Author's note: Hello, and thanks for reading. I have restarted work on this story and will be publishing much more frequently. Therefore, I decided to delete the previous one and start from scratch since this version has a lot of changes from the previous one. To anyone that was kind enough to read and leave reviews, I apologize for deleting the last one and I hope you will read and bear with me as the story progresses.

Prologue: The end of an Era

Mehrunes Dagon was rampaging! The sheer joy and elation he felt was unimaginable. After many millennia of planning, careful machinations, and despite all the pitfalls during the execution of his schemes, he had finally breached the barriers between Oblivion and Mundus! Tamriel was now his for the taking, for what mortal could hope to oppose the might of a Daedric Prince? He destroyed wantonly and whatever he struck stayed broken. The falling stones brought him such joy that his laughter shook the very ground. Men and women were crushed under his heels, the cries of the pitiful mortals taking him to a new height of pleasure. His minions were having fun as well. The Valkynaz had given up on ordering the March and instead joined them in cutting things down with abandon. The entire plaza was filled with the blood and screams of mortals. Oh, how he would enjoy destroying this rigid plane of existence. Dagon roared in joy once more and swung his club at the large structure in front of him. That one building was giving him some trouble and that vexed him. He put all his might into another swing of the club and felt the stone give way. Dagon laughed as he peered inside. Two puny mortals were standing inside. They never ceased to amuse him. What could they possibly be planning, just by themselves?

And then the Dragon appeared, wreathed in golden flame and with a roar so mighty that even Dagon quailed. His erstwhile joy soon turned to rage- rage so blinding that Dagon's eyes were literally shrouded by the mists of anger. "Au'Riel!" he screamed, swinging his spiked club at the avatar of the Aedra. How dare he interfere in the moment of his victory? Those puny mortals! That bastard of the last Septim and his lackey that had been a constant thorn in his side had unlocked the true potential of their accursed amulet. "Au'Riel!" he screamed in rage once more.

Dagon felt a sudden sting in his foot as something puny pricked through his otherwise invincible sinew and cut him. He roared and kicked out. "Impudent mortals!" he raged. First he had to deal with the dragon. It was only an avatar of Au'Riel. Not the Aedra himself. Dagon laughed uproariously. He had become angry over nothing. The dragon had taken flight now but hovered over the broken structure it had emerged from. Dagon swung his club at its head, but the strike was parried by one of its winged talons. The dragon let out a mighty roar and something about that cry unnerved the Daedric lord, and in that moment of indecision, Au'Riel's avatar struck. Flaming jaws tightened around his throat and tore out the flesh from his neck. Dagon stumbled backwards. He couldn't believe it! This was not supposed to happen. "NO!" he tried to scream but he found that he had no voice. His form in Mundus was as static as the world. He saw the dragon raise its head in a terrifying cry and then it breathed fire. The holy flame of the Aedra washed over him, burning his very existence from Nirn.

With an unmatched fury, Dagon threw a silent curse at the mortals. Especially at the wretched Septims and that accursed man they called 'Hero'. "I shall yet have my revenge, puny mortals!" his mind raged, "Mehrunes Dagon will not be defeated by your ilk!" And with that final thought, Dagon was lost to the waters of Oblivion as his corporeal form crumbled on Nirn.

"Huzzah! Huzzah!"

The people's cries rose up from outside the temple. "Hail Martin Septim! Long live the Septims!" He stumbled back against the nearest wall and slid down to the floor, all the strength in him drained away as the skies cleared and a bright sun shone through the broken roof. The avatar of Akatosh towered over him- a lasting monument to their victory and to their loss. He should have been happy. He should have been laughing or weeping or dancing, whatever in blazes the rest of Cyrodiil was doing outside, but he wasn't. All he could feel was the loss, a hollow space inside him where the hope of victory had hung just that morning. His limbs felt like lead as he sat watching the petrified form of the roaring Dragon. By the Nine, he had just seen with his own eyes one of the gods he served. Akatosh, the Aedra that ruled over time, the eternal dragon! Why was he so fixed on his loss?

Martin's final words still resonated in his ears. It was almost as if the man was still standing by his side. The doors burst open and High Chancellor Ocato rushed in, followed closely by Baurus. The stalwart blade's sword arm was broken and he nursed it but his face showed no pain, only joy. "Brother Valorus!" he called out, "Where is Lord Martin? I cannot believe we won!" Ocato, who was staring in awe at the statue turned towards him now. "Where is the Emperor?" It was a hopeful question but his voice betrayed his fears. Valorus felt even more drained. He lifted his hand and pointed at the dragon, unable to even look at it. Baurus fell to his knees, tears streaming down his face. "No, no, no!" he wept, "Why? We won! What victory is this?"

Grandmaster Jauffre limped in supported on both sides by Captains Stephan and Jena. The old man had lost his entire right leg and from the way he winced with each movement, it was clear that he had broken several ribs. He slid down next to Valorus, propping himself up against the wall with a grunt. For a few moments they sat like that. Valorus finally raised his head and looked up at the dragon. It was bathed in the glorious sunlight and looked every bit as majestic as the avatar itself. "Beautiful, isn't he?" said the old warrior quietly. Valorus felt his own eyes betray him with tears. Others were joining them now in the temple, most of the new arrivals too stunned to even continue cheering. Everyone knelt before the statue in awed reverence and the silence was broken only by Baurus' sobbing. Jena brought him back to where all the surviving Blades were gathered around Valorus and Jauffre.

Ocato walked up to the gathering and stood before them, directly below the avatar. "Good people of the Empire!" he addressed them solemnly, "We are at the end of an era. Witness the might of the Septim bloodline! Here before you, stands the avatar of Akatosh. This statue, an eternal reminder of our salvation, is Martin Septim's final resting place. Through his sacrifice, we live to see another day. Strength was in him that has not been seen since the days of Tiber Septim himself! Alas, what an Emperor he would have made. We can only marvel at the courage, the strength and the sacrifices of this great man and his loyal blades. Long will they be known as heroes of this land." He continued, "One of whom, especially that I must mention. Valorus Maximus, Hero of Kvatch. Strange have been the events of this age and as befitting to one who took the fight to Oblivion itself on His Majesty's behalf, I name you Champion of Cyrodiil! Long may your name be sung across the Empire!"

The people cheered loudly for their heroes and took up the cry. "Long live the Septims! Long live the Blades! Long live Valorus Maximus! Huzzah!" Jauffre was smiling, but his eyes held back tears. Valorus remained silent. He did not care for their accolades. For over a year, he had worked with Martin and the rest of the Blades to protect the Empire. He had laughed with them, sang with them, and fought with them. Now it was time to mourn with them. He was through and through, the Emperor's man- a Blade; a Blade that failed in his most basic duty- to protect the Emperor at all costs. What did he care for their petty titles or fancy armour? Long live the Septims? The Septim bloodline had ended! He saw that Jena and Baurus shared his feelings. The three of them rose wordlessly, carrying their broken master between them, and left the building. The rest of the Blades followed suit without a question. There were so few of them left. No words were exchanged as they began their weary journey back to Cloud Ruler Temple. Valorus' prized weapons, gifts from the capricious Daedric princes, lay forgotten somewhere in the temple. The only weapon the Blades took with them was a simple silver longsword- the one Martin had borne. And so, without formalities, the Blades retreated to their keep. To nurse wounds, to shed tears and to keep watch until the next Dragonborn rose up to lead them.