Author's Note: This is the fourth installment in the Tales from Cyrodiil series (perhaps more aptly named the Orcs and Vampires series). It is a direct sequel to and continuation of Tales From Cyrodiil: The Cold Light of Day. If you haven't read that one, this one will make no sense. Go back and read it. Really. I'll wait right here.

As a reminder, in the TFC Universe the Hero of Kvatch has performed mostly just the Main Quest, partly because she kept getting thrown out of guilds. Many side quests have been performed by other characters or not performed at all. If you're curious about the TFC Universe's Hero, TFC: Luckless is about her.

I will probably refer to characters and situations from my other stories, too, but those will be more of a bonus for those who have read them.

Chapter 1: Prologue

He had a name, but no one knew it.

Mostly nobody asked. Old Owyn just called him by whatever his Arena rank was, from Pit Dog right up until he was the Arena Grand Champion. The people who had given his name to him were far away, tending their herds in obscurity in Vvardenfell, and by this time had surely forgotten him. All he had of theirs was the accent he'd never been able to shake.

He'd never had to worry about what his friends should call him. He'd never really had any. Mostly people just used his rank, the same way Owyn did, or they said "Hey, you. The Dunmer."

He saw a lot of people in the Arena, of course, but generally they were trying to kill him. Nobody succeeded. He was a small mer, but he was quick, and no one in their right mind was as vicious as he was once he got going. Not even Orcs. He fought plenty of those, and won.

It was sadly ironic that the closest thing to a friend he'd ever had was the last Arena Champion. Agronak gro-Malog had been a cheerful and a polite Orc, and if you were willing to learn, he'd always got something to teach you. He would joke about seeing the moves again, but nobody really thought he'd be beaten. He was the Gray Prince. He'd been the Champion for fifteen years. In the Arena, fifteen years was almost forever.

That was before Agronak's mother died, of course. He was quieter for a while after that. Then he took the Dunmer aside and gave him a key and a story, and showed him the way to Crowhaven on a map. The Dunmer was willing to oblige. It was a break from the Arena. And, if he'd been willing to admit it, he was a little curious as to who Agronak's real father might be.

He survived that, just barely, but Agronak didn't. He handed over the journal and watched Agronak freeze as he read it, as if he'd just been hit in the stomach. The Orc went listlessly around the Bloodworks, silent and pale, for days after he read the journal. He taught the Dunmer things he'd never taught to anyone else, though his heart didn't seem to be in that, either.

The Dunmer learned from the Gray Prince, and gained quickly in rank. It was surprisingly little time before he had reached the rank above which there was only one other place – Agronak's. There were others in the Arena at that level. None of them would challenge the Gray Prince. They didn't want to die.

The Dunmer had nothing to lose, and he knew what the others didn't. Vampire was an ugly word, and this unfortunate trick of parentage made the others fear Agronak gro-Malog more than they might already have done. None of them quite seemed to see what it had done to Agronak himself. The Dunmer's ambition finally overcame his conscience. When he challenged Agronak at last, all the half-Orc said was, "Thank the Divines. When?"

It wasn't really a fight. It was murder. Agronak refused even to draw his ebony sword. The Dunmer had long envied that weapon. His own sword was plain steel, the only thing he could afford even at his present rank.

The Dunmer was not a kind mer, but neither was he particularly cruel. He also wasn't stupid. You didn't renege on an Arena fight. Once two people went out onto that sand, only one could walk out again. He ran the Gray Prince through the heart. It was quick. He probably scarcely even felt it. The last look he turned on the Dunmer was one of wrenching gratitude.

The Dunmer took to calling himself the Black Arrow, after that. He was richer than he'd ever been, and once he'd killed a couple of challengers to prove that he could, the living was pretty easy. He still didn't have any friends, but no friends and lots of money was better than no friends and no money.

At first, anyway.

He never seemed to sleep very well, for some reason. He tried to convince himself that he didn't know why. It didn't work, particularly when those surviving fighters who had known Agronak kept on reminding him. (One or two had challenged him. They lost.) Sleeping or waking, he kept seeing the dead half-Orc's face.

And then came the day when he heard that Agronak gro-Malog was not dead. Further inquiry produced the information that he had been seen somewhere out in the wilderness not so very far from Bravil.

It didn't matter that Agronak gro-Malog was apparently half-vampire. It didn't matter that the Arena Champion did not, technically speaking, have any business leaving the Arena. That very night the Black Arrow packed himself a knapsack, collected up all of his gold that he hadn't banked, and headed out on foot. He left the Arena Grand Champion armor behind him and went dressed in plain linen and leather.

He took the ebony sword with him, bound up in its scabbard. He'd never used it. It wasn't really his.