory. From what Filnjar had seen, they now had enough to equip another fifty militiamen, more than doubling their previous force. 

Jorleif and Filnjar had then continued their talk of trade, ending it in a place where both sides were happy. Shor’s Stone would supply ebony arms and ingots to the Stormcloaks, who would pay a good number above the regular retail price. 

Jorleif had also made a promise to look into the rising number of bandits. He would talk to the Jarl to send a garrison of Stormcloaks to reinforce Shor’s Stone, as the town had become a major asset in the war.

“A smart deal,” Gerron said. “Though speaking of Windhelm, have you heard any news from them yet?”

Filnjar raised an eyebrow. “Not yet. It takes about twelve days to get from Windhelm to here. The Stormcloak garrison is probably a week off from arriving. More if they’re moving with plenty of men.”

“That’s not what I’m talking about.” Gerron shook his head with a sigh. “Two days ago we found an injured dragon with arrows sticking out of its hide. It came from Windhelm’s direction.”

Filnjar frowned. “You don’t think Windhelm has fallen, do you?”

“No, if Windhelm was destroyed then news would have reached us by now.” Gerron shook his head again. “Just keep on the lookout for couriers bearing news, Filnjar.”

“Of course.” Filnjar nodded, “What’s your next plan, lad?” 

“I plan to stay for at least a month or two to resupply, and perhaps use the forge to make better weapons and armor. I’ve got some dragon bones and scales to work with.” Gerron said. “How much ebony do we have for our own personal use?”

“Six crates full.” Filnjar said.

“Good, that should be enough.” Gerron replied. “Choose five of the best blacksmiths we have and I’ll train them. If Shor’s Stone is to be a powerhouse in weapons and armor production, then we need more than just me as the master blacksmith.”

Filnjar nodded, scribbling names down already.

Gerron turned to Grogmar. “I’ll be supplying the militia with quality ebony. Make sure you train them to be worthy of it.” 

Grogmar smirked, “I’ll put em into shape.”

Then his eyes landed on Serana. “The town needs mages. We’ve got people pouring in. Some of them are bound to have magical talent. Can I ask you to find these people and train them?”

“You want to have mages in our employ?” Filnjar asked.

“Yes, I’ve seen myself how useful magic can be. Every major hold has a court wizard. We need our own if we want Shor’s Stone to survive what’s coming.”

Serana stroked her chin carefully, “Children or untrained mages are useless since a month or two of training won’t be enough to do what you want them to do. So they at least have to be apprentice level and not complete novices.” She smirked. “Sure, I can do that.”

“Then it’s settled.” Gerron rose, walking toward the long window by the hall. “ I’ll be putting some plans for anti-dragon warfare soon. Once the walls are finished, start looking for engineers and arbalists to build and man siege weapons.”

“I’ll get it done.” Filnjar nodded.

Gerron looked out the window, the blueprint of Shor’s Stone future layering above the city once more in his mind's eye.

“The world is turning more and more dangerous by the day. War is coming. Shor’s Stone has survived this long, but it’s time to make it stronger. We won’t be caught unprepared.” he looked back at his friends. “When that time comes, we’ll be ready.”

…

4E 201, The Ratway

Esbern

The stench of the Ratway clung to Esbern like a second skin. Rotting wood, damp stone, and the faint coppery tang of blood filled the air with every breath. But for the first time in years, he didn’t recoil from it. Compared to the musty, claustrophobic walls of his hidden sanctum beneath Riften, this was liberation—no matter how foul it smelled.

He moved through the shadows with careful steps, his mind going back to the plan he had made just days ago. 

Word had finally reached him, the Dragonborn had returned. It certainly wasn’t easy. News hardly came to anyone hiding far beneath the sewers of the Ratway, but he learned to do so.

He didn’t exactly know when the dragon attack on Whiterun happened. It could’ve been months ago, it could’ve been years ago. It doesn’t really matter in the end. What does matter is the fact that events of the prophecy are finally here.

It was Esbern’s duty to help guide the Last Dragonborn and aid them in defeating Alduin. 

The first step to that is finding Delphine. If there are any remnants of the Blades out there that’s still alive, it's her.

‘Stay low, stay cautious,’ he reminded himself.

The decision to come here had not been made lightly. The Thalmor had spies in every hold and their eyes were everywhere. He was almost certain they'd caught wind of him again—too many near-encounters, too many steps in the Ratway where there should be none. But Esbern was no fool. He hadn’t survived this long by being reckless.

He wanted to look for Delphine himself, but knew it to be the height of foolishness. He didn’t even know where to start. For decades, he had secluded himself. Studying and preparing for this day when Alduin would reemerge.

In the end, he decided to use the Thieves’ Guild’s services. He had met them a long time ago when he became a permanent resident of the sewers of Riften. He had paid a hefty sum for them to speak not a word of his existence. As far as he knew, as long as the gold was sufficient, they would do anything.

Though that still didn’t eliminate the risk of the Thalmor finding him. Which is why he’s here under heavy disguise. The hood of his oversized cloak draped low, obscuring his body type and the telltale lines of his aging face. His grayed white hair was now jet black, dyed with an alchemical mixture he had brewed from crushed nightshade berries and ash salts. The illusion wouldn’t hold up under close scrutiny, but he wasn’t planning to let anyone get that close.

Esbern might just only be the Loremaster and Archivist of the Blades, but he was still an agent of the Blades. He was far from helpless.

He made it to the entrance of the Ragged Flagon, the door hidden behind a battered false wall at the end of a crumbling tunnel. Two guards lounged near the entrance, eyeing him like a pair of skeevers sizing up a hunk of cheese. He kept his head down, muttering a low phrase he’d memorized days earlier.

“Delvin Mallory is expecting me.”

One of them grunted and stepped aside. The door groaned open, revealing the flickering candlelight and quiet murmur of the Thieves Guild’s den.

The Ragged Flagon was a half-drowned tavern nestled deep in the bowels of the Ratway. Its damp-stained walls were covered in faded banners, its tables crooked and uneven. But it was warm, and more importantly, safe . No one here asked questions they didn’t want the answers to.

Esbern scanned the room and spotted Delvin Mallory at his usual corner table, leaning back in his chair while stacking a pile of septims on the table. He was flanked by a bottle of mead and a deck of worn cards.

“Sit down then,” Delvin said, gesturing with a tilt of his mug. “You wanted to talk business, and here I am. Let's hear it.”

 Esbern sat across from him, careful to keep his hood low. He spoke with a slightly pitched and gravely voice.

“I need someone found. A Breton woman. Her name is Delphine.”

Delvin’s smirk remained, but his eyes sharpened a touch. “You have any idea how many Bretons live in Skyrim? That's like asking me to find a needle in a haystack.”

“She’s not just any Breton,” Esbern replied. “She hates the Thalmor, abhors them really. So she would be in a place hidden away, underground somewhere to avoid them.”

“Kind of like you, eh?” Delvin smirked before rubbing his cheek. “If she’s capable of hiding from the Thalmor then finding her might prove difficult, though there are certain places I know that could work. But it’s still vague. Could be a dozen folk. You got anything else? A location she was last seen? Associates?“

Esbern clenched his jaw. “...She might have a bounty, by the Thalmor.”

“Well…” Delvin exhaled slowly, swirling his mead. “That does help. Sort of. If she’s a wanted woman, we’d probably have heard whispers. Could reach out to a few ears across the Holds. Won’t be quick. And it sure as Oblivion won’t be cheap.”

He’s fine with that. Esbern leaned forward slightly. “Gold isn’t a problem.”

That made Delvin blink. “Is that right?”

“You deal with trade goods as well, yes?” He asked. “I’ve access to rare goods. Artifacts. Jewels. Even a few Akaviri heirlooms I’m willing to part with. Assuming you have someone who knows how to move such items without drawing the Thalmor’s attention.”

Prior to his escape, Esbern had managed to procure many of the Blades’ treasures and brought them to his sanctuary. Most of them were just useless trinkets, worth a lot in gold should they be sold to the right buyer. Esbern had long separated the ones with true value and those without. He wouldn’t think twice about selling them.

“Old man, you just got real interesting.” Delvin chuckled, leaning back and lacing his fingers behind his head. “You’ve got yourself a deal. If you’ve got the coin—or something shinier—I’ll put the word out. We’ll find your friend, if she’s still alive.”

Esbern nodded before passing over a note to Delvin. “When you find her, give her this message. She’ll understand what it means.” 

Delvin raised an eyebrow before shrugging. “Alright then.”

Chapter Text

4E 201, High Hrothgar

Kiera Fendalyn

The wind howled like a beast all its own.

Even wrapped tightly in her thick traveling cloak, Kiera could feel the chill sink through every layer, nipping at her skin, biting through the gaps in her gloves. The air at this altitude was thin, sharp, and unforgiving. Snow stung her cheeks, the mountain’s breath icy and relentless.

She had thought The Pale was cold—gods, she had complained about the Pale. But this was something else. The cold felt like it sapped her endurance, every step heavier than the last. It was no wonder that not many people dared to go up here.

It was at times like this that she was utterly jealous of Gerron’s and Serana’s physiques. Nords were said to have ice in their blood, while vampires were famously resistant—and even immune to some extent— to the cold. She remembered seeing them completely unbothered by the biting chill when they passed through Eastmarch.

Ivarstead had faded behind her hours ago, just a sleepy little village clutching the foot of the mountain. Now, she was alone with the wind, the endless stone stairs, and her thoughts.

Well, not really alone . The sheer amount of Frost Trolls, snow bears, ice wolves, and ice wraiths that she had killed walking up was quite mind boggling. Not like she could complain, for they served as adequate training for her to get used to the strength boost after absorbing Caraxes’ soul.

The most intriguing thing in her journey were the etched tablets that could be found along the path. She paused at each one, brushing off snow with numb fingers to read the weathered inscriptions: 

“Before the birth of men, the Dragons ruled all Mundus...”

“The Voice was a gift from the gods, taught to mortals by Paarthurnax...”

“Men learned to shout back at the dragons, and the Dragon War began...”

She read each word with reverence, letting the stories sink into her bones. The words spoke not just of history, but of legacy . They told of a time when mortals had learned the Voice and challenged their would-be tyrants, dragons who had shaped the world with power alone.

It was a humbling story. One that painted quite the picture of what life was like back then. It brought ill tidings for the future.

After all, were they not on the cusp of another Dragon War? Only this time, it won’t just be men and dragons in the picture. But Vampires and Daedra as well.

She didn’t know what it was that made Skyrim such a prime target for everything. Kiera had discussed this with her mother. It seems like every dangerous faction in all of Tamriel had their sights on this land of strife and snow, drawn to this moment like moths to a flame.

The thought of vampires brought her mind back to Serana, to the story that she had told back then. What kind of father would do that to his own wife and daughter? 

It explained much of the woman Kiera now proudly calls a friend. Her quiet strength, her grief carefully masked behind sarcasm and cold humor, her wanting for a life that she built by herself, far from the dangers and prophecies that her father had wanted to use her for.

‘She’s been through so much.’

Serana hadn’t asked for Kiera’s sympathy—but she had earned it. In the few battles they’ve fought side by side with, in every smile that graced her features, Kiera saw a flicker of the girl Serana used to be, trying to reach the surface.

They had all suffered. And yet, none of them had stopped moving forward.

Even Gerron, the pillar of strength that had stood rigid even after all the news of trouble that came at them. Of the three, he was the one with the least responsibility in all of this. This wasn’t his fight. He was neither the Dragonborn, nor a carrier of an Elder Scroll.

Yet he still stayed.

It spoke much of his character, always ready to help whenever others need it. She grew even more confident now that he was blessed. He was a chosen of the Divines, she was certain of it.

A small hum emanated from the beacon at Kiera’s belt, a reminder of yet another task she’s been set up with. Despite Kiera’s concerns, Serana had the right of it. The help of a Daedric Prince would be greatly needed for the battles to come.

Besides, it’s not like Meridia asked her to do anything untoward. It was simply to clear her temple of undead and necromancers. She could do that.

Eventually, the stairs leveled out, revealing the grey-stone monastery of High Hrothgar at last. It was a bastion of grey stone, carved from the mountain itself, forever battered by the howling winds yet remained standing. 

Kiera’s boots crunched softly in the snow as she approached. She walked up the steps, to see the massive doors flanked by tall stone braziers that opened at her arrival. 

Waiting for her on the other side was an elderly man, with dark robes lined with fur to help stifle the chill. His hands were folded before him, a gaze wiser than her years met her amber eyes.

“Welcome, traveler,” he said, voice deep and calm, “to High Hrothgar.”

Kiera took a step forward. “Are you…Arngeir? One of the Greybeards?”

He inclined his head. “So you know of us. Yet we do not know you.”

“You called for me,” she said, squaring her shoulders. “I heard the summons after I… after the dragon was killed. My name is Kiera.”

Arngeir eyes widened slightly. “So you are her. The Dragonborn appears…at this moment in the turning of age.”

From the corridor behind him, three more robed figures emerged—Greybeards, each one cloaked in the same heavy garb, their faces weathered but serene. They formed a quiet line behind their master, observing her in silence.

“Show us, Dragonborn. Let us hear your Voice.” Arngeir stated.

Kiera blinked, “But—”

“Fear not.” Arngeir assured gently. “Your shout shall not harm us.”

Her nerves twisted. All this time, she had only used her shout on her enemies. She wasn’t blind to the destructive potential the Thu’um possessed. 

In the end, Kiera nodded. These people were the closest to being the masters of the Voice, she would trust them. 

She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, pulling all the limited understanding she had of the very first shout she had learned before unleashing it, “ FUS!”

The word burst from her lungs, a wave of force that had previously disturbed the clouds above the Western Watchtower emerged from her throat. The wave passed over the Greybeards like a mountain wind. They did not flinch. They merely closed their eyes… and accepted it.

When she opened her eyes again, Arngeir was smiling.

“Dragonborn. Kiera,” Arngeir greeted her for the first time. “Welcome to High Hrothgar.”

He gestured to a room with a roaring hearth in the center, “We are just about to have supper. Come join us, we have much to discuss.”

…

4E 201, Windhelm

Galmar Stone-Fist

Days after the attack on Windhelm by the blood-red dragon, recovery efforts were still going strong. 

Galmar stood at the edge of the ruined gate, arms crossed. He could still hear the screams in his head. His arms still sore from the repeated use of drawing his bow. He’s never shot that many arrows in his life. He swore he’d put some time in yard training his archery after this.

The gates of Windhelm—great, proud things that had stood since the time of Ysgramor—were now shattered. The wooden ramparts hastily thrown up in their place were little more than kindling should the beast return. Three of the towers had crumbled. Rubble lay thick in the streets, choking pathways and alleyways alike. But even so, Windhelm endured.

Buckets were passed from man to man that formed a chain all the way from the docks to the inner districts of the city. The crimson flames had disappeared entirely all of a sudden, though the regular flames that came from the numerous burning houses had to doused. Brunwulf led the efforts to rescue the people buried under rubble, while Jorleif continued tallying the number of dead and survivors.

The one good thing this event brought was the unity that the men and women of Windhelm had in working together to fix and repair their homes. Men and mer alike worked shoulder to shoulder, shoveling snow, digging out the injured, reinforcing broken buildings with salvaged timber and stone.

Whatever animosity existed between the Nords and the Dunmer was nowhere to be seen, Galmar watched a pair of Dunmer boys drag broken bricks from a collapsed home under the guidance of a Nord shield-maiden. Another Dark Elf shovelling snow with a Nord side by side.

Ulfric’s order to save the Dunmer had even earned him some semblance of support from the denizens of the Gray Quarter. Brunwulf’s previous worries had proven true. Being the easternmost district in Windhelm, they bore the brunt of the damage that the Dragon had wrought.

But the casualties were few and far between. Brunwulf’s quick evacuation meant that many were saved.

However, Galmar knew that animosity spanning generations weren’t so easily quelled. They were only lucky that a common enemy was found now. The Dragons that many before doubted the existence of were now gone. The damned flying beasts had now earned the ire of many sons of Skyrim.

Galmar had received word that young men and women who had doubted Ulfric’s cause now came flocking to his banner. After all, the one true reason that they managed to push away the dragon was Ulfric’s use of the Thu’um. 

He wasn’t a Jarl that shied away from combat, but one that had led the men from the front. This action had earned him much respect from his soldiers.

Only time will tell how this event would change the fate of Skyrim. For now, Galmar was confident the city would heal. But a raw, boiling rage emerged from his core. A feeling of helplessness at encountering a foe not so easily killed with his axe.

He turned from the gate and strode through the broken city toward the Palace of the Kings.

Inside, the war council had already begun. All the important characters of Windhelm and the Stormcloaks gathered to discuss their next move.

“Send out couriers to Forts Amol, Kastav, and Dunstad,” Ulfric commanded, his voice low but firm. “Tell them to reinforce their defenses and to send additional men to fortify Windhelm’s garrison. And word must go to Riften, Dawnstar, and Winterhold as well. Have their Jarls post sentries. One league in every direction. If another dragon comes, I won’t have us caught like this again.”

Galmar’s hand clenched into a fist against the tabletop. “With the walls and gate broken, Windhelm is defenseless. If the Empire learns of this, they’ll strike without hesitation. Tullius will take this chance.”

“I’ve already sent scouts to tail the beast,” Brunwulf said from his corner, arms folded. “Hard thing to track, I’ll admit. The dragon flies faster than a hawk.”

“Following the dragon was never the priority. They simply need to confirm if it leaves or stays in Eastmarch territory.” Ulfric said, earning Brunwulf’s nod. He looked to Jorleif then, “What are our losses?’

Jorleif let out a breath, pulling out a scroll. “Quite major, my Jarl. Of the city guard, sixty perished with more than thrice that number injured. The Stormcloak garrison took the most casualties, with over two hundred losses due to being the ones that manned the walls. They were first to be bathed in the dragon’s flames. The most significant military loss is our Eastern fleet. Only eleven ships out of the initial fifty remain usable, one warship and three galleys, the rest are merchant or fishing vessels.”

“And the non military loss?” Ulfric questioned.

Jorleif gulped. “Over a thousand civilians perished. More than twice that number are still missing or trapped beneath the rubble.”

“Madness.” Galmar slammed a fist against the table, rattling the map markers. “This means the only fleet we have left are the ones anchored in Dawnstar. Why did the dragon even attack Windhelm of all places? We have nothing that those damn beasts want!”

“Why did they attack Helgen? Rorikstead? Whiterun?” Ulfric asked with a raised eyebrow. “We aren’t the first nor are we the last. These aren’t random attacks, Galmar. Dragon’s aren’t mindless beasts. I learned this much from the Greybeards. There is a reason for all of this, a coordinated assault most likely.”

Galmar growled. “Whiterun was attacked by two dragons—and they repelled them. Yet we nearly fell to one . One!”

“I surmise part of the reason for it is the existence of the Dragonborn and this Dragonslayer.” Ulfric looked to him, then to the others. “In the Dragon Hunt, as they called it, they were the aggressors. They hunted the dragons and cornered them. Free from the risk of civilian casualties. We didn’t have that luxury.”

“Speaking of the Dragonslayer, my Jarl, I have received news on that front.” Jorleif chimed in. “The Gray-Manes, our allies within Whiterun, have sent word. The Dragonslayer's name is one Gerron Ironbreaker, while the Dragonborn is Kiera Fendalyn.”

Galmar frowned. The name sounded familiar.

Ulfric’s eyes widened. “You mean…”

“Yes, my Jarl.” Jorleif nodded. “The Blacksmith friend of Ralof’s, from Shor’s Stone.”

“And this Kiera is the Vigilant you told me that saved your life back in Helgen.” Galmar’s gruff voice pointed out, finally remembering.

“Aye.” Ulfric nodded with a furred brow. No doubt thinking of ways to use this new information.

“If we’ve received that information, then I have no doubt that the Empire—and more worryingly, the Thalmor—have received it as well.” Brunwulf stated.

“Galmar, send Ralof with a hundred men to protect Shor’s Stone.” Ulfric ordered. “We must make haste. If anything, making allies with them is our priority. With the way the Thalmor operates, I wouldn’t put it past them to threaten the town to get to this Gerron Ironbreaker.”

Galmar nodded. “And the Vigilants?”

“They are far from powerless and can take care of themselves. Though I would continue the discussions of an alliance with them. I’ll be sending you in my stead, Jorleif. Talk to the Keeper and ask them what they need and what they’ll want in return for an alliance.”

Galmar was about to speak when Ulfric raised a hand.

“There is one more matter,” the Jarl said, voice growing colder. “We must send word to Solitude.”

The council fell silent.

“To Elisif ?” Galmar said, voice almost incredulous.

“Aye.”

“Are you suggesting an alliance?”

“A truce.” Ulfric’s expression was unreadable. “A temporary one. Nothing more.”

Everyone’s eyes widened. “Are you sure about this, Ulfric?” Galmar asked.

“If we don’t reach out first,” Ulfric replied, “the Thalmor will. They’ll twist the chaos to their favor. I’ve no doubt they’ve tried using the Helgen attack as some kind of proof that we’re working with the beasts. If anything, this attack on Windhelm is a blessing in disguise. A fragile peace is better than war blind to the real threat. We need breathing room—to regroup, to rebuild. Dragons…this isn’t a conflict we can weather alone.”

“And you think Elisif will accept?” Galmar asked warily.

“No. Not at first. But a seed planted now may sprout when needed. The real work will be choosing where the talks happen. It must be neutral. Somewhere both sides feel safe.”

Galmar leaned back, arms folded. “Like High Hrothgar.”

Ulfric’s brow rose slightly. “Perhaps. The Greybeards hold no banners. It may be our best hope. Maybe even the Vigilants if they refuse our alliance.”

Brunwulf exhaled slowly. “This war was meant to free us, Ulfric. Are you sure this won’t bind us instead?”

Ulfric turned toward the window, where the ruins of Windhelm’s towers loomed against the darkening sky.

“I’m sure of only one thing,” he said. “If we don’t adapt… we’ll all burn.”

Chapter Text

4E 201, Shor’s Stone, A month later

Serana 

Shor’s Stone was a quaint little town nestled in the Rift’s pine-coated lowlands, and Serana found herself… content.

She didn’t expect that word to ever apply to her. Not after everything. But here she was.

Gerron was of course busy being the de facto leader that he was. While Filnjar is officially titled the town master, he acts more like Gerron’s steward if anything. Grogmar was officially the Captain of the Guard, his responsibilities revolving around the town’s growing militia. 

Even now, aside from teaching the blacksmiths of the town and smithing his own new weapons and armor from the dragonbone and scales, Gerron handled whatever decisions of defense, infrastructure, or governance were concerned. 

Serana had decided she would help him do that. In her own way.

“Destruction is much easier if you choose which element to focus on early,” she said to the circle seated around her. “Fire, Frost, or Lightning. Meditate on one. Understand its nature. Only then will it obey your will.”

Around her sat eight of her new apprentices. While they were far from the quality of mages she’s used to being surrounded by, they were the ones with the most potential she had found in the town. 

Seven of them were young—no older than twenty—and still green in the ways of magic. The last one was quite different from the others. 

Erandur was a Dunmer man in his fifties and claimed to be a wandering Priest of Mara, looking for a place to settle after months on the road. That much was true perhaps, but Serana had detected something beneath the surface.

His shoulders carried a weight unspoken. His smile, while genuine, had a tremble. He wasn’t fully forthcoming with his identity, and Serana assumed it had something to do with the way he kept watching the others with a protective gaze, like a man atoning for something in his past.

Still, his mastery of Restoration was even better than hers. And when he proposed a small temple of Mara in Shor’s Stone, Gerron approved without hesitation—on the condition that Erandur provided at least a quarter of the funds and helped Serana teach the apprentices.

Serana didn’t trust him yet and was prepared to keep an eye on him, just in case.

The days passed, and autumn crept in like a quiet guest, draping the hills in burnt gold and copper red. One of the first things Gerron had done in the month of their arrival was to turn his old house into a workshop, a paradise for any blacksmith, alchemist, or enchanter to be. 

All the stations and instruments were state-of-the-art Dwemer make, containing every tool and appliance that a craftsman would need. The room of reagents alone could rival most apothecaries, the ingredients he had gathered in his travels that were all previously stored in his storage space.

He had allowed her access to the alchemists station, and she kept herself busy. She asked him for more of the blood potions Gerron called Redwater Skooma to study, to see if she can create more and perhaps even improve it.

The blood potion created by Venarus Vulpin was decent , though there were many flaws. The first was that it was highly addictive, though she was thankfully spared from it due to her status as a pureblooded vampire. The next was that the boost in strength was not only temporary, but it also left the user fatigued for days on end.

It had extremely high potential, one she intended on perfecting. If she was right, then this potion would be a massive boon for vampires in all of Tamriel. If she succeeded in refining the recipe, Serana believed it could provide an alternative for vampires everywhere—a substitute for human blood.

Aside from the busy days, she found herself enjoying her time here. Serana had spent her entire life in a castle, with servants and maids looking after her every whim. But here, she found herself to be in the inner council of the leader of the town.

Most of her time was spent on teaching, and to her surprise, she enjoyed it. The act of watching her students’ eyes light up when they reach a certain milestone brought for a satisfaction she never felt before.

There was an appeal in staying and looking after a small town in the countryside. Though of course, it wouldn’t stay a small town forever. Even now, new houses and businesses were cropping up almost daily. Shor’s Stone now had taverns and inns aplenty.

Whatever free courtyards were used by children to play or by the militia to train in. From what she last heard, their numbers had swelled to at least a hundred men, a mix of heavy and light infantry as well as archers. Serana had heard Grogmar planning to include horse training to the men to at least have a few cavalry in there.

A few horse breeders were found among the many new refugees, and Filnjar had ordered some of his pages to ride to Riften to buy a fresh batch of horses. Stables were already being built in one of the corners of the rapidly expanding town.

Serana stood at the edge of the training hall now, arms crossed as she watched the apprentices practice. Novice level spells erupted from their fingers—Flames, Frostbite, and Sparks—towards the wooden targets she had set up on the other side.

They were far from ever being ready to be court mages that Gerron expected them to be, but it was a good start. Erandur was of course much better, having four decades of experience over the rest. 

He was currently knelt beside a younger boy, muttering softly as he guided his hands to form a ward—a clean, translucent curve of magical energy that shimmered in the torchlight. It held firm. The boy beamed.

That was when the doors to the training room opened and one of Filnjar’s pages entered. “Lady Serana, Master Filnjar bid me to invite you to the long hall. There’s news. Master Gerron is already there.”

“What happened?” Serana arched her brow.

“They say Windhelm was attacked by a dragon.”

…

4E 201, Mythic Dawn Headquarters, hidden deep in the Reach

Calixto

Calixto narrowed his eyes, sweat trailing down the curve of his brow, though his body remained light—almost airy. His grip tightened around the training dagger in his hand. Custom forged to match the length and weight of Mehrunes’ Razor, it served him well enough for practice spars such as these. The real Razor was sheathed on his belt, never leaving his person.

Three acolytes encircled him. All clad in deep crimson robes, their faces marked with golden symbols of Dagon’s flame. They moved in rhythm, each trained to work in tandem. Two held curved blades, one wielded a long spear.

The months of training had proven fruit. Every day from dusk till dawn he spent it in the yard, perfecting his already formidable skill in combat. While his pride rankled in being taught and beat by the people he believed his lessers, the results spoke for themselves.

Apprentice level mastery in both the Destruction and Illusion schools of magic, as well mastering one-handed dagger combat were only the few things he had learned.

After being chosen as Dagon’s champion, his combat instincts had turned supernatural. He could move faster, think clearer. It was as if the world slowed, allowing to see everything around him with clear precision.

So when the spearman lunged forward in a clear motion to stab him, Calixto didn’t think. He simply moved.

He sidestepped with supernatural grace—his heightened senses slowing the world around him. The wind brushed against his skin as he caught the spear’s shaft mid-thrust, yanked it forward with a sudden jerk, and slammed his forehead into the acolyte’s face. A crunch of cartilage. Blood burst from the man’s nose as he reeled backward, stunned.

Another moved behind him, blade arcing for Calixto’s side.

He dropped low, rolled under the slash, then came up behind the attacker in a flash. Before the acolyte could react, Calixto whispered a word in his mind— “Drex.” —and thrust his palm forward.

A pulse of red magicka pulsed out, a Fear spell glowing sickly crimson as it struck the man’s face.

The reaction was immediate.

Eyes wide with panic, the acolyte dropped his weapon, screamed, and fled across the yard like a whipped dog.

“Two left,” Calixto muttered, pivoting back to the spear-wielder just as the third came from his flank with another blade.

The two remaining acolytes tried to coordinate, pushing him toward the edge of the sparring ring. But their mortal bodies lacked the reflexes Dagon had gifted him. Their strikes felt telegraphed. Slow and predictable.

He parried the first strike, twisted his blade under the spear’s shaft, and locked the weapon down with his forearm. With a sudden step forward, he drove his dagger across the third acolyte’s chest in a slicing arc—not enough to kill, but enough to drop him to the ground in pain. A Firebolt followed from his other hand, singing the edge of the spearman’s robes and forcing him back.

Calixto gave him no room to retreat.

He rushed forward, thrusting his dagger under the man’s ribs, a non-lethal strike that could easily be fixed by one the healer acolytes. He pulled out the blade, letting his opponent fall unceremoniously to the ground.

The courtyard fell silent, save for the groans of the defeated.

He stood there, surrounded by fallen bodies, his chest rising steadily—not with fatigue, but exhilaration. His training had borne fruit.

And it felt good.

“Bravo.”

The sound of clapping echoed from the archway.

Calixto turned, face tightening as Ruma Camoran approached with a smirk filled with mockery. She wore similar red robes to the rest of the order, though there were certain embellishments to mark the difference in status. Her eyes were pale red rubies that Calixto once thought to be beautiful. Though of course, that was before he realized beneath the exotic exterior, the only daughter of Mankar Camoran was a hateful and jealous woman to her core.

“Looks like you’re now capable enough to take down three of the Mythic Dawn’s acolytes,” she said, arms crossed. “Such a proud achievement for the Chosen of Dagon.

He rolled his eyes. He had long since grown tired of her passive-aggressive jabs. Since the day he was chosen by Mehrunes Dagon, she had made no effort to hide her contempt. She, born of a Daedric zealot’s bloodline, overshadowed by a relative nobody like him.

She had made her feelings known and Calixto merely ignored her words. After all, he was the chosen one, not her. Nothing she could say could ever change that.

“What do you want, woman?” he asked dryly, wiping his sweat with a cloth.

Ruma’s smirk faltered for a moment before she mirrored his indifference and turned her head. “Father wants to see you. He has news.”

“News?”

She didn’t elaborate. He put down the training dagger and followed her, a hand on the Razor’s hilt. He could see her eyes lingered on it—hungry, jealous. She said nothing as she turned and walked away, leading him deeper into the bowels of the stronghold.

The corridors of the Mythic Dawn's sanctuary were a maze of stone, lit only by blue torches enchanted with ever-burning flame. Ancient banners bearing the Daedric letter "Oht" fluttered with unseen wind.

When they arrived, Mankar was standing by the balcony of his high chamber, overlooking the mist-cloaked mountains of the Reach. Beside him was Raven Camoran, who mirrored his father’s action in gazing at the high mountaintops.

Unlike his sister, Mankar’s sole son was an agreeable man that Calixto had surprisingly good relations with. He was a capable warrior and an expert Conjuration mage, having earned the loyalty of many of the more zealot acolytes.

“Ah, Calixto,” Mankar said, not turning to face him. “We’ve found it.”

Calixto blinked. “Found what?”

Mankar turned at last, revealing the satisfied gleam in his smile. “An Elder Scroll.”

Calixto’s eyes widened.

“One of our agents arrived not long ago,” Mankar continued. “Rushed halfway across the Reach on horseback. He saw something… curious .”

“He was among the ones stationed hidden in the Hall of Vigilants. Around a month ago, he saw a vampire woman arrive with Vigilant Tolan and a man with ebony armor. They met Keeper Carcette and her daughter in private. Whatever conversation happened behind closed doors, but what matters was that she carried the scroll on her back.” Mankar’s smile widened. “She left the next day without it.”

“Which means it was given to the Vigilants,” Raven said. “Protected in their hall.”

“What business does the Vigilants have with a Vampire? They abhor anything Daedric related.” Calixto asked with a raised brow.

Raven snorted. “Does it matter what the reason is? This is an opportunity of a lifetime. If we could procure the scroll for our own use, then—”

“We could open as many Oblivion Gates as we need. Anywhere, anytime, thus bringing forth a new crisis to Tamriel.” Ruma continued, her voice tinged with fanatic zeal. “A real one. One worthy of Dagon’s glory.”

The thought sent a ripple of thrill through Calixto’s chest. The image of cities burning, of Tamriel falling beneath Daedric flame—it filled him with purpose. Destiny.

Mankar turned to him. “You shall lead the attack, and both my children shall go with you as your lieutenants. Many of our acolytes still look at you with doubts, Calixto. Prove to them that you are Dagon’s Champion and put these worries to rest.”

He paused, then added with an ominous glint, “Retrieve the scroll, and burn whatever stands in your way.”

Calixto nodded slowly, an evil grin spreading across his face.

“Consider it done.”

The Mythic Dawn would rise again.

And this time, nothing would stop them.

Chapter Text

4E 201, High Hrothgar

Kiera Fendalyn

“FUS RO DAH!” 

The ancient words of power echoed through the snow-choked heights of High Hrothgar, slamming into the ground like a battering ram. The force of the shout rippled through the frozen landscape, launching a shockwave that cracked through the air. Snow and frost erupted skyward in a white plume, while jagged rocks tumbled down the western slope in a controlled avalanche.

Kiera lowered her arms slowly, exhaling. Her lips tingled from the shout's force, but it was nowhere near as bad as before.

A pulse of pride surged through her chest. She’d done it. Finally.

Nearly two months worth of training and meditation and she could finally utter the Unrelenting Force shout without fear of collapse or backlash. The fatigue that once staggered her was gone. The shout rang stronger and purer through her body, more so than even the Greybeards had expected. 

The rocks that tumbled down the side of the mountain would no doubt grow to be a landslide, but there was nothing at the foot of that side but Helgen, which had long been abandoned after Alduin’s actions.

“You have done well, Dragonborn.” Arngeir said as he approached with hands clasped behind his back, beard thick with ice crystals. “That is three complete shouts you have mastered now, with many more whose first Words you have learned.”

Kiera gave a modest nod, but her heart swelled at the recognition.

There was a time not long ago when the Thu’um felt alien—when each word clawed at her throat and made her dizzy with power. But now… now the Voice was becoming part of her. Not just magic. Not just ancient language. It was becoming a rhythm, a second heartbeat.

She understood why so few ever mastered the Voice. It was not about memorization or spellcasting. It was understanding. Knowing what each Word truly meant. Not just in the tongue—but in the soul.

The meaning gave the power shape.

It was quite similar to other magics in that way. As the Dragonborn, she had a massive advantage in the way that understanding came easy to her. Having the Soul of a dragon helped immensely, and she had now mastered the three shouts Unrelenting Force, Whirlwind Sprint, and Clear Skies.

The first was obvious since it was the very first word she had learned after the jaunt in Bleak Falls Barrow. The second was something she wanted to learn after seeing Caraxes’ ability to move near instantly to wherever he wanted. That kind of speed would be a boon to any warrior.

Kiera had asked the Greybeards whether or not they knew that shout, and luckily for her, they did. They even had an entire contraption prepared specifically for training the Whirlwind Sprint shout. Learning the words itself wasn’t difficult, but what took time was adjusting after her body moved that quickly. She had to learn to get her bearing quickly and control her shout enough to not overshoot where she wanted to go. 

She had bruises to prove how hard it was to control that speed. Many times she almost hurled herself off the mountain by accident.

It was a delicate balance, one that needed time precision to master. She relished when she managed to do it the first time.

The last shout she mastered was a personal request by Arngeir himself. Kiera had initially wanted to focus on the Marked for Death shout since it had proven the ability to weaken dragons, like what she did to Caraxes. 

She acquiesced to the request of course, especially when he told her of the power of the shout. The ability to manipulate the weather was a powerful one. How many armies in history died to the unpredictability of weather? Drowned under heavy storms or buried under the cold winds of the snow? 

She even realized that this single shout served as a counter to one of the things she saw Alduin do. Calling down meteors from the sky was among the many shouts of the Thu’um that the Greybeards were unfamiliar with. From what she could tell, Clear Skies should be able to stop, or at the very least slow it down.

That reminds her, there was something she wanted to ask from the Greybeards.

“Arngeir,” she said, turning toward him as the winds settled, “What does it mean for a dragon to breathe fire of a different color? Caraxes had flames of crimson red. They burned longer and hotter than the flames I saw from Mirmulnir and Silklovkul.”

The old monk closed his eyes for a moment, as if listening to the wind for answers. “As we have taught, Dragonborn,” he said slowly, “simply knowing the Words is not enough. One must understand them. The dragons are no different. They meditate, they refine, and through their mastery, their Thu’um becomes unique. I surmise this Caraxes had gained understanding of the Fire Breath shout much deeper than the rest of his kin.”

Kiera nodded thoughtfully. Of course, it made sense in a way. After all, as proud as she was with her progress with the Unrelenting Force, it paled in comparison still to what Alduin was capable of. She had seen herself the World Eater use the same shout to turn Helgen into rubble.

“In your journey, you will find many dragons who are masters of their own Thu’um.” Arngeir said, opening his eyes. “Some would meditate upon the same word and reach different conclusions, and there are others who can barely speak the Words. They are as varied as us humans, men or mer.” 

“Then why do you train me?” She asked gently. “The Greybeards do not meddle in the affairs of the world. Despite all your power, the order never uses the Thu’um to harm others.”

A knowing smile touched the corner of his mouth. “It is not that we do not harm others, but we use the Thu’um merely as a way of worship, as our founder Jurgen Windcaller himself has decreed. For centuries we have followed the Way of the Voice, never to use our understanding for military exploits.”

“But I digress. We are not the people to ask should you have questions regarding the Dragons. No, there is someone much more worthy to answer them. It is time you meet the Grandmaster of our order, Kiera. It is time to journey across the heavy winds, to the Throat of the World.”

The words rang in her bones. The highest mountain in all of Tamriel. The sacred peak where sky met stone, and legends were born. The path ahead was steep, buried beneath blinding blizzards and perilous winds. The Greybeards walked ahead of her, silent, reverent.

She followed.

The steps were ancient and worn, carved into the mountain’s skin. With each footfall, the winds howled louder, tearing at her cloak and hair. The cold gnawed at her fingers. Visibility dropped to nothing. The snow around her swirled in a constant haze. The very air resisted her progress, like the mountain itself tested her resolve.

She could barely see ten feet ahead.

It seems clear now why Arngeir requested for her to master that specific shout.

‘So this was the final test.’

She quickly packed her meagre possessions and strapped Dawnbite to her side. The path ahead had vanished into white fog and gale-force winds. Ice crystals stung her cheeks as she looked up. Above her, the mountain peak pierced the heavens, hidden behind cloud and storm.

She took a breath. Centering herself.

And then she shouted.

“LOK VAH KOOR!”

The air split .

Three brilliant Words, full of clarity and purpose, burst from her soul like a thunderclap. The clouds recoiled from her Voice, shrieking away like torn silk. The snow melted from the path, the fog receded. Above her, the skies turned blue , sunlight gleaming through cracks of white.

The storm obeyed and the way was clear.

And ahead, high above the world, the summit of legend awaited.

Kiera stepped forward.

…

4E 201, Shor’s Stone

Gerron Ironbreaker

Two months. That’s how long it took him to bring all his affairs into order. Shor’s Stone had now turned from a vulnerable mining town into a fortified community capable of surviving. He had done enough to make sure the town could keep going without him.

He didn't know how or why everyone looked to him for decisions. Everytime he walked on the streets people saw him as a hero and saviour. Tales of his actions as the lauded Dragonslayer had spread far and wide across Skyrim now, and despite the attention and scrutiny now held upon him, he found himself enjoying it.

The state of the town wasn’t perfect yet. It wasn’t even close. But it was something .

The Shor’s Guard had become a proper armed force, capable of handling brigands and bandits that came their way. Grogmar had insisted on the name, claiming it “sounded like they meant business.” Gerron had laughed, but the orc had been right.

They did mean business now.

The ten best archers carried dragonbone bows, their frames curved like predator talons, each with a firing range that rivaled siege engines. He’d seen them pierce a troll’s eye at two hundred yards. Gerron had personally tested them at three hundred.

The heavy infantry—given to the most capable warriors—wore armor of thick ebony plate, lined with fur and reinforced with dragonbone trim. Only a dozen sets existed, not nearly enough, but enough to form a bulwark against whatever may come.

Grogmar himself was a fortress on legs, wearing chainmail beneath a tabard depicting Shor’s Stone’s new symbol: a black hammer atop a mountain. On his back rested his polished ebony axe—massive, brutal, and deceptively quick in his hands.

Many called him a warlord now, training and preparing to create and found his own Hold. He had none of those ambitions, at least not fully. It was his goal to make Shor’s Stone a self-sufficient fortress that could handle all threats that came at it, whether they be dragons or bandits. Whatever happens in the achieving of that goal, happens.

He hadn’t done it alone of course. Filnjar had kept the day-to-day life of the town from falling apart. He was the one who handled the construction and expansion of the town, as well as the many trade deals that Shor’s Stone now found themselves in.

Riften, Windhelm, and Whiterun are now their clients for weapons and armor, the Stormcloaks especially. The orders will be handled by the blacksmiths that Gerron had trained himself.

Four of them proved capable smiths. They weren’t at Gerron’s level—not even close, but they were skilled enough to be considered masters themselves, at least on the level of the court smiths employed by the other major holds.

Gerron himself has a plethora of new weapons and armor with him. His ebony armor now bore a blood red dragonscale vest across the chest taken from Caraxes’ himself, layered for flexibility and fire resistance. A longsword and round shield made of sharpened dragonbone were now strapped to his side and back. 

Gerron had learned the hard way that while his hammer was powerful, there were plenty of chances where the hammer could leave his grip. No matter how strong you were, the wrong moment—the wrong misstep—could cost you everything.

Even after being disarmed, fighting unarmed was still a choice. But he’d rather avoid it if he could help it. The only reason last time succeeded was due to sheer dumb luck and adrenaline.

The storage ability means he will never truly be caught off guard. He could pull a new weapon into his arms in seconds, put armor over his body in a blink of an eye. Dozens of blades, hammers, axes, shields were now kept in his storage space. He was a walking, talking armory, capable of outfitting a small army at any time.

As of right now, the dragonscale shield and dragonbone sword shall be his secondary set of weapons. Made of Caraxes’ scales and bones, the vest and shield had proven to be very heat resistant, much more than Mirmulnir’s. The sword’s grip was wrapped in troll hide for weather resistance, its edges sharper than steel.

He had even crafted sets for others. Serana now wore a bodice of dragonscale tailored to her slim figure, flexible yet strong. A cloak lined with dragon sinew kept her warm—or at least, warmer. She didn’t need much. Vampires were naturally resistant to the cold. But now she could endure fire as well.

However, not everything was going well. Grim news had arrived weeks ago that Windhelm was attacked by a Dragon. According to the many rumours, the ancient City of Kings still stood, though not without casualties.

Hundreds of lives had perished in the attack and the walls had broken down. It painted a grim picture. The dragons were starting to get bolder. Two of the hold capitals had been attacked now. How long would it take for others to have dragons descend on them?

Windhelm was more defensible than Shor’s Stone, with taller walls and many more defenders. What would happen if the town was attacked and he wasn’t there?

The news had Gerron hurrying his schedule. Any available blacksmiths and arbalists would continue building ballistas. Archery training became mandatory for the militia, the long hall, the central tower, and the granaries were all reinforced with stone, and gallons and barrels of water were taken from the nearby river and stored in several key locations to douse any fires.

It wasn’t enough, far from it, but it was a start. It was the reason why he needed to get to the College quickly. There were many ideas and artifacts he could make that could turn the tides, but he lacks the knowledge and resources to make them. Resources that the College should have.

The one thing he has now with the most potential is the Tamrielic Inscriptions. The Standing Stones had long been sources of power for the denizens of Skyrim.

If he could master that, then maybe— just maybe —they’d stand a chance.

“Ready to go?” Serana’s voice came from the doorway behind him. He turned and saw her leaning casually against the frame, one brow raised, a small smile tugging at her lips. She looked beautiful, clad in her new armor and cloak. The blood-red bodice greatly accentuated her figure, matching the crimson shade of her eyes and lips. Her pale skin made her look ethereal. Part of it came from the natural charm and allure of a vampire, especially a pure-blooded one like her. Gerron had noticed many men in town could scarcely look away.

Serana had quickly become one of his closest confidants. She had that sort of dry wit that often clashed with his stubborn bluntness, and had lived in an era that one could only glean from history books. Conversations with her were as enlightening as it was amusing.

Her efforts in training the mages had also borne fruit. More than half of her apprentices are now capable in handling the more mundane tasks required of them and were able to advance their own studies without needing a hand to guide them every step of the way.

It took a while for the more narrow-minded Nords to get used to living with mages in such close proximity. But Gerron was adamant of it.

It also helped that Erandur would be staying here as both an advisor to Filnjar and to take Serana’s place as magic tutor.

The Priest of Mara had his secrets, but Gerron was fine with that. As long as he doesn’t do anything untowards to his friends and allies, he’s welcome in the budding city.

“Yeah,” he said, taking one last look at the town. “It’s time. We’ve done all we can here.”

Serana nodded.

When they stepped out of his home, the chill morning air greeted them with a whisper of frost. Waiting by the main gate were Filnjar and Grogmar.

“Finally leaving?” Filnjar asked, arms folded, face unreadable as usual.

Gerron gave him a firm nod. “There’s still more that needs doing. Besides, you have things handled here.”

“Aye, we do,” Filnjar said. “Good luck, lad. We all need it.”

Grogmar stepped forward and clasped forearms with him. The grip was strong—reassuring. “Don’t get yourself killed,” the orc said gruffly. “I’ll keep this place safe. You have my word.”

Gerron smiled. With a single nod, he and Serana climbed their horses and left the town behind.

…

End of Act 1

Chapter Text

— Start of Act 2 —

4E 201, Dragonsreach

Balgruuf the Greater 

The great oaken doors of Dragonsreach thundered open as Balgruuf strode inside. His breath was heavy, heart hammering in his chest—not from exertion, but worry, anger, and fear.

His eyes locked onto the figures gathered at the foot of the bed. Irileth held a serious expression over her face, while Hrongar stood beside her, his arms crossed with a hint of shame in the way his shoulders hunched.

On the bed, young Nelkir sat, a cloth bandaged to his cheek from a small cut.

His brows furrowed in anger. “What happened?”

Hrongar spoke first. “We caught a spy that’s been prowling through Dragonsreach. He managed to sneak past the guards and sentries. It was only luck that we caught him.”

Balgruuf’ stomach turned, “How?” 

“We heard a scream from the basement of the kitchens.” Irileth responded. “Nelkir was there and taken hostage. I snuck in invisibly and subdued the spy before he could cause real harm.” Her tone was even, but Balgruuf didn’t miss the hint of tension beneath her words.

“How did a single man sneak through Whiterun and all its guards?! We had just been attacked by a dragon for Talos’ sake! What if it was an assassin?!”

Hrongar held his head low, ashamed. “Forgive me brother. I take full responsibility. In our haste to protect ourselves from dragon threats, I neglected the protection of the keep. It will not happen again.”

Silence fell. Balgruuf’s fists clenched at his sides. His son had nearly died—his son —and somehow, the enemy had walked into his hall unchecked.

Irileth spoke again, gentler now. “My Jarl… perhaps it is now prudent to assign your children personal protection.”

Balgruuf wanted to retort, but paused. True enough, the suggestion had merit. The only reason Balgruuf never bothered to assign personal guards was because they seldom leave the keep. With Dragonsreach brimming with guards, their safety was guaranteed.

At least he thought so. He wasn’t so sure now.

He exhaled slowly before looking at Irileth. “Do it. I want housecarls for each of my children. They are never to be left alone again.”

Irileth gave a firm nod. “It will be done. I’ll assign Lydia to Nelkir.”

Balgruuf nodded. Lydia was one of their best swords, a shield maiden worthy of keeping his family safe.

The Jarl turned to his youngest son, who had remained quiet this entire time. “Nelkir,” the boy turned to him. “What were you doing in the kitchens?”

Silence and a blank stare was the only reply, and the Jarl released a sigh. “Rest, son. You’re safe now.”

He, Hrongar, and Irileth stepped from the room. Two guards in full Whiterun steel closed the doors behind them before flanking the doors and standing at attention. They would serve as Nelkir’s protection until Lydia arrives. 

Balgruuf didn’t stop walking. His voice was low, edged with command. “Hrongar. I want our most skilled interrogator working on this. I want to know everything about that man. Who sent him. What he wanted. How he got in.”

Hrongar nodded, pounding a fist to his chest. “It will be done, brother.”

The Master-at-arms of Dragonsreach peeled off down another hallway, already barking orders to a guard nearby.

“Irileth, I need the truth from you.” His tone was serious. “Which wing of the basement was Nelkir in?”

Irileth blinked, though she answered promptly. “The western wing, my Jarl.”

A cold knot twisted in Balgruuf’s chest. “Summon Farengar. Tell him I want him now. ”

Irileth’s brows furrowed, but she bowed. “Yes, my Jarl.”

As she turned and strode off to fetch the Court Mage, Balgruuf was left alone, if not for the trio of guards who trailed his every step. His feet carried him through Dragonsreach on instinct, past the long tables and hearth fires, until he stood in the council chamber above the great hall. The familiar map of Skyrim lay sprawled across the central table, dotted with wooden markers and banners of various holds.

He hoped he was wrong, by Talos he hoped it truly.

His youngest son had always been quiet, and held himself differently to the rest of his children. Unlike Frothar and Dagny, Nelkir was sired with Balgruuf's second wife, who died in the birthing bed to bring Nelkir to the world.

His hands gripped the edge of the table as he leaned forward.

The western wing.

If that was where Nelkir liked to go in his regular jaunts, then it brought ill tidings. For that was where that cursed door was hidden, where whispers of darkness would come.

He had found it decades ago, when a tour of his castle had him hear whispered words. Farengar had sealed it at Balgruuf’s request and it had worked. Through whatever wards the Court Mage had done, the whispers disappeared. None was supposed to go near it.

And yet…

Nelkir was down there alone for who knows how long before the spy arrived. Why? Was it curiosity? Or…something more. Had Farengar’s wards waned throughout the years and the cursed door found another willing soul to bewitch? Had it begun whispering dark words towards his youngest son?

The Jarl closed his eyes. Talos preserve us.

He couldn’t afford this—not now. They couldn’t afford to be blindsided by any more distractions. Windhelm had been burned by dragonfire. Hundreds had died in the defense, all by a single dragon.

Whiterun had been lucky. It was only by the grace of the gods that Gerron and Kiera were in the city when the Western Watchtower fell. Were it not for them, the city may have suffered much more severe losses. 

Balgruuf vowed to never get caught off guard again. Luck or not, the Dragon Hunt had proven that the beasts could be killed, and it didn’t have to be the Dragonborn’s arm that did the killing blow.

The companions were strong allies, their werewolf forms proven to be capable of hurting the dragons, but it wasn’t enough. Nowhere near enough. History had said that Dragonsreach earned its name when the ancient Nord Hero Olaf One-Eye imprisoned his foe, the great dragon Numinex within the palace.

The head of said dragon now adorns the great hall above his own throne. Whiterun had not fallen to a dragon then, and it won’t fall now.

The Great Porch still held the contraption that managed to trap Numinex, though it had long fallen to disrepair after decades without use. Perhaps it’s time for it to be fixed?

…

4E 201, Hall of Vigilants

Keeper Carcette 

She stood atop the stone steps leading into the Hall of Vigilants, her eyes surveying the lively training yard below. The rhythmic clash of steel rang through the air, accompanied by the low, steady chants of magic incantations.

A handful of initiates practiced spells under a senior Vigilant’s guidance, while others sparred with wooden staves or short swords, forming circles of training around the central courtyard.

Though it wasn’t just the Vigilants in the yard today.

Their pale grey robes, lined with brown sashes, now intermingled with the crimson cloaks of Solitude’s soldiers—a hundred and fifty of them, to be exact. An entire company had marched to the Hall’s doorstep a little over a week ago, led by a man called Aldis, the Captain of the Guard in Solitude.

Carcette had known trouble from the Empire would come eventually. The moment the Stormcloaks had attempted to pull the Vigilants into the war, she knew retaliation would come from the other side.

The Vigilants had remained neutral for as long as they existed— watchers , not warriors , guardians of mortal realms from the creeping shadow of the Daedra. But the Civil War did not care for neutrality. It had bled into every corner of Skyrim, and now even her sacred order had begun to feel the pressure of its weight.

She had refused Ulfric’s request, not that they tried very hard. All they did was send an envoy before promptly leaving with a simple veiled promise of “religious unity” and “freedom from elven laws.” 

In contrast, Jarl Elisif had done something far more dangerous. She had extended a hand.

Aldis brought with him a letter bearing Elisif’s personal seal, stamped in purple wax. It pledged no demands, made no offers of allegiance. Instead, it simply expressed the Jarl’s recognition of the Vigilants’ struggle against the Daedric threat—and offered soldiers and supplies in return.

Carcette saw the political maneuvering for what it was, of course. The Empire didn’t want the Vigilants drifting into Stormcloak influence, and Elisif was wise enough to offer support without strings. Yet for all her wariness, Carcette had found herself nodding. There was sincerity in Elisif’s words. 

The Hall was ill equipped to house or feed another one hundred and fifty men, but Aldis had assured that they were fine making camp outside the walls. Said promise of supplies had even come in abundance. Not a few days after they arrived, carts and caravans bearing food, cloaks, and weapons came trawling through the snow.

The only thing that rivalled Carcette’s current relief was when Kiera had shown up at her doorstep. Now, with fresh men and supplies, the coming war didn’t look so bleak. The hall had never looked livelier, with the small sea of tents that now surrounded it as well as the supply trains that kept coming and leaving.

What truly mattered was that Aldis and Elisif were honest in their goals. Numerous excursions that Carcette had sent her Vigilants to were followed by a score of Solitude guard every time. Red cloaks became a usual sight in the snowy lands of the Pale as patrol duty was largely taken over by soldiers of Haafingar, accompanied by at least one senior Vigilant everytime.

Less and less of his Vigilants died in their missions, and Carcette was glad for it. Aldis had admitted that the company he had brought were not veterans, but rather men and women unblooded. 

Carcette appreciated the honesty and wasn’t really bothered by their inexperience. The fresh-faced recruits from Solitude may not have been hardened, but they were loyal and far from incompetent. That alone made a difference. As long as they were here to help, she would welcome them in their halls.

She folded her arms as she watched a Vigilant initiate parry a strike from a red-cloaked soldier, the clash of their weapons echoing across the courtyard. Aldis was here, having just returned from another patrol. His arms were crossed as he watched the drills. He had proven cordial so far, never overstepping his authority. 

Her musings were broken as she heard footsteps approaching from the eastern road. She turned, immediately spotting the group climbing the path toward the Hall.

Tolan was in the lead, his long grey robes flaring in the mountain breeze. Beside him stood a man Carcette had not seen in many years—but recognized at once.

Isran.

He looked… older. Grimmer, if such a thing was possible. He was tall—taller than Tolan by a hair—and broad-shouldered, clad in thickset heavy armor dyed black, with no visible weapons save for a small dagger at the small of his back. Though that wasn’t much of a surprise, the Redguard was the only other mage in the order that rivalled Carcette’s mastery with Restoration spells. Whereas Carcette’s mastery stemmed in healing and protection, Isran was the expert wielder of Stendarr’s light.

Behind him followed three others: a large, scarred Nord with a runed bearded axe and shield—Gunmar, if Carcette remembered Tolan’s letters correctly; a sharp-eyed Breton woman with a custom-forged crossbow slung over her back; and a young Nord boy, barely older than an initiate, his posture stiff. He stood straighter than the others, trying to hide his inexperience beneath discipline. Carcette watched him carefully. If Isran had brought the boy along, he was more than he seemed.

All three wore armor similar to Isran, with minute differences on each one. ‘Uniformed armor and high quality weaponry. He must’ve already succeeded in refounding the Dawnguard.’ Carcette mused. It was impressive. Recreating the ancient order from scratch was no small feat.

The Vigilants and Solitude guards had already begun to notice. Training slowed. Eyes turned. Even Aldis shifted slightly, narrowing his gaze at the approaching figures.

Carcette stepped forward, her tone level. “Isran.”

“Keeper.” The Redguard stopped before her, his intense amber eyes scanning the courtyard. “This place is a lot livelier than I remembered.”

Carcette allowed a faint smile to tug at her lips. “It’s a new day.”

Isran snorted, not without some appreciation. “Indeed,” he said. “Nevertheless, I’m glad for it. These are troubled times.”

Behind him, Gunmar’s gaze lingered on the Hall’s great stone pillars, while the Breton woman seemed to be evaluating the Solitude guard formations with a warrior’s eye.

“Come,” Carcette gestured, her voice now firm with purpose. “We have much to discuss.”

Chapter Text

4E 201, Somewhere in Eastmarch

Gerron Ironbreaker

“Can I be honest with you?” Gerron asked as he stirred the small campfire with his dragonbone sword, the embers flaring orange against the cool blue of the night.

The riverside whispered beside them, the waters gliding over stones with a gentle hiss. The sky above was vast and open, the twin moons of Masser and Secunda hanging high, casting their pale light across the snow-veiled tundra.

Serana, who had been tending to her gear in silence, looked up with a raised brow. “Of course.”

“I heard your conversation with Kiera, back in the caves.” 

Serana stilled, her hands pausing over the leather straps of her cloak.

“I want to say—”

“Don’t,” she cut him off coldly. She turned away, her back facing him. In the flickering firelight, he saw her shoulders tense.

“I’m just saying,” Gerron continued, voice softer now, “if you ever want to knock on Castle Volkihar and give your father a deserved kick in the arse, all you need to do is say the word. I’ll help. I’m sure Kiera is the same.”

He could see her fists clenched, the nails biting into her skin hard enough to draw blood.

“I’ll… think about it.” Her voice was quieter than a whisper. “Thank you.”

Gerron gave her a small, warm smile. “You’re welcome.”

That night, he dreamed of another blue star, shining bright in the dark expanse of the night sky. A warmth filled his body when he woke up the next day.

It was mid-morning when they reached Kynesgrove, a small mining settlement that was often used by travelers as a stopping point before reaching Windhelm itself.

It was there that Gerron heard a familiar voice echo from the side of the path.

“Gerron!”

He turned and grinned as Ralof approached, clad in his Stormcloak armor and flanked by a few grizzled warriors.

“Ralof!” He greeted back as their hands met in a clasp. “I had worried when I heard of Windhelm.”

“Aye.” Ralof sighed. “I was unlucky—or lucky, depending on who you ask—enough to be out on patrol when it happened.” His gaze shifted to Serana. “And who might this be?”

“This is Serana, a companion of mine. We’re just making our way to the College of Winterhold.”

“Lady Serana, then.” Ralof greeted with a polite nod.

“Pleasure,” she replied, keeping her tone neutral.

“It’s funny,” Ralof said, scratching the back of his head, “I was actually on my way to Shor’s Stone to find you. The Jarl sent me.”

Gerron raised an eyebrow. “Why?”

“Jarl Ulfric wants to meet, to make allies with you and the Dragonborn.”

Gerron sighed, “Ralof, neither Kiera nor I have time to involve ourselves with the Civil War. At least not directly.”

Ralof shook his head. “It’s not about that. With recent events, Jarl Ulfric knows the dragons are a greater threat. He merely wants to speak with you, nothing more.”

A frown appeared on Gerron’s face. 

“Look, I’m just the messenger. Windhelm is on the way to Winterhold anyways. If you agree, I’ll send a rider ahead to let them know you’re coming.”

Gerron looked to Serana, who shrugged at him. “Getting help from a Jarl and the leader of a rebellion to boot might be helpful for the future. You already have a trade agreement with the Stormcloaks, don’t you? We’re stopping by Windhelm anyway, there’s no harm in listening to what he has to say.”

She’s not wrong.

“Alright, we’ll see what he wants.” Gerron finally said. “Though what are you doing? There’s about a hundred men here, you don’t need that many if you’re just a messenger.”

“Aye, true enough. I’ve been given orders to protect Shor’s Stone.” Ralof said. “The worth of the town had escalated after becoming the main source of our weapons. When we heard you were the Dragonslayer, Jarl Ulfric bid me to help protect it, just in case the Thalmor wanted to do anything.”

“The Thalmor?” Gerron’s eyes widened. “You think they have something to do with the dragons?”

“If not them, who else?” Ralof snorted. “In any case, I’ll send four men to be your escort. We’ve been keeping the road safe as we travel, but you never know with bandits these days.”

Gerron nodded, “I appreciate it.”

…

Windhelm loomed in the distance a few days later, its silhouette proud and unbending despite the visible damage. The main gate had been shattered, though it seems a replacement was half-way done being built. 

The scars of dragonfire lingered in blackened stone and collapsed towers. Yet the city still stood.

The Architect perk chimed in suddenly, telling him all the ways that the city could’ve been built stronger with the new repairs. He snorted at that. While Ulfric no doubt hired the best stonemasons and builders that Eastmatch could offer, their knowledge paled to what the system could  make.

Looking around the pastures and the green fields on the side of the road, it seemed the one good thing about all this was that the farms outside of Windhelm were largely undamaged. 

In any other circumstances, Windhelm would’ve proven difficult to siege. Built on the side of the mountain, only a single bridge served as the entrance point to the city. Any army would’ve broken at the chokepoint, but if they somehow managed to get past it, they never would’ve gotten past the sixty foot tall curtain walls and the numerous siege engines that line the battlements.

All of this truly only proved how dragons had ruled the world eons and eons ago. Only when men were taught the Thu’um by Jurgen Windcaller did they ever stand a chance against the rulers of the sky.

As they approached, two figures awaited them at the bridge, flanked by four members of the city guard.

A middle-aged Nord with a fur-trimmed robe stepped forward, Jorleif, no doubt—Ulfric’s steward. He was flanked by Galmar Stone-Fist, lauded across Skyrim as Ulfric’s right hand man. Broad-shouldered and grim, a bear pelt pauldron worn over his back like a cloak.

“Gerron Ironbreaker,” Jorleif called out. “Welcome. I am Jorleif, steward of Jarl Ulfric. We’re here to escort you to the Palace.”

Gerron nodded and dismounted, handing his horse’s reins to the stableboy. “Appreciate it.”

He and Serana joined the pair as they walked through the gates into the ancient city. Stone buildings flanked the streets, many showing clear signs of recent repairs—wooden braces, scaffolding, patched stonework.

Galmar walked close beside them, keeping an eye on him the entire time. Gerron caught the glance and smirked slightly. Ulfric’s right hand was probably trying to get a measure of him, sizing him up and down like a bear to prey.

He didn’t know if it was due to his reputation as the Dragonslayer, or the fact that Gerron was one of the few people that was taller than Galmar. The man probably isn’t used to meeting someone that could not only match his height, but stood even larger than he was.

The streets were quiet, not from a lack of people—but from solemnity. The dragon’s presence was still fresh in their mind as many eyes tracked him and Serana as they walked. 

“What can you tell me of the attack?” Gerron finally asked.

It was Galmar who answered with a gruff voice. “The beast came from the east without warning. Burned our fleet before we could mount a defense.”

“And what of the dragon's color and the Thu’um it used?” 

Galmar paused. “Blood red scales. A long, serpentine neck. And it breathed crimson flame. Moved faster than anything I’ve seen. Even blinked out of sight at times.” Galmar looked back then with a raised eyebrow. “Why?”

Serana’s eyes widened slightly beside him, no doubt having come to the same conclusion.

Gerron nodded. “You don’t need to worry about it anymore. We killed that dragon a few months ago.”

Both Galmar and Jorleif halted mid-step. He could even see the numerous civilians who were around, mouth wide after registering his words. 

“You… what?” Jorleif asked.

Gerron continued with a smile. “Caraxes, the Blood Wyrm. That’s what it called itself. It’s dead now.”

Jorleif’s mouth opened, then closed again, stunned. “You speak the truth?”

“Aye.” He confirmed before gesturing to Serana. “Serana was there as well. She was quite instrumental in combating the dragon’s flames. And this armor—” He pointed to his newest creations. “—were created using the dragon’s scales. Blood red, like you said.”

The silence that followed was thick with disbelief… and awe.

Then, a huge cheer emanated from the surrounding people. The crowd that had gathered around them erupted in joyous shouts. Children darted between guards, trying to get closer. 

‘They had all lost friends and family when Caraxes attacked. Hearing that they were all avenged must have been relieving.’

Even Galmar seemed taken aback by the spontaneous gratitude.

Serana just released a wistful sigh as she became the center of attention. A woman clutched Serana’s hand, whispering thanks. An older man wiped tears from his beard before lifting up his bottle of mead, “For my son!”

For Windhelm, the dragon had not only taken lives—it had stolen their pride, their safety, their sense of invincibility.

Now they had it back.

After several minutes, Jorleif cleared his throat and gestured forward. “If you’ll follow us… the Jarl is waiting.”

Gerron and Serana shared a look. Then, without another word, they stepped forward, following Jorleif and Galmar up the stone stairs, into the ancient marble halls of the Palace of Kings.

…

4E 201, Hall of Vigilants

Isran 

Isran frowned, his amber eyes narrowing as he gazed out the narrow, frosted window of the Vigilants' Hall. A blizzard had begun to settle over the northern hills again, snow pouring down from the slate-grey sky in sheets, but it wasn’t the storm that disturbed him. Something crawled at the edge of his senses. A prickling on the back of his neck. An old instinct he’d never learned to ignore.

He forced himself to look away and focus on the matter at hand.

“I appreciate the invite, Keeper. But what do you want? Tolan tells me you want to cooperate,” Isran said curtly, arms folded, his back ramrod straight against the wall.

Keeper Carcette sat behind her desk, her hands folded with deliberate poise. “He speaks true. We’ve recently discovered troubling news regarding the vampires.”

“About Harkon’s court, right?” Isran muttered darkly. “Yeah, I’ve heard.”

She nodded. “You were right, Isran. We ignored the signs for too long, dismissed your warnings as paranoia. But we’re seeing it now. We’ve confirmed the Court of Volkihar is stirring—and they're preparing for something larger.”

Isran didn’t gloat. There was no satisfaction in being right when it came to vampires. Just grim vindication.

“You won’t hear me say this often,” Carcette continued, “but I won’t ask you to rejoin the Vigil. You were right to leave. A dedicated force to combat Harkon’s threat…We need the Dawnguard.”

“I’m still putting things together,” Isran grunted. “Fort Dawnguard is in disrepair and I barely have fifty men to my name.”

And even then that was an understatement. Disrepair was the kindest thing he could say about Fort Dawnguard since it could barely be called a castle. While it had the makings of a strong keep, the decades of abandonment had left it broken. He’s making an effort to fix it, but the coin required wasn’t cheap.

Carcette gestured to his gear. “Your weapons and armor say otherwise.”

“That’s only because of Gunmar.” Isran snorted, gesturing to the red-haired nord, who gave Carcette a grin. “A good smith and has a mind for nordic runes. Sorine’s the one who crafted our new crossbows. Piercing, fast-loading, and powerful enough to put a bolt through a vampire’s heart before they can blink. I’d wager you should outfit some of your Vigilants with them.”

“Truly?” Carcette’s interest piqued. “Then perhaps we can work out a trade agreement. You need proper resources to restart the Dawnguard, and the Vigilants could always use some better arms.”

Isran stifled a sigh. Truth be told, he disliked this side of leadership. Point him to a vampire coven and he’ll be the first to charge every time. But thinking of trade, coins, and ledgers made his head spin. 

Well, that’s the whole reason why he brought Sorine here in the first place. The Breton woman had a much better head for numbers than him. A quick glance had her nodding smoothly, already pulling a journal from her belt pouch. “I’ll handle the details.”

They continued sharing information then, as Carcette explained everything the Vigilants knew of Harkon. The whole Serana business was a surprise, and it irked him slightly to trust a vampire’s word on this. But even he would admit that the presence of an Elder Scroll meant things were more pressing than expected.

“Elder Scrolls can only be read by Moth Priests,” he muttered, recalling fragments he had read from a dusty tome long ago. “Whatever the scroll this Serana had must’ve been important if her mother kept it away from Harkon for this long. We need to know what it says.”

“Serana had said that the prophecy involves blotting out the sun somehow, though we don’t know exactly how that’s going to be achieved.” Carcette tapped her chin. “Most Moth Priests never leave the Imperial City. I heard a scholar came to Skyrim from Cyrodiil recently. Might be worth looking into. I’ll give word to Kiera as well. She spent the better part of her life in Cyrodiil, perhaps she has contacts that can help.”

That name again. Kiera Fendalyn and Gerron Ironbreaker. Two names whispered across taverns and holds as Dragonslayers. He didn’t realize Carcette actually knew them. Wait, wasn’t the Keeper’s full name Carcette Fendalyn? Were they related somehow?

“What about Serana?” he asked flatly. “Can she be trusted?”

“She has given us no reason to doubt her,” Carcette answered. “She came willingly, shared knowledge of Harkon’s ambitions, and trusted us enough to speak of the prophecy.”

Tolan chimed in, voice firm. “Your prejudice may be blinding you, Isran. She hasn’t harmed a soul, and without her, we wouldn’t know half of what we do now.”

He clenched his jaw, still doubtful. Trusting a vampire didn’t come easy. Not after what he’d seen. But… maybe this one was different. 

“If you want to meet her yourself,” Carcette said, “Gerron is heading to the College of Winterhold. She’s with him. It would be good for you to meet them—see for yourself.”

“…I might just do that,” Isran admitted, rubbing his chin.

The ground shuddered beneath them then—like the earth itself groaned in protest. Papers and inkwells trembled on the desk as the glass panes of the windows rattled. A booming roar ripped through the Hall that sent everyone stumbling. It wasn’t a dragon’s roar nor that of a great beast—but something… wrong. Unnatural.

“What was that?!” Sorine shouted, stumbling to her feet.

Isran was already halfway to the door, his hand glowing yellow by instinct. Carcette, Tolan, Gunmar, and Sorine followed close behind as they burst out of the chamber into the main corridor. Aldis was already there with several Solitude guards along with Agmaer, weapons drawn and caution in their eyes.

“Keeper, what is happening?” Aldis questioned.

Before Carcette could answer, a second quake shook the foundations, this one louder.

They reached the courtyard, where snow had begun to whip violently sideways. Soldiers and Vigilants were scrambling and shouting. Trying to take control of the sea of tents that rippled and buckled beneath an unnatural wind.

Isran turned to look up the hill, only for his eyes to widen in disbelief at what he saw.

At the far northern edge of the Vigilant’s grounds, atop the snow-covered slope above the encampment, space itself ripped open. A massive rift swirled into being—a jagged, flaming maw of red and black that pulsed with energy.

A ring of daedric metal, glowing with malevolent runes, rotated around a churning vortex of flame and shadow.

“What in Oblivion is that?” Captain Aldis cried, stumbling back.

Dark, twisted silhouettes emerged from the maw—clad in charred armor and wreathed in fire. Clawed hands. Horned helms. Eyes that burned like coals.

Isran’s heart dropped.

“Stendarr protect us…” Carcette whispered, barely able to speak. “It’s an Oblivion Gate.”

Dozens more creatures poured through, shrieking and snarling in Daedric tongue—swords drawn, flames erupting from their palms. Some flew on wings of shadow, others dragged chains behind them as they surged forward.

Isran’s eyes turned steely as a warhammer made of golden light appeared on his palm.

Carcette was only half a second slower. “Vigilants! Solitude Guard! Form a line!” She roared. “ DEFEND THE HALL!”

Chapter Text

4E 201, Hall of Vigilants

Calixto

As the sun nearly finished disappearing under the horizon, a figure in red robes stood on a hill looking down at the Hall of Vigilants. Calixto lowered his hood before looking at the siblings beside him.

Raven held a book in his hand, the Mysterium Xarxes, as he and Ruma channeled their magic and began to chant. It was a low humming sound, as the Mysterium Xarxes began to lift into the air, now glowing like molten gold, runes pulsating with malevolent rhythm. Their hands were outstretched, weaving the impossible into being. Above the trio, the sky was rent asunder.

Calixto palmed the hilt of the Razor in eagerness as the Oblivion Gate opened and the Daedra started pouring out of the portal. The Vigilants and the Solitude guard began rousing as their leaders finally shouted orders.

The presence of the red cloaked Solitude soldiers was surprising. It certainly made things more difficult as Hold guards are much more familiar with sieges than Vigilants, whose experiences are more focused on individual combat and hunting daedra rather than army combat. The Empire's dogs had dug in quickly, forming disciplined blocks. That hadn’t been part of the plan. 

But it didn’t matter in the end as the surprise attack was successful. They barely formed their first lines before the Scamps and Clannfears rammed into their location. The Scamps, small goblin-like creatures, swarmed into formationless hordes, throwing themselves against shield walls with suicidal glee, making way for the Clannfear’s charge, the bipedal reptilian creatures, to break their formation with bladed claws and snapping beaks.

A maniacal grin appeared on his face as he saw the battle escalate. The daedric infantry were mostly made up of the Churls, low ranking foot soldiers mostly using maces and shields, clad in the black and red obsidian-like armors of the daedra. They began pouring into the gaps of the enemy line before the battle spread amongst the camps.

“It’s time.” Calixto announced, before nodding to Raven and Ruma. “You know the plan.” 

Raven gave him a brief nod, eyes still locked on the hovering Xarxes. “Don’t take long.”

Ruma’s voice dipped into a darker octave. “And don’t fail.”

The two of them would not partake in the assault since the opening of an Oblivion Gate requires much concentration and they may not be interrupted while doing so. Which is why the other thirty acolytes they brought will focus in their defense while Calixto entered the Hall to seek the Elder Scroll.

Ten acolytes formed up around Calixto that served as his battle guard. While he loathed having such an escort, Raven insisted, saying that not even Tiber Septim himself goes into battle without the Blades behind his back.

With a whispered spell, they vanished into the white noise of the battlefield— Muffle making their steps soundless. They slipped along the fringe of the battle, weaving through tents and corpses, bypassing most of the chaos.

Many daedra had fallen already, having forcibly returned to Oblivion. The ones that did were quickly replaced by others who are still pouring out of the gate. There had to be at least half a thousand already in the field, and to think this was only a fraction of the forces that Lord Dagon had in his fingertips.

Calixto salivated at the thought of having that much power in his control.

They had to have lost at least two or three daedra for every one of the Vigilants. It was the price of having a superior defensive position as well as the lack of a tactical approach from Calixto.

There was a reason why the attack was so blatant with no semblance of strategy. They needed the Vigilant’s attention on the Daedra and the Oblivion Gate. There was no relief force, no ranks or lines from the Daedra, just an endless horde continuously pouring forth from the Gate.

This meant that the Vigilants had to focus their defenses into one direction, leaving their flanks and borders empty. 

The Hall loomed ahead, quiet and still.

No defense lines. No reinforcements.

Just as planned.

They breached the interior with nary a sound. Once they were inside the building, they split themselves into teams of three to spread themselves and scour the building.

Then came the voices. Two Vigilants stood guarding a nondescript door. 

“We should be out there!” one said. “This is cowardice!”

“The Keeper gave orders. We protect the reliquary. You want to go against her word?”

Only initiates from the looks of it. Not proper senior Vigilants. Calixto grinned.

He ignored all pretense of stealth and moved, his steps remaining silent through the wooden floor. The two Vigilants standing guard looked up in surprise at the sight of him, though they didn’t stand a chance.

The first Vigilant couldn’t even scream before the Razor pierced his heart and drained him dry. The second tried to speak but only gargled as his throat opened in a spray of crimson.

Sounds of combat started to emanate throughout the building. ‘It seems the other groups found resistance.’ It won’t take long for the Vigilants to find out about him then. Time is of the essence.

He motioned three acolytes forward. “Guard the door. Let none enter.”

He stepped into the room. An office—modest, filled with parchment, sealed chests, and rows of ancient tomes. He worked quickly. Shelves pulled apart. Drawers cracked open. Locks snapped. He ransacked the space, heart pounding with hunger.

‘Where is it? Where did you hide it, Carcette?’

He was about to pull open the final drawer when his instincts screamed at him. He threw himself aside just as a hammer of light crashed into the stone floor, sending shards of marble and flame in every direction.

He landed in a crouch, eyes darting up.

A tall Redguard stood, his figure silhouetted by holy fire. The warhammer in his hand was made purely out of golden light, glowing like a miniature sun. 

Calixto's gaze snapped to the corpses of his acolytes.

All three lay dead in the hallway. One had been thrown into the wall so hard half his body was inside the stone. Another was still smoldering, his face seared to the point it was unrecognizable. The third had his chest caved in, with a massive circular burn where the heart should be.

‘So, this is him.’

“I knew you scum would try something like this,” the Redguard said as he lifted the hammer and swung it to Calixto once more, who was forced to duck and backstep from the swing.

Calixto stood, raising his Razor firmly. “And you must be Isran. The heretic.”

“Call me whatever you want.” Isran replied. He stepped forward slowly, warhammer rising in both hands, his eyes burning an intense gold. “All I know is that I’m the reckoning for sons of bitches like you.”

He lunged, and Calixto grinned, meeting him in the middle.

…

4E 201, Outside battlefield

Keeper Carcette

The Mythic Dawn were real.

No longer were they mere whispers. Not just the deranged ramblings of fringe cultists. No, they were real, and they had come back with fire and sword.

Carcette snarled as her blade cleaved through a snarling Dremora Churl, beheading it instantly with the force of her sun-empowered sword. The corpse hadn’t even hit the ground before Tolan pivoted behind her, shielding her back from a Clannfear’s snapping maw with a clean downward slash that nearly took its head off.

The snow-covered courtyard was a warzone—a boiling cauldron of battle cries and roars. It was chaos incarnate. Fires roared through tents as the smoke stung her eyes. Blood painted the ground in black and red. The Hall of Vigilants, once a sanctuary of peace and contemplation, had become a fortress under siege.

They had never trained for this.

She gritted her teeth, parrying another blow and driving her sword into the gut of a Churl. “We need to close that portal!” she shouted over the din. “We’ll be overrun if we don’t!”

Tolan nodded grimly. “They’ll just keep coming otherwise. Someone’s holding it open—the Mythic Dawn mages no doubt.”

That was the key. She knew enough about Oblivion Gates to know they required a tether— a living conduit . Someone had to be nearby, maintaining the spell.

“Where’s Isran?!” she barked when she couldn’t find him in the midst of the fighting.

Tolan slashed through another Scamp with his ebony greatsword. “I saw him run back to the hall!”

Carcette’s lips tightened. ‘ Good. which means he came to the same conclusion as I did,’ she thought.

This wasn’t a random attack, they were a distraction for something. She was glad he took the initiative. Though that meant the Gate—and whoever kept it open—fell to her to handle.

She spotted Captain Aldis rallying a group of guards to form a shield wall near the barricades, holding the western breach against two dozen Clannfears.

“Aldis!” she called. “You have command of the defense!”

Aldis looked up mid-swing and saluted with his sword, the black-haired captain already issuing new orders. “Yes, Keeper!”

“Tolan, with me!”

The two of them broke away from the main clash, rallying a dozen Vigilants in their wake. Their goal was clear: the Gate . Daedra surged from the portal like a tide, waves of Scamps crashing against the flanks while heavier units formed a bulwark around the central summoners.

It would be a slog. But they had no choice.

They fought their way through, carving a path toward the Gate.

Just as a Clannfear came barreling towards her from the smoke, Gunmar of the Dawnguard came rushing in and blocked the charge with his runic round shield. He took the charge head-on. Runes along the steel flashed bright blue and a shockwave exploded outward, knocking Daedra flat and sending the Clannfear flying. 

Gunmar roared. “Go, Keeper! We’ll cover your advance!” 

Crossbow bolts zipped past Carcette’s head, felling half a dozen Scamps before they could flank her. She turned to see Sorine, already reloading another clip of custom bolts into her crossbow. Agmaer came by Carcette’s side, covering her left. The Dawnguard were here. They were holding.

‘Stendarr bless them all.’

Carcette pressed forward with Tolan and Agmaer, the young Nord holding his axe tightly but showing no fear. The dozen Vigilants quickly engaged the human acolytes—who were all covered in spectral daedric armor—clearing her a path. 

Ahead, surrounded by a circle of the red robed fanatics, stood two figures at the heart of the Gate’s power.

Two Altmer siblings, golden skinned and white haired, chanting in unison as the Mysterium Xarxes hovered in the air above their heads.

“Raven and Ruma Camoran,” Carcette whispered. “So they are alive.”

Her palm burned with holy power as she summoned a Sun Bolt and hurled it toward them. But a shimmering ward deflected it harmlessly into the snow.

The siblings looked up—and grinned. 

Three nearby acolytes raised their hands, chanting darkly—and from the ground erupted a second flare of red light. Out of it stepped three Dremora Lords, towering seven foot tall demons and armed with massive greatswords.

Gunmar let out a war cry and engaged the one on the left. Tolan sprinted to intercept the second. Carcette was about to rush the other before Agmaer pulled her aside. “Keeper, allow me! You have to get to the portal!”

“What?! You aren’t—!” 

“I’m still a Dawnguard!” Agmaer screamed and charged with everything he had.

Carcette had no time to argue as firebolts whistled through the air towards her. She raised a ward as a clear barrier of energy appeared on her palm. The shield buckled at the impact, but it held. More acolytes came—but she was faster. Her blade flashed, cutting through robes and flesh alike.

As the last acolyte fell, she saw her opening.

Her longsword turned golden as she channeled light towards it, aiming for the girl. Ruma Camoran was forced to let go of her spell as she summoned a blade of Daedric metal, black as sin and pulsing with red.

Their swords met in a shock of holy and unholy magic. Carcette's blade with sun-imbued power smashed against Ruma's—who winced at the impact and staggered back, clearly unused to such force.

Raven shouted something in panic, and the Mysterium Xarxes surged violently.

A burst of uncontrolled magic backlashed.

BOOM

Raven screamed as he was flung backward. His robes caught fire. His hands were burned and blistered as the front of his body was covered in soot and ash. The ring on his finger splintered into pieces. The Xarxes fell to the snow, sizzling as black ichor dripped from its binding.

“RAVEN!” Ruma shrieked.

But Carcette gave her no room to mourn. She came forward, unrelenting.

“Your ancestors failed,” she spat. “And so will you.”

Their blades met again, light and shadow screaming as they collided.

Chapter Text

4E 201, Throat of the World

Kiera Fendalyn

The climb had been brutal, worse than she'd anticipated.

Her throat burned raw as she exhaled another Clear Skies shout, scattering the biting winds and suffocating fog for what felt like the hundredth time.

“LOK VAH KOOR!”

The clouds peeled apart like silk torn by invisible blades, sunlight slicing through the heavens and bathing the jagged cliffs in gold. But the respite was short. The Throat of the World—the highest peak in all Tamriel—was relentless. The winds always came back, the clouds always crept in.

But now she was here. At the summit.

Kiera's boots crunched over the snow as she stepped onto the flattened expanse that crowned Skyrim. For a moment, the fatigue, the cold, the sore muscles—they all faded, replaced by sheer awe.

Skyrim was beautiful. The land sprawled below her, wild and beautiful beyond words. Forests stretched like endless green carpets, rivers snaked between distant hills, and fields of wheat shimmered like gold coins beneath the sun's fading light. Far off to the northwest, she could barely make out the small dot that was Whiterun, nestled in the plains. 

And the sky… the sky was unlike anything she'd ever seen.

Once she was past the clouds, her draconic eyes could see the stars emerging one by one, twinkling across the dark expanse of the night. Wisps of cloud coiled like smoke beneath the moon's pale glow, and the mountain's shadow stretched out over the world like the hand of some ancient god.

The sight of it all filled her eyes, and she found herself struggling to tear her eyes away to take in the rest of the flat expanse of stone that is the Throat of the World.

There, across the plateau, loomed the Word Wall—far larger than the ones she had seen before. Even from a distance, the carved symbols of the Dragon Tongue were more pronounced and clear, pulsing with some old, living power.

And perched atop the Wall… were two dragons.

The first was a familiar one, with shimmering bronze scales that gleamed like hammered gold. His wings stretched lazily at his sides, his amber eyes watching her approach with the casual arrogance of a creature who had seen empires rise and fall.

“Vermithor?” She said with surprise.

The dragon's head dipped slightly. “Kiera,” his voice rumbled like distant thunder. “Had I known you were Dovahkiin back then, our tinvaak —our conversation—would have been far longer, and far more interesting.”

Despite herself, she laughed softly. “I would’ve liked that.”

[Vermithor Image]

But it was the second dragon that commanded her full attention.

The dragon was massive, larger than Vermithor by a slight amount. There were clear signs of great age, the scales on his wings and tail were tattered, his horns chipped and broken from unknown battles. His once magnificent silver scales had dulled in color, cracks and fractures lining his hide. Yet his eyes… those eyes … glowed with ancient wisdom. Knowledge that had endured for millennia.

“Welcome to the Throat of the World, Dovahkiin. The most sacred mountain in Skyrim. Zok revak strunmah . ” The dragon spoke. “I am Paarthurnax, the master of the Greybeards.”

[Paarthurnax Image]

Paarthurnax, the dragon that Vermithor had spoken about back in Bleak Falls Barrow. “You’re the one. The one that is actively fighting against Alduin.”

The ancient dragon chuckled—a deep, rattling sound like shifting mountains.  “Fighting Alduin? No.” He shook his massive head. “Even I am not so foolish to think I can face him directly. Drem… patience… I resist him, in my own way . ”

Kiera’s brow furrowed, “But Vermithor said the Dragonstone would help.”

“It did.” Vermithor spoke, “We disrupted Alduin’s resurrection of his most powerful lieutenants, but not all of them.”

Kiera nodded, tension pulling at her shoulders. Her gaze drifted across the sky, the horizon, the infinite sprawl of Tamriel. The weight of it all pressed down harder than the mountain winds ever could.

“I don’t understand all of this,” she confessed. “Being Dragonborn… Dovahkiin… Many tell me it is a responsibility, others say it is a burden. A gift perhaps, or maybe a curse?”

“It is both,” Paarthurnax answered gravely. “Few among us reject Alduin’s call. Why do you think that is, Dovahkiin? ”

Kiera hesitated. “Because the others are attracted to his power?” 

“True,” Paarthurnax rumbled. “But there is more to it. Dov wahlaan fah rel. It is in our blood to dominate, to bend the world to our will. You feel it, do you not? That fire in your chest? The hunger to conquer? To command?”

She stiffened. Her hands curled into fists. The first time she absorbed a soul, she’d felt it—a surge of raw, untamed hunger. The craving for more. The temptation to abandon restraint. To rule.

Only speaking to Gerron and Serana, grounding herself with them, had dulled the edge. But it never vanished.

“Vermithor and I,” Paarthurnax continued, “resist our nature only through meditation and study of the Way of the Voice. But make no mistake… the temptation never leaves. Zin krif horvut se suleyk . What is better, young one, to be born good, or to overcome your evil through great effort?”

Kiera couldn’t believe how much Paarthurnax’s words resonated within her. She had spent her life wrestling that very question—werewolves, vampires, Daedra, dragons. Creatures burdened by their blood. Yet even monsters could change.

“How… How do I do so?” She asked.

The two dragons exchanged a knowing glance.

“To do so,” Paarthurnax said, “you must first understand Alduin—the World-Eater.” His gaze darkened. “He is weakened now, cast through time by the heroes of old. But he will return… wiser, stronger. He will not make the same mistakes again.”

Her heart thudded painfully in her chest.

The ancient dragon's gaze bore into Kiera. “There will be no third chance. There will be no more Dragonborns, for you are the last.”

Kiera gulped.

“You must grow—your soul is dovah but the body is joor. Mortal. You must master the Voice, master yourself, master the Thu’um. Only then will you be able to stand as an equal against the World-Eater.”

Kiera swallowed the lump in her throat. Fear gnawed at the edges of her resolve and she closed her eyes. In the end, was this not what she always wanted? To become the shield that guards the realms of men? The sword that smites all those who harm it.

A powerful sense of determination emanated through her core.

“Where do I start?” she asked, standing tall.

Vermithor chuckled low in his throat while Paarthurnax inclined his head in solemn respect. “First, step forward and receive the gift.” 

She does so, and she could instantly feel the familiar call coming from the Word Wall. However, the feeling was unlike any other she felt, this one felt ancient, more powerful that the few others she encountered before.

“There exists many variations of Dragons. The ones you need to be careful of are the Kruziik— the Elder. These are dov who had attained wisdom beyond any of our kind, possessing masteries of the voice others could only dream of.” Paarthurnax explained. “I give you now my wisdom, from the Kruziik of the Fire Breath.”

Three words that were carved into the stone by the mighty dragon seeped into her flesh and bones.  Aurelia gasped and blinked as centuries of wisdom seared into her very mind and soul.

Fire burned in her chest. Her tongue tasted of smoke and sun.

“Let it out, young one.” Paarthurnax’s voice rang out.

Kiera planted her feet, the fire swelling within. Her eyes burned gold.

And she roared.

“ YOL… TOOR… SHUL! ”

Flames erupted from her mouth, a veritable inferno that blazed across the summit. The heavens scorched crimson, the clouds igniting like kindling. The sky itself turned blood-red, casting the world below in a fiery glow.

The mountaintop trembled. For the first time, Kiera Fendalyn truly felt what it meant to be Dovahkiin .

…

4E 201, Windhelm, Palace of Kings

Serana

The people were staring at her.

It wasn’t fear. Not entirely, at least.

The weight of their gazes followed her and Gerron as they crossed the icy streets of Windhelm. Curious, uncertain, grateful. The citizens looked at her the way people often looked at soldiers returning from war, or bards who’d spun songs of impossible victories.

It was… strange.

For someone like her—a vampire, a creature of the night who had lived in shadows for centuries—being seen in the light, acknowledged, was unsettling… but she found herself enjoying it more than she’d expected.

‘So this is what it feels like,’ she mused, adjusting the hood of her cloak, though she made no effort to hide her face completely.

Jorleif and Galmar led them toward the looming silhouette of the Palace of Kings, Windhelm’s ancient keep. The towering stone walls looked powerful, jagged with frost, as if the mountain itself had birthed the place.

The interior was no less impressive. Guards in blue cloaks lined the grand entrance, their faces hidden behind steel helms. Their postures, however, spoke volumes—cautious, awed, and respectful as they looked at Gerron.

Or perhaps… at both of them .

The main hall sprawled before them, vast enough to hold at least half a thousand people. Banners of blue and brown rippled in the cold air, and the bones of long-forgotten beasts adorned the walls—bears, trolls, wraiths. The long table stretched toward the far dais, upon which the throne of Windhelm stood.

There, seated like a stone carved into flesh, was Ulfric Stormcloak.

Serana tilted her head, studying him.

He didn’t look like much—broad-shouldered, certainly, with sharp Nordic features and a heavy cloak of wolf fur draped over his shoulders—but power radiated from him and the crown over his head. It wasn’t his stature, nor the sharpness of his eyes.

It was the hum beneath his words. The faint echo of the Thu’um. A similar feeling that she had felt when meeting Kiera.

‘So the stories are true’, she realized, recalling tales of the man who had shouted the High King of Skyrim to death. She had made an effort to learn all the recent events of the new era she found herself in. That particular story was one that was on everyone’s lips.

Gerron approached with steady steps, instantly commanding the attention of the room. “Jarl Ulfric Stormcloak,” he greeted, his voice carrying across the cavernous hall.

Ulfric’s gaze drifted between Gerron and Serana, lingering for a fraction longer on her before returning to the Dragonslayer. Despite herself, Serana met his stare evenly, daring him to voice his inevitable suspicion.

But instead… there was approval? Wariness, yes, but also a begrudging respect.

“Your reputation precedes you,” Ulfric finally said. “A no-named blacksmith from a village on the borders of the Rift… to becoming the first Dragonslayer of this Era. It’s a tale worthy of song.”

Serana fought the urge to smirk at Gerron’s slight grimace. He never did enjoy the dramatics.

Gerron nodded curtly. “What can I help you with, Jarl Ulfric? Ralof mentioned you seek an alliance.”

“Straight to the point then,” Ulfric remarked approvingly. He leaned forward on the throne, his expression hardening. “The dragon threat is real. Skyrim cannot stand alone. It’s not just the Dragonborn, nor you,” his eyes settled briefly on Serana, “Lady Serana as well. Times of strife always awaken generational heroes. You’ve all proven yourselves. All I ask is to cooperate—sharing information, resources, and aid in hunting the beasts.”

‘I’m sure they’ve noticed I’m a vampire by now,’ she thought, noting the slight tension in the guards. ‘I made no effort to hide what I am, though they treat me with respect.’

Gerron had warned her that the people of Windhelm bore some of the most prejudiced Nords, treating even the Mer with distrust. Not to mention someone like her.

Was it due to Gerron’s presence? No. it was the slaying of Caraxes that bought her a lot of goodwill. Even amongst those who’d normally light torches at the sight of her.

“I can agree to that,” Gerron said, “though you should know that dragons aren’t the only threat. The Court of Volkihar is mobilizing, vampires. I’ve even talked with the Vigilants, they say that the Daedra have been active.”

Serana noticed Ulfric’s jaw tighten. Galmar shifted uneasily, a frown cutting deep across his face.

“We’ve heard no reports regarding these two…” He let out a sigh, “Though perhaps that’s the reason why I asked for you.”

He leaned forward, “I aim to speak with Jarl Elisif. To propose a truce.”

Gerron’s eyes widened in visible shock. Even Serana’s composure cracked slightly.

“A… truce?” Gerron echoed, clearly thrown off.

Ulfric nodded. “A temporary ceasefire between the Stormcloaks and the Empire. Skyrim bleeds—bled—because I allowed my pride, my conquest, to blind me. That ends now. Dragons, vampires, daedra… The realm is bleeding, and I will not stand idle while my people are slaughtered.”

It was not the speech Serana expected from the so-called rebel leader. She had imagined Ulfric as stubborn, singular in his vision for Skyrim’s independence. But this? Pragmatism? Perhaps… even regret?

“What exactly are you asking me to do?” Gerron asked.

Ulfric gestured toward him, then toward Serana. “You’re allies of the Dragonborn. Friends, I’d wager. And Kiera… she trains with the Greybeards now, does she not?”

Gerron nodded cautiously.

“I have hopes that High Hrothgar will host the peace summit,” Ulfric declared. “It is neutral ground. Hallowed by the Voice where no blood shall spill. I ask that you, the Dragonborn, and Lady Serana to attend. Being the only ones who have openly defied the dragons, your voices carry weight. You shall be the force that keeps the peace on both sides at the table when tempers flare.”

Serana could see Gerron weighing the offer. The civil war, the dragons, Alduin’s return—it all converged now. Their eyes met.

After a long pause, Gerron exhaled and his shoulders squared. In the end, there was really only one answer.

“We’ll do it,” he agreed.

Ulfric nodded. “Thank you.”

Chapter Text

4E 201, Hall of Vigilants

Isran

The warhammer of light slammed down, shattering the oak table where Calixto had stood just moments before. Wood splinters flew across the office as the robed bastard twisted aside, his dagger flashing in the torchlight.

Isran stepped back instinctively, eyes narrowing as the curved blade caught the glow of the room. Where the dagger scraped his armored shoulder, the leather hissed, blackening, the edges crumbling to ash.

His gut twisted with recognition. “Mehrunes’ Razor,” he growled under his breath.

The bastard wielded one of the Daedric relics.

Calixto smirked, straightening, his crimson robes dusted with fragments of broken furniture. “It is more than a relic, Dawnguard.” he said, voice oozing pride. “This is the Razor of Mehrunes Dagon himself. I, Calixto, am his chosen. The Champion of the Lord of Destruction!”

“You know what I am?” Isran adjusted his grip on the warhammer.

“Of course I do. Isran, the scion of the Vigilants trying his best to recover a dead order.” Calixto scoffed. “You claimed that Vampires were a threat lying in wait, yet you never even noticed the Mythic Dawn growing beneath your notice. You’re just as deluded as the rest of the Vigilants.”

Isran didn’t reply, absorbing the new information. ‘So the Mythic Dawn doesn’t know about Harkon? At least this proves they’re not working together.’

He swung wide, the hammer forcing Calixto to duck low and roll across the floor, but Isran was already moving. The Razor hissed through the air as Calixto lashed out, aiming for Isran’s thigh, but the Redguard twisted, deflecting with the hammer’s haft.

No matter how fast that dagger came, Isran knew better than to let it touch him. Even a glancing blow could mean death—or worse.

Calixto staggered back, eyes wide.

“What?! That—That doesn’t make sense!” His voice cracked with disbelief. “No conjured weapon can parry the Razor. Only—”

His words halted as realization bloomed behind his wild eyes. “Ah… I see it now. So… the so-called Divine of Mercy and Righteousness has chosen his own champion, eh? Only the Light of Stendarr’s Blessed could defy the Razor!”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Isran grunted. He had neither time nor energy to listen to the ramblings of a madman. All he cared about was putting this Mythic Dawn lunatic in the dirt.

He rushed forward, as Calixto fired off a firebolt with his free hand, the flame crackling across the room. Isran lifted his palm, sunlight coalescing into a searing golden dagger that he hurled straight through the bolt. The projectile dispersed in midair, the light dagger grazing Calixto’s shoulder with a hiss.

Calixto sneered, circling him, pride still etched into every step. “Champion of Stendarr, you may be. But do you truly think you can stand against Lord Dagon himself?! You, a man playing priest with a hammer?!”

Isran lunged, forcing the Champion of Dagon onto the backfoot again, each hammer swing thundering against floor and wall, leaving cracks and destruction in their wake.

“You’ve been playing at war while the real enemies dance circles around you,” Calixto spat, darting to the side. “The Mythic Dawn has been preparing for centuries! Lying beneath the shadows, waiting! It is now time for us to finally rise once more!” His eyes glowed briefly as he lifted his hand, a ripple of dark magicka coiling toward Isran’s face.

The spell washed over him, covering his head in mist. He could feel something trying to push through his mind, a feeling of terror that threatened to overwhelm his senses.

Did this lunatic just try to hit him with a paltry fear spell?

His scowl deepened as he marched through the enchantment unfazed, sunlight pooling in his free hand again.

Calixto’s expression faltered for the first time.

Isran threw another bolt of searing sunlight, hitting the Calixto on his right shoulder, forcing him back and pinning him near the window.

“You’re not the first Daedric cultist I’ve broken,” Isran growled. “And you sure as Oblivion won’t be the last.”

Calixto’s arrogance cracked further as Isran fought relentlessly. With the advantage by the Razor rendered null by his warhammer, this Calixto became less and less of a threat by the second. 

He wasn’t a great warrior by any stretch, though there was a certain unnaturalness to his movements. He was quick and had great reflexes, probably a result of being Dagon’s champion. But none of that mattered without proper skill.

A sudden explosion rocked the hall, windows rattling in their frames. Both combatants paused as crimson light bled through the window’s glass.

The Oblivion Gate, visible in the distance, flickered, spasmed—and collapsed in on itself with a thunderous explosion. A smoldering crater replaced it, smoke curling into the frigid sky.

Isran grinned, the expression sharp and predatory. “Looks like your fancy portal closed.”

Calixto’s face showed open surprise, before the shock turned into rage. “You… insignificant insect—!”

That single moment of distraction was enough. Isran surged forward, the warhammer crashing into Calixto’s chest with bone-crunching force. The impact launched him across the room, sending him sprawling across shattered stone and broken furniture.

Calixto coughed, spitting blood, the Razor tumbling from his grasp. 

Isran stalked forward, planting his boot on the downed cultist’s neck, hammer poised to strike again.

“Talk,” Isran barked. “What are Mythic Dawn’s goals? What’s the purpose of this attack?”

Calixto only chuckled, even as blood dripped from his cracked lips. “You’ll see soon enough… the world will drown in flame. Lord Dagon shall rise, Tamriel will burn… and this time, there’ll be no Hero of Kvatch to save you.”

Before Isran could respond, the doors burst open—three robed cultists storming in, blades and spells at the ready.

Isran’s warhammer swung instantly obliterating the first acolyte’s chest and caving in his ribcage. Sunlight speared through the second’s skull as another conjured dagger formed mid-air and drove itself into her eye. The third barely had time to cast before Isran’s boot smashed into his sternum, sending him collapsing to the floor. A quick swing with the haft broke his neck.

But in the chaos, Calixto crawled toward the fallen Razor, fingers grasping the hilt. His body shimmered with crimson magic as he bellowed in Daedric tongue, a rift opening beside him.

A towering figure emerged, taller than even Isran himself. Red skinned and black horns , Isran scowled as he set his eyes on a Dremora Lord for the first time.

“Coward!” Isran roared as Calixto, bloodied but grinning, stumbled through the window vanishing into the courtyard.

Isran was about to give chase when the Dremora snarled, stepping between them, blade raised.

Isran gripped his hammer tighter, fury simmering.

“Fine,” he growled, cracking his neck as his warhammer glowed brighter. “You and me then.”

…

At the same time, Outside Battlefield

Keeper Carcette 

Lightning ripped across the snow-choked ground, crashing against the glowing shield of her ward. Carcette grit her teeth, the power of the spell humming against her palm as she pushed forward.

Ruma Camoran met her head-on, her bound sword crashing against Carcette’s weapon. Sparks hissed where sun-forged steel met spectral edge.

The crack of their clashing blades echoed across the battlefield as the two women strained against one another. Ruma’s hand sparked with lightning again, bolts arcing toward Carcette’s chest.

‘Not today,’ Carcette thought grimly, channeling magicka into her ward just in time. The bolts burst harmlessly against the barrier.

She pressed the assault, sidestepping with a practiced motion and sweeping her blade low. The weapon forced Ruma back, the Altmer woman faltering under the aggressive advance.

But the moment's advantage was cut short.

A glint of steel flashed in the corner of Carcette’s vision. She twisted on instinct, but not fast enough.

Pain lanced through her left forearm, searing agony spreading like wildfire. Her fingers spasmed, the sword clattering to the snow. Her breath caught as black veins began spiderwebbing out from the wound, skin charring unnaturally.

‘The Razor…’

Every Vigilant knew its vile shape—the curved, obsidian blade of Mehrunes’ Dagon. A Daedric relic of assassination and instant death. Her pulse thundered as panic flared. She’d been marked by it.

Calixto surged forward for the killing blow, a bloody grin on his face.

Carcette channeled healing spells as fast as her battered body allowed, layers of golden light forming over her skin, but the Razor’s curse resisted, numbing her limb. Her focus wavered. She wouldn’t be able to block Calixto’s strike.

Before he could, Tolan crashed into Calixto like a charging bull, both men sprawling across the blood-stained snow. The Razor tumbled from Calixto’s hand, embedding itself in the ground.

“Tolan—!”

But he was already in front of her, standing protectively, blocking Ruma’s conjured blade with his ebony greatsword. He swung wide, forcing her back.

Ruma shouted something, rushing to where Raven’s charred body lay slumped near where the portal once was. The stench of burnt flesh clung to the air.

“Calixto, we’re leaving!”

The cultist sneered, retreating with one final hateful glance at Carcette before grabbing the Razor and scrambling to Raven’s side. Their hands wove complex runes in the air, opening a swirling crimson portal behind them.

In a flash of light, they vanished.

Carcette collapsed to one knee, breath ragged. Tolan’s hand hovered over her wound, golden light streaming as he aided her attempts at healing the blackened wound. The corruption faded slightly, though the flesh still ached like fire.

“Easy,” Tolan muttered, helping her rise. “The spreading stopped, but you’re in no shape to fight.”

“I’ve faced worse.” Carcette clenched her jaw, but accepted his grip.

They stumbled across the battlefield, past bodies of Vigilants and Daedra alike. Scorched snow steamed under their boots.

Gunmar approached, a bloody cut over his right brow, but he was alive.

“The Dremora Lords?” Carcette asked, leaning heavily on Tolan.

“Either dead or banished,” Gunmar replied. His voice carried the rough edge of exhaustion. “I held on long enough for one of your Vigilants to kill the summoner. Tolan handled his. But the last…Agmaer…”

His expression darkened.

“He didn’t make it. Bought enough time for Sorine to put six bolts in that monster’s eye socket. Forced it back to Oblivion.”

Carcette exhaled, a feeling of guilt and regret creeping in. She forced it down. This was no time.

They crested the rise near the Hall of Vigilants. The once-pristine snowfield was a battlefield of mangled corpses, crimson stains seeping across the white. Scattered Daedra bodies were dissolving back into the planes of Oblivion, their forms breaking apart as the portal’s collapse severed their anchor, leaving only the corpses of her Vigilants and initiates, along with the numerous dead red cloaked soldiers.

She forced herself to look away, mourning would come later.

Aldis, his face haggard and lined with grief, directed his remaining Solitude guards, hauling the wounded back toward the hall. Healers worked tirelessly over fallen Vigilants and guards alike.

Tolan carried Carcette through the carnage, each step biting with pain. Her gaze scanned the hall entrance.

Isran emerged from the stone doorway, battered but upright, his warhammer of light resting on his shoulder, streaks of ash and blood marking his armor. His eyes met hers, hard as ever—but alive.

She released a sigh of relief.

Chapter Text

Population (City, not all of the Hold)

Note that this is only people living inside the cities themselves, not counting the numerous settlements and villages that exist inside each hold.

– Solitude: 100,000

– Whiterun: 60,000 → 75,000 (after dragon hunt)

– Windhelm: 50,000 → 47,000 (after Caraxes' attack)

– Riften: 45,000

– Dawnstar: 30,000

– Markarth: 35,000

– Morthal: 12,000

– Falkreath: 15,000

– Winterhold: 7,000

Military (household guards)

This only counts the amount of Hold Guards each Hold is capable of raising. This doesn't take into account the military forces that support and exist within the holds. Ex: Empire, Stormcloaks, Vigilants, Dawnguard, College of WInterhold, etc.

– Solitude: 5,000 (Has the largest city in Skyrim and its biggest and most successful port, also the capital of the country. However, many potential guards were instead recruited to the Empire when the Civil War started)

– Whiterun: 8,000 (Lots of fertile land and the most populated with many settlements and villages, center of Skyrim’s land trade, and very resource rich. Largely uninvolved with the Civil War so none were sent to support Ulfric’s cause)

– Windhelm: 2,500 (low number of hold guards since most of the able bodied men and women were drafted to the Stormcloaks. Could still field a respectable amount with the dock and multitude of farmland)

– Riften: 4,000 (Plenty of fertile land and densely populated. Moderate resources and doesn’t have much dangers except for the Thieves Guild (who doesn’t kill))

– Dawnstar: 3,500 (Very large even though it's mostly snowy mountainous land. Has a busy port for the northern shores of Skyrim and is rich in resources with many mines)

– Markarth: 4,000 (While decently large, constant forsworn attacks has caused a major dump in population. This however causes the average men and woman to be more experienced than other holds)

– Morthal: 1,200 (A barely populated swamp with practically no settlement beyond Morthal itself)

– Falkreath: 2,000 (The center of trade between Skyrim and Cyrodiil after the fall of Helgen. Sizable fertile land and has a good number of settlements. The only thing holding it back is the low number of population to support any sizable army)

– Winterhold: 400 (While it used to be a powerful hold, its glory days are long gone. No resources to speak of, no ports, no farmland, and a city barely bigger than Riverwood. However, the protection of the College of Winterhold probably brings the power of Winterhold up a few notches.)

Chapter Text

4E 201, Dragonsreach Dungeon

Jarl of Whiterun

There was no day or night for the denizens of the Dragonsreach Dungeon, only the flickering of torches and the idle chattering of the guards accompanied the many poor souls that found themselves home to the cold and damp cells.

Balgruuf walked through the hallways, Irileth by his side, as he moved towards the guard quarters.

Ideally, a man of his station would never step foot in this kind of place. But Hrongar had sent word that they were close to cracking open the man that had snuck inside the palace and took Nelkir hostage.

While Balgruuf is confident that Hrongar is more than capable of extracting that information and would bring him whatever news he learns of in a more proper setting, Balgruuf would rather hear it straight from the source.

Whiterun has received many changes these past few months. The bulwark of central Skyrim had swelled with refugees. Their victory over the dragon that attacked Whiterun Hold had rippled across the land, filling his gates with frightened families, travelers, and opportunists alike. 

The fact that even Windhelm failed spooked many into seeking safety where it could be found. Most of them came from non-walled settlements, like Riverwood and the survivors of Rorikstead, while others were from the other Holds in Skyrim.

The sheer number was staggering—seventy-five thousand souls now crammed inside the walls, boosted from their original sixty thousand. 

The one good thing that came from this was that the defenses were bolstered in kind. Thousands of more men were recruited, swelling his army to eight thousand men, with more than half of them trained by the day as archers. Ballistas were lining the walls in equal measures, and Dragonsreach were undergoing a renovation, and the ancient dragon trap atop Dragonsreach was being restored.

They didn’t lack for food, though randomly taking in unknown people with unknown backgrounds was a recipe for disaster. Irileth had suggested that the gates be reinforced, the process of entering the city became stricter.

Anyone coming in or out will be under heavy scrutiny, names and numbers written down for Proventus and his scribes to tally. 

It was a good thing too, since a problem came in not four days after this new rule was implemented. 

Balgruuf scowled as he recalled the Alik’r warriors demanding entry days prior, hunting some supposed fugitive that had been hiding in Whiterun for years. Suffice to say, they weren’t let in, especially since the Alik’r refused to part with their weapons. 

For now, they were all camped outside the gates, alongside the travelling Khajiit Caravan that always stops by. Aside from that, the only other interesting thing that happened was the Orc man who claimed to seek recruits for an order called the Dawnguard.

They arrived in the guard quarters as Irileth stepped forward and opened the doors to allow Balgruuf to enter the quarters, startling every guard currently inside. Most were lounging around, but he could see a few here and there sitting on the floor with cards and coins strewn about.

“Jarl Balgruuf!” They started in surprise as they quickly fumbled to become respectable for their jarl. The ones on the floor immediately kicked a pack of cards underneath a bed while another threw a blanket over the rest. “We–!”

“At ease.” Balgruuf said with amusement. While it was indeed unbecoming for the palace guards to partake in such activities, he could close his eyes this once. He had graver concerns to deal with. “I’m here to see Hrongar, where is he?”

One of the men, Orys if Balgruuf remembered, straightened. “The Master-at-arms is with Commander Caius and Esgard, my Jarl. Interrogating the spy.”

Balgruuf nodded. “Take me to them.” 

Orys led Balgruuf and Irileth down a narrow staircase and a long hallway—far and deep enough for the screams of the tortured to not be heard above the surface—until they reached an iron wrought door.

At the final door, Orys opened it, and the stench of blood greeted them.

The spy was a wretched sight. A Bosmer, frail and wiry, stripped to the waist, his skin marred by cuts, bruises, and dried blood. His lips quivered, teeth missing, his wrists shackled to the chair.

‘It seems Esgard has done his job.’ 

The thin and wiry Keeper of the Cells was the one responsible in making the spy amiable for questioning. Only when his spirits were broken would Hrongar and Caius start the interrogation.

It was a tried and tested method for eras and centuries, one that Balgruuf did not hesitate to use to unearth this plot that involved sneaking into his own keep in the middle of the night.

Hrongar and Caius merely gave him a look of slight surprise before nodding. They understood enough why he wanted to be here.

Hrongar began, voice firm. “Name.”

The Bosmer’s head lolled weakly. “O-Orsin… m’lord.” 

His voice was ragged after a whole week spent in the dungeons, only given a small cup of cheap ale to drink everyday. Balgruuf was content to stand in the dark corner, just listening while Hrongar and Caius did their job.

“Who do you work for?”

“The Thieves Guild, m’lord.” the newly introduced Orsin revealed, drawing an immediate, collective inhale from the room.

“What does the Thieves Guild have to do with Dragonsreach and the ruling family of Whiterun?”  Hrongar pressed, stepping closer. “What was your target?” 

Orsin’s battered face twisted. “W-We had a contract…To find a woman…named Delphine.”

The name had Balgruuf scowling. That woman again.

“And who hired you?”

“I-I don’t know, we weren’t told—”

Esgard stepped forward, a meaty grin on his face. That sent Orsin into a spiral.

“I swear I don’t know! We have p-protocol where the client’s name is kept a secret! I’m telling the truth, please!”

Esgard looked to Hrongar, who looked to Balgruuf. With a single nod, Esgard stepped back.

Commander Caius stepped in. “How did you breach Dragonsreach?”

Orsin gulped then, looking around wildly before his figure shrunk as he released a breath. “We… have contacts. Guards… sympathetic to coin… to the Guild.”

Caius and Hrongar immediately scowled at that notion, Balgruuf wasn’t any better. 

If the Thieves Guild managed to plant their agents in his home, who knows how many of his own men were bribed or secretly shared other loyalties. Did Ulfric manage to put his own loyalist in his court? Did the Empire? What of the countless souls that now sheltered behind Whiterun’s walls?

Ulfric’s war. The Empire’s schemes. Dragons, vampires, Daedric cultists—the threats were endless, but it was betrayal from within that gnawed at him most. They couldn’t afford to face this coming war while worrying for daggers in the dark.

His jaw clenched as he straightened. It was something that needed to be rectified immediately. Every guard, every officer, every soul with access to Dragonsreach would face scrutiny. Blood would flow if it must. Better to cull the weak links now rather than wait when the war starts proper.[

…

4E 201, Road to Winterhold

Gerron Ironbreaker

“Hmmm…” Gerron Ironbreaker scratched his beard, the parchment map crinkling in his hand as he turned it sideways, upside down, then back again. The entire world around him was blanketed in ice and endless snowdrifts. Jagged mountain peaks loomed in the distance, though none of them looked remotely familiar.

His eyes squinted at the parchment. “Hmm…”

“Gerron,” came Serana’s voice, the exasperation thinly veiled beneath her usually composed tone.

“Yes, Serana?” he responded, still staring at the map.

“Are we lost?” she asked, folding her arms with one brow quirked so high it might float off her face.

He gave a skeptical hum. “What makes you think that?”

“For starters, you’ve been staring at that map for five minutes.” Serana said. She pointed down the snow-choked path behind them. “And I haven’t seen a single road marker, trail, or footprint in… what, five hours?”

Well, she wasn’t wrong.

They had left Windhelm days ago with a map given by the Jarl himself. Ulfric was quite different from what he pictured, though he guessed a Jarl and a leader of a rebellion would have to be adaptable if anything else.

Gerron had half a mind to blame him for their predicament, the last landmark was a crooked pine tree they passed sometime after sunrise—two days ago.

Gerron fiddled with the map in his hand. “Did Ulfric give us a faulty map? I’m not seeing any of the landmarks that are supposed to be here.”

“Could’ve been swallowed by the snow.” Serana shrugged, eyes glinting with amusement under her hood. “The wind is certainly howling a lot more here than the other holds. Here I thought Windhelm was cold.”

“Oh please, I doubt you could even feel the cold.” Gerron said incredulously, which had Serana smiling coyly at him.

“As long as the mountains are on our left and we keep on going north, we should get there eventually.” Gerron finally said, earning a nod from her.

‘Eventually’ turned out to be three grueling days of trudging through knee-deep snow, and one very near run-in with an ice wraith nest. Thankfully, the storm had eased as they approached their destination.

Winterhold wasn’t that impressive of a sight, though the constant clangs of blacksmith and loud laughter coming from the inn said that this place wasn’t as dead or depressing as many initially believed.

“Halt!” A voice interrupted them as they approached the main gate. “State your business in Winterhold!”

“My name is Gerron Ironbreaker, and this is my friend Serana. We’re here to visit the College of Winterhold.”

The gates opened then as three guards met them in the field. “Another one of you lot. Go on in, then.” The man snorted derisively.

“Many thanks.” Gerron ignored the tone as he and Serana rode past them. Finding a stable, Gerron and Serana unmounted from their horses to let the tired horses to rest. Despite walking through lands and lands of snow, Gerron managed to keep their horses well fed and hearty from the many crates of food he kept with him in his storage.

“ This is one of the capital Holds of Skyrim?” Serana commented. “It’s barely twice the size of Shor’s Stone.”

“They weren’t always like this. It happened eighty years or so ago, the Great Collapse they called it. A majority of the city was swallowed by heavy storms that caused the ground underneath it to erode and collapse away, taking everything above with them.” He looked at Serana then. “Except the College of Winterhold, which remained largely unscathed.”

“I see.” Serana said, glancing at the surrounding townsfolk who kept giving them glances. “I could certainly understand why distrust and enmity grew from that. Is that why those guards at the gate looked at us like we were dirt beneath his boot?”

Gerron snorted. “Yeah, most likely. From what I heard, the people of this city grew to be the rivals of the mages of the College. They adopted a more martial lifestyle, turning the once down rotten town into a city of blacksmiths. Though their quality leaves much to be desired.” 

Gerron eyed a passing blacksmith and his wares, his Artificer’s Insight telling him that most of the weapons and armor were of cheap quality. Though with the amount of blacksmiths in the street, the quantity they could churn out was impressive.

“Will that be a problem for us in the future?” Serana mused as they continued walking down the dirt path, the snow having been shovelled to the side. 

“Probably not. Even with the enmity towards one another, I doubt the Jarl and the Archmage actually hate one another. It’s more believable to think that they’ve reached somewhat of an agreement, especially with news of dragons being spread. The College can't survive without the city and its resources, and the city would need the College for protection.” Gerron said. “As powerful as mages are, not even they could grow food out of thin air.”

Serana chuckled. “True enough. I remember hearing about a College that existed when I was entombed, to hear it still stands to this day is impressive.”

Turning around another corner down the street, they finally reached the gate that leads towards the bridge of the College, an enormous castle standing proud and far above the frigid waters below.

And by Zenithar was it impressive. The Artificer system came to life.

[College of Winterhold]

Constructed atop enchanted bedrock by Archmagus Shalidor himself. Warded to resist weather, erosion, and siege. Having existed for thousands of years, most original enchantments have weakened, with only a few being reapplied.

‘Looks like I know the real reason why the College survived in the Great Collapse. Warded by the Archmagus himself, huh?’

A grin appeared on Gerron’s face. He would have to add studying those enchantments to his list of activities.

As they walked across the suspended stone bridge, which was among the few of the wards that were being repaired and reinforced, Gerron and Serana turned their head towards the horizon, where the Sea of Ghosts sprawled as far as the eye could see.

Serana however, kept her eyes into the west, seeing something very far in the distance. 

“What is it?” Gerron asked, following her stare but seeing nothing beyond the foggy horizon.

Serana was quiet for a second before shaking her head. “That’s where Castle Volkihar should be.”

Gerron widened his eyes before looking in that direction. That was dangerously close to Solitude. ‘So Harkon built his headquarters on the shores of Skyrim’s capital city? Sounds like a recipe for disaster.’

He turned his gaze back to the College as they stepped through the main gates that lead into the central courtyard. A large statue of Shalidor stood in the center, surrounding an enormous glistening green garden with plenty of tall trees with fruits despite the cold weather. 

A group of people were at the front of the statue, what looked to be a teacher rapt in a lecture to a group of students.

Standing a good distance away was a Dunmer man with robes that immediately sent his system to a spiral. His robes were enchanted to Oblivion, not to mention the diadem he wore atop his head. 

That could only be Savos Aren, the Archmage. 

“He must be the Archmage.” Serana said. “The amount of magicka he possesses is quite staggering.”

High praise coming from an ancient pureblooded Vampire. The Altmer in gold and black clothing standing beside was much less impressive in comparison. 

‘Is that a Thalmor agent?’ Gerron paused. ‘The College must be giving him protection, otherwise he wouldn’t have lasted a day in Stormcloak territory without being gutted.’

He shook his head. He remembered Ralof’s warnings that the Thalmor was involved with the Dragons. While Gerron didn’t know if that was the truth or not, the fact that the Aldmeri Dominion has largely remained silent to the dragon threat was quite suspicious.

Whatever the case was, Gerron would handle it when the problem came at his face. He was never the scheming type after all. If the Thalmor proved trouble, then he’ll just invent a bomb and chuck it at their embassy.

They took a step forward and started walking toward the Archmage, swiftly gaining his and the Thalmor’s attention.

Savos Aren turned to look at him before his eyebrow quirked up in interest. Whether it was Gerron’s size, the Mercury Hammer, or even Serana herself, it seems the Archmage was intrigued by their appearance.

The Thalmor however merely scowled in disgust and took a step forward, fire flickering in hand. His lip curled.

“The College has truly fallen low, allowing beggars and mercenaries to—”

“Shut up, Thalmor,” Gerron deadpanned, and without hesitation, drove his forehead forward into the Altmer’s face with a satisfying CRACK.

The mer staggered back, clutching his bleeding, broken nose, eyes wide with shock.

The courtyard fell silent. Students stared. Savos Aren’s brow lifted in quiet amusement.

Gerron casually turned to the Archmage, acting like nothing happened.

“Afternoon,” he said brightly, jerking a thumb toward Serana. “We’re here to join the College.”

Chapter Text

4E 201, Northwatch Keep

Endur

And that’s another shift finished.

Endur released a breath, rolling his shoulders as he ascended the stone steps, his boots echoing faintly against the cold, cracked walls of Northwatch Keep.

The fortress loomed on the jagged cliffs of Haafingar’s northern coast—a frigid, wind-battered ruin clinging to the mountainous regions of Haafingar, west of Solitude. Hardly a glamorous post, but Endur had been proud when his name was called to serve here. To be among the Thalmor’s chosen sent to Skyrim? It was supposed to be an honor.

An honor, he reminded himself grimly, that came with long, bitter nights guarding half-frozen stone halls, watching over prisoners, and enduring the endless howling of the Sea of Ghosts.

When they first arrived, his chest had swelled with pride. They were the spear of the Dominion, here to educate the Nord savages—to remind them their worship of a mortal 'god' was not only heresy but foolishness. But now?

Now he was a glorified bodyguard defending what was a windswept crypt disguised as a fortress. Upon arrival in Skyrim, the Justiciars and Lady Elenwen divided their thousand strong force into two. A majority would be kept in the Thalmor Embassy as their main power base, while another two hundred sent to garrison the Northwatch Keep.

Publicly, the Thalmor was given the keep as part of a deal with the Empire, where the Thalmor would defend Haafingar’s northern shores from pirates. 

But everyone stationed here knew better. Northwatch wasn’t for defense—it was for secrets. For doing the Dominion’s less… public work away from the prying eyes of Skyrim’s populace.

Just a few months ago, the Thalmor managed to capture a few Stormcloaks in a skirmish. Among them was a rather high value prisoner named Thorald Gray-Mane. According to Thalmor intelligence, the Gray-Manes were one of the most influential families in Whiterun, having connections to the Stormcloaks, the Companions, and even the Jarl’s court. His capture had been a masterstroke.

A family such as that would have secrets, secrets that the Thalmor will know of.

The Gray-Mane whelp’s screams had echoed through these halls for weeks. Endur wasn’t part of the interrogation process, no that required more deft hands. However, he was among the ones present when young Thorald was questioned by the master torturer.

Credit where it was due, the Gray-Mane boy lasted longer than they initially thought. There was even a small attempt to rescue him by Thorald’s brother, Avulstein. The attempt ended in his death.

Endur smiled to himself as he reached the upper corridor, the faintest sound of the waves crashing against the cliffs below filling his ears. The boy had been defiant at first, but no man held strong forever.

The news of his brother’s demise brought whatever stubborn defense Thorald possessed to crumble, as he finally answered whatever questions they asked him.

Yet now, as he strode down the hallway, something felt… off. A tingle crept up his spine, and the hairs on his neck stood on end.

It was quiet. Too quiet.

Frowning, Endur stepped onto the courtyard. The two moons hung overhead, casting Northwatch’s ancient walls in ghostly light.

The courtyard was empty. Completely empty.

No sentries. No patrols. No torches flickering along the battlements. Only the wind, curling like icy fingers around the ramparts.

His eyes darted upward. A lone torch lay abandoned on the wall walk, its flame guttering weakly. Above, bats spiraled through the air, their wings cutting black shapes across the moonlit sky.

Even the forge—who had angered many with the constant clanging noises day in and out—stood cold and dark.

A pit coiled in Endur’s gut. He reached for the hilt of his elven sword instinctively, scanning the shadows.

Seeing movement at the corner of his eye, he approached the person. A figure, shrouded in the gloom, loitered near the far wall. Relief flooded Endur’s chest—probably just one of the others, maybe swapping shifts. 

“Hey! Is it your shift? Where is everyone?” His voice carried across the courtyard, thin and uneasy. “If the Justiciar finds out we’re slacking off—”

The figure turned.

Endur froze mid-step.

The man wasn’t Thalmor. He wasn’t anything Endur recognized. Tall and pale as snowdrift. He had the regal bearing of nobility, with raven black hair flowing past his shoulders like liquid shadow, framing sharp, angular features untouched by age. But it was the eyes—blood-red, so piercing and heavy that it rooted Endur in place.

Two weapons hung at his sides.

In his right hand, a curved blade with a guard resembling leathery bats—strange, foreign steel that pulsed with dark enchantments. In his left?

An abomination of a mace, jagged, cruel, and radiating sickly green energy that curled like wisps of smoke from its surface. 

Endur’s mouth went dry. His fingers clenched tightly on his sword, but the creature moved, impossibly fast.

Before the blade cleared its sheath, the vampire stood inches from him, eyes blazing, a wicked smile curling his lips.

“Wha—”

Twin fangs plunged into Endur’s throat, icy pain lancing through his body as his vision swam. His limbs locked, his mind flooded with terror— CRACK.

The mace slammed into his skull, obliterating bone, thought, and fear in one shattering blow.

Endur’s world went dark before his body crumpled to the frostbitten ground.

The last thing he heard was the soft flap of wings—and laughter, deep and cold as the void.

…

4E 201, Throat of the World

Kiera Fendalyn

Her legs ached, lungs burned, and every breath left a trail of mist curling into the thin mountain air—yet Kiera had never felt stronger.

The Throat of the World loomed behind her, stretching endlessly into the sky like the spine of Nirn itself, and yet she had sprinted its height twice today. It was grueling, exhausting… and exhilarating.

Weeks. She had spent weeks here under the watchful eyes of Paarthurnax and Vermithor.

Paarthurnax served as her mentor, drilling discipline, philosophy, and the mastery of the Thu’um into her with relentless patience. It was even his idea to train her body by having run up and down the whole mountain every morning.

Vermithor was instead like an older brother with wings the size of buildings, a sparring partner who relished knocking her flat with Shouts powerful enough to shake the heavens. Their duels had been… humbling at first. Her Thu’um cracked like twigs against Vermithor’s might. But the gap closed with each sunrise.

She could feel it. The way her body strengthened. The pulse of the Thu’um flowing freely through her veins. She was becoming more than mortal.

Today, Paarthurnax's words made that terrifyingly clear.

“Your soul becomes more and more dovah with each Shout, Dovahkiin, ” Paarthurnax rumbled, perched upon his mountain peak, “Soon enough, your body shall catch up.”

Kiera paused, wiping the sweat from her brow, chest heaving. “What exactly… does that mean?”

“It means,” Vermithor interjected, landing beside her with a grin in his deep, booming voice, shaking the ground beneath him “that you’ll be as stubborn and fire-blooded as the rest of us soon enough.”

Kiera groaned. “Lovely.”

“But more importantly,” Paarthurnax continued, his breath misting the air with frost, “we shall teach you how to wield that power. The Thu’um shall flow through you as the mountain breathes the wind.”

She expected another round of sparring, another brutal trek down the slopes. What she didn’t expect… was Paarthurnax’s next words.

“The last lesson we can offer, Kiera… is to teach you how to Dragon Ride.”

Kiera blinked. “What?”

Vermithor chuckled, stepping forward, “Becoming a Dragonrider is the greatest bond between dovah and joor . And I, little mortal, have decided you’re worthy.”