Chapter One

Haladane Tavisson knelt at the edge of the mountain clearing, his fingers gently scraping away the molding leaves that covered the print he was examining.

"Still fresh," he muttered to himself, tracing a finger absentmindedly along the rim of the track, which was now clearly recognizable as the hoof-print of a hardy Skyrim deer. It had only recently been covered by the decaying foliage, and the edges of it were loose and unsubstantial, crumbling inwards under as he brushed them.

That meant the animal that had made them had to be nearby. And if the size of the track was anything to judge by, it was a large one.

Haladane looked up, shading his eyes as he evaluated the position of the sun. It was mid-morning now, which would give him at least a few hours more to track the deer before he would be forced to turn back.

However, Haladane did not intend upon returning empty-handed. Ever since his uncle had been crippled in an encounter with a bear while out trapping, the task of keeping the Tavisson family supplied with meat and hides had fallen to him. It was a mission he treated with the utmost seriousness, and after years of learning from his uncle and from firsthand experiences, he had become incredibly adept at the arts and skills of woodcraft. He could track a fox across twelve miles of mountains and rivers and drop a deer from two hundred yards with a single shot. He knew the game trails of the mountains around his home like the back of his own hand, and could tell now from the rocky crag on his right that he was only two miles from the mouth of the White River where it flowed out of Lake Ilinalta. This gave him an advantage over most hunters in the Falkreath Hold; by now, many deer had retreated from the lowlands and plains where hunters were more common and withdrawn to the remote safety of the mountains northwest of Lake Ilinata. Few men dared to track them deep into the towering pine forests and steep, rocky slopes of the mountains, braving the wolves and bears that also called such regions home, but Haladane had no such compunctions.

The family would need the meat this kill would provide to supplement their meals throughout the winter. Such meat could be bought in town, but it would be a strain on the family's already-meager coffers.

With that thought in mind, Haladane resumed his pursuit of the animal. He knew where it was going, now; it was most likely headed towards the Ymirsdottïr falls, where Redbelly Creek drained into the White River, and where nearby meadows afforded perfect grazing areas full of the hardy snowberry and other such plants. He rarely stopped to examine the tracks, checking only now and again to confirm that he was on the right path.

He had a spring in his step as he jogged through the woods. It could be simply because it was such a beautiful day, or that he was on the trail of a promising buck. However, there was one reason that overshadowed those; today, the sixteenth of Last Seed, was also his sixteenth birthday. That brought him officially into manhood, according to human customs.

He frowned. He wasn't quite sure how his Bosmer side affected that.

Haladane Tavisson was a rare breed among the many races of Skyrim. He was a half-elf, his father a farmer from Cyrodiil by the name of Mathil and his mother a Bosmer, or wood elf, from the far-southern land of Valenwood who only called herself Raela. They had met while she was working as a shopkeeper's assistant in Riverwood.

And he knew next to nothing about them beyond that. According to his uncle and now foster father Armun Tavis, they had both died in a bandit attack when Haladane was but one, and when no one else would take in the child, Armun and his wife Thalia had stepped forward.

The mixing of Bosmer and Imperial blood in Haladane meant that as a half-elf, he was different from both races. From his father, he inherited a basically-human appearance, with brown eyes and tousled dark hair. His elven heritage, however, was more than evident by the noticeable tapering of his ears and slightly narrow, almost feline facial features. He was fairer than any normal man, but more rugged than any elf.

It was not always a blessing. As the offspring of mixed parents, he was not considered a part of either the human or elven cultures, and a bit of a pariah among normal townsfolk, who viewed him with suspicion because of his elven blood and features. That would not have been as much of a problem in Cyrodiil or other provinces of the Empire, where races mixed and interbred far more often. In Skyrim, however, the predominant Nords were highly distrustful of foreigners, and especially of elves, a feud that reached back to the dawn of history. During his early childhood, when the Tavissons had lived in Helgen, Haladane had been tormented mercilessly by the town children, who used names like "elfsson", "freak", and, most hurtful of all, "Halfling" with such frequency that he had taken to wearing a hooded cloak whenever he went out in public so as to hide the tips of his ears from view. It had gotten so bad that when he was ten, he had finally snapped under the pressure and fought back, pummeling one of his tormenters to within an inch of their life.

The community outrage had been massive and instantaneous, and the Tavissons, while not the only mixed-race family living in Helgen, were the most obvious target. A community meeting was held, during which multiple testimonials were heard from the parents of the boy Haladane had attacked and his gang, all of which decried the Tavisson boy as a danger to the town as a whole.

The Tavissons had no choice but to leave, uprooting from Helgen where his uncle left a profitable job as a blacksmith and his aunt as a jeweler to relocate near the shores of Lake Ilinata. There, they raised a modest farmhouse and barn. Shortly afterwards, Eleyna, Haladane's cousin and foster-sister, had been born, and the Tavissons began a new life as a family. The scattered farmers nearby were too focused on eking out what living they could to give the Tavissons any more trouble, and after a hard first few years, the family had finally established themselves as farmers.

It was a far different life from what they had lived in Helgen, but Haladane was satisfied. Farming was hard work, to be sure, but it was honest work, and Haladane felt he preferred the slower, deliberate life in the country to the hectic pace of city-dwelling.

Yes, he decided as he came upon another clearing with a crystal-clear brook tumbling through it, he much preferred the wilds to "civilization". Nature cared not whether you were human or elf; her rules were the same for everyone, and Haladane took comfort in that.

Of course, there was one thing he missed about Helgen, he thought. For all the bullying and teasing he had endured, there had been one person that had made it tolerable, one friend who he could always depend on to have his back.

Ariadne. Just thinking of her caused a wide, foolish grin to crease his face. She was a Breton, a people known to have intermingled human and elf blood like him, and had been his only real companion during his years in Helgen. She had been an orphan like Haladane, and lived with a Cyrodiilic family that had taken her in after both her parents had been killed during a sailing accident. She was a constant source of support for him during his younger years. Whenever he felt at his most miserable, she was always there to cheer him up with a few words of encouragement.

They had communicated for a while with letters after the Tavissons left Helgen, but their treatises had been growing ever farther apart lately, a fact that saddened Haladane immensely. He could still picture her in his mind; a slender young girl, with wavy brown hair and eyes as green as the summer grass, with a smile that could charm a cave bear and cheer him up no matter how much he had gone through that day.

So focused was he on that image that he almost blew his cover when he came out of the treeline to find that he had arrived at the meadows of Redbelly Creek.

The aforementioned creek, named for the now-depleted copper deposits nearby that had once drawn settlers to this region, wound its way lazily through the field in front of him, with the sound of the falls in the distance. Waves of tall grasses covered the meadow, hiding sudden bursts of mountain flowers or a snowberry plant.

And grazing by the creekside was the deer he had been tracking. It was a large male, with antlers stretching at least twice as far as its head on either side. And while those would make a nice decoration over the family hearth, its healthy, red-brown fur could also be made into leather for a variety of other uses.

Fortunately, it didn't appear to have noticed him. Its head was down, focused resolutely on the snowberry plant it was busily stripping bare.

Haladane let out a sigh of relief as he stepped back behind the tree line. He was lucky; this buck hadn't gotten to be as large as it was by taking chances, but it obviously felt secure enough in this remote meadow that it didn't bother to check over its shoulder nearly as often as it would normally.

That could all change in a moment's notice, however, as a flash of movement caught Haladane's eye. Glancing up, he saw a raven sitting on an overhead bough. It cocked its head quizzically at him, shook itself, and then opened its beak, preparing to inform him that he was trespassing on its territory.

That couldn't happen. If the bird alerted the deer to his presence, then the entire hunt would be for naught.

Almost without thinking, Haladane closed his eyes, searching for his ability. It was a strange thing, the ability. That was all he called it, for he had never told anyone about it, and he had no idea what it really was. All he knew was that he had likely inherited it from his mother.

And then he found it, deep inside his consciousness, a small, buried nub of energy. He pushed at it with his mind, rammed against it with all his strength until it finally seemed to burst, flooding his mind with a sudden light and purpose.

At once he was at one with nature, able to sense the minds of all the life around him. He knew the deer in the meadow and the fish in the stream, the multitudes of insects that tilled the loam below his feet and the circling falcon in the wan blue sky above.

Sifting through the sudden massive influx of information, he managed to isolate the presence of the raven, and as fast as he could, he pushed against it as he felt the words spilling forth from his throat in a language he did not understand, but somehow knew: "Noto friya. Eka kaleyia il bain."

The raven suddenly stilled, its beak frozen in mid-cry.

Haladane felt a sudden fatigue, and he leaned against a nearby tree as he caught his breath. The little nub of energy was gone from his mind, as if it had never been, and try as he might, he could not remember the words.

He never could. He had used the ability half a dozen times over the past year since he had first discovered it, and every time he had succeeded in calming an animal. Every time he had also forgotten what he had done or how he had done it until the next day.

He suspected it had something to do with his Bosmer ancestry-his aunt Thalia once mentioned that she had seen his mother charm a bird out of a tree to land on her hand-but he had never worked up the courage to ask.

When he straightened up again, he saw that the raven was still sitting on the branch, looking at him with what appeared to be a mild curiosity, but it made no move to squawk or cry.

A quick glance showed the deer still grazing in the meadow, and Haladane tested the air for wind one last time. There was a slight breeze, but he was upwind of the animal, so its chances of detecting him were minimal.

It was time.

Reaching behind his back, he withdrew his bow from its buckskin tube. He had made it himself at the age of fourteen, after he outgrew the bow his uncle had given him as a child. Its frame was constructed of strong yet flexible layers of yew and juniper that he had culled during his many wanderings, carved into a longbow that was nearly as tall as he was. To his disappointment, he had never grown much since then (he had yet to reach the coveted six-foot mark) but it was a more manageable size now. The string he had woven from strands of flax and slivers of goat intestine.

He strung the bow now as quietly as he could, his hand running over the polished wood to the leather grip. Taking care to remain completely silent, he slowly reached behind his back and withdrew one of his hunting arrows. Consisting of a straight ash shaft fletched with grey goose-feathers, it was tipped with a wide, razor-sharp broadhead that his father had crafted in the family's small forge, designed especially to slice through the layers of skin and muscle of large animals.

Gently, he nocked the arrow on the string, pulling forward the bracer on his bow arm to protect the forearm as he slowly, reverently pulled the string back. The wooden frame didn't so much as squeak despite the massive amounts of pressure coursing through it. With the rear of the shaft trapped securely between his middle and string fingers, he pulled it back to almost full draw and then narrowed his aim, focusing on that part of the deer's chest just below the shoulder where the lungs were. The bowstring hummed with tension as he steadied his arms. Shifting his aim to give a little bit of a lead in case the animal bolted, he took a deep breath, exhaled, and then pulled back to full draw and fired in one swift, continuous motion.

The wooden frame flexed powerfully, bucking forward as the bowstring slapped against Haladane's bracer. Within a second he had nocked and drawn another arrow, just in case the buck was tougher than it looked or his aim was off.

The instant the deer heard the arrow being released, it had darted forward, but the preemptive compensation Haladane had made in aiming was sufficient. The arrow flashed across the meadow, piercing the deer's hide and severing muscle tissue as it slipped through the ribcage and punctured a lung.

The animal made a few more halting steps before it came to a halt, its legs wobbling uncontrollably. And then, slowly, with an almost dignified grace, it sank to its knees, before finally falling on its side in the meadow grass.

Haladane breathed a sigh of relief that at least the deer's death had been quick. He never enjoyed the necessity of taking an animal's life, but necessity it was. He always tried to minimize the suffering they experienced, though, ever since one hunt he had made when he was thirteen; he had gotten overconfident, careless, and instead of taking the doe through its heart, the arrow had instead pierced its flank.

He tracked the blood trail until dark, following the deer as deep as he dared into the mountains before the sun went down and he was forced to return home.

The next morning he picked up the trail again. The deer had run for another three miles, near to the source of Redbelly Creek.

By the time he found the carcass, the wolves had eaten their fill.

After that he had sworn to always make the deaths of his quarries as quick and painless as possible, and he took a measure of satisfaction in this kill.

Now, he had to pack out the meat before the scavengers and larger animals picked up the scent. Drawing his hunting knife, he slit open the deer's belly, scooping out the internal organs and carrying them away to the edge of the meadow, where he dug a small hole and deposited them. He then returned to the carcass, and with quick, methodical motions learned through years of practice, he skinned, quartered, and packed the animal, placing the meat into hide packages he had brought along and attaching them to his main pack.

He was unable, of course, to carry all of the meat in one trip; the buck was simply too large. It was nearly noon by the time he made his last trip back to where he had left his horse, Tarathal.

The chestnut stallion whinnied and stomped his feet excitedly when Haladane exited the woods, eager to be running again. Haladane had bought the stallion when he was just a colt barely able to walk on its own from a neighboring farmer, and the two had developed a bond as close as brothers. When he had left to track the deer, Haladane had not even bothered to hitch the horse; he knew that Tarathal would never run away.

Tarathal eagerly trotted over to greet his master, his nose butting against Haladane's cheek. Grinning, Haladane stroked the animal's mane. "Missed you too," he said, as he prepared to begin loading the horse's saddlebags.

He was suddenly stopped by Tarathal's nose bumping into his chest, stopping him in his tracks. He tried to sidle around the horse, but the stallion would have none of it, bumping him on the chest once again.

Haladane gave a tired grin. "You're insufferable," he said, reaching into his satchel and pulling out an apple. "This was going to be my lunch," he complained, before tossing it to the horse, who happily caught it and began to munch away with a satisfied whinny.

By the time the sun had reached its crest in the sky, Haladane was riding back down the mountain, navigating the narrow, twisting game trails with a sense of direction born from years of experience. If he followed this one a bit longer, he knew, it would intersect with the main trail that would take him back to the family farm.

It first came within sight as he skirted along a mountain ridge, where a brief clearing in the trees allowed him a sight of the valley below. It was dominated by the deep blue expanse of Lake Ilinata, sunlight glinting in silver-gold flashes off the water. It was a calm day, and so the surface of the lake was placid, flat as a mirror, the waves gently lapping against the white sands of its beaches.

The Tavisson farm was located on the lake's northwestern edge, near to where the White River began its flow. Haladane couldn't help but smile as he saw it, saw all that the family had accomplished since they had moved here.

The farmhouse was small, what most nobles would consider a mere cottage, but Haladane knew it was well constructed and solid; it had withstood over a half-dozen Skyrim winters without so much as a single whimper. There was a small porch at the front where in the evening, when the work was done, the family would relax and watch the sunset. The roof was peaked and shingled, a requirement for any dwelling that wasn't underground during the frozen winters when snowfall would be measured in meters. His mother's garden was located a little bit west of the house, where she grew the potatoes, leeks, and tomatoes that went into her delicious soups.

The barn was a hundred meters east of the house, a long building wherein resided the family's two plowhorses, Grollo and Gallo, and their single milk cow, Brelda. A small smokehouse was built onto the end of the barn, wherein catches from the lake and the woods would be prepared. His father also had a small forge in the barn where he made the farm's tools by hand.

And surrounding the farm were the fields, a golden-brown patchwork of wheat, barley, corn, and other crops, which were all growing tall. It had been a good season, and now as harvest-time approached, Haladane felt confident that the family's cellar would be stocked near to overflowing by the time they were done, while any excess would be taken to Helgen and sold at annual farmer's market.

"It's a small world," Haladane agreed as Tarathal shifted beneath him, pawing at the ground, "but it's ours. What more would we need?"

The horse whinnied and tossed back its head, eager to be on the move again, and Haladane smiled, encouraging the stallion forward.

They descended down the main trail from the mountain without trouble, spotting only a single bear in the distance that moved off as soon as they approached. Within the next hour, they were heading down the main road towards the farm.

A curl of smoke was emitting from the chimney as they approached, and Haladane grinned, knowing his aunt was cooking something special for today. He had left for the hunt early that morning, before any of the family was awake, taking only a strip of jerky and some bread for breakfast, and so was plagued with a ravishing hunger by the time he descended from the mountains. While between the costs of daily life and the ever-steeper Imperial taxes the Tavissons had not the coin to spend on extravagant celebrations, his foster parents always worked hard to make sure their children received something special on their birth-days, and his aunt always somehow knew exactly what Haladane wanted the most.

His uncle was nowhere to be seen as he rode up to the fence surrounding the farm, but from the sound of it, he was hard at work in the forge.

It seemed odd for Armun to be laboring with the coals and steel in the middle of the day, but Haladane didn't bother to go in and ask. He needed to get the meat stored away before it began to spoil.

He guided Tarathal up to the smokehouse, dismounting and opening the door. It was not in use at the moment, but the scent of all the dried and smoked meat was still mouth-watering.

Quickly, he went to work, placing the packages of venison into the dark, cool corner of the smokehouse, kept that way by blocks of ice that were hewn out of the lake during the winter and half-buried to keep them insulated and cool during the summer. The ice would keep the meat cool and fresh until it was ready to be prepared.

Footsteps outside alerted him to his uncle's presence, the staggered pattern of the sounds caused by Armun's limp. Placing the last package of venison in the makeshift freezer, Haladane turned and straightened just in time to be caught in a massive embrace.

"Welcome back, son," Armun said, clapping Haladane on the back before stepping back to arm's length. "Or should I say 'man?'"

Haladane grinned. "Maybe we could change that to 'mighty hunter' as long as we're at it."

Armun guffawed, a deep, roaring laugh that came from the depths of his being and was as infectious as the fever. Despite the accident that had crippled his right leg and left him with a perpetual limp, Armun was the kind of man that refused to stay down for long. With a bristly, salt-and-pepper beard and eyes that always seemed to be twinkling with amusement at some great joke known only to him, he was just the sort of father figure Haladane had needed during his tumultuous childhood.

"What'd you bag this time?" Armun asked.

"A buck," Haladane responded, walking outside to show Armun the antlers clipped to Tarathal's saddle-bag, as well as the hide rolled up at the rear. "I figure about five years old. Caught him grazing by the creek."

"Well done," Armun said, limping over to examine the antlers. "Well done indeed. This hide will fetch quite a price at the market."

Haladane grinned. "All because of what you taught me, uncle."

Armun paused. "No," he said, "not all. I've known many hunters during my life, but there're few that have your natural ability to track and shoot. Your parents-" he suddenly stopped, as if he had said too much, and began to fiddle with the antlers.

Haladane frowned. "What about my parents?" Armun rarely mentioned Haladane's parents, and then only briefly, saying that they were rather reclusive and never told him much. Still, Haladane seized every opportunity to find out anything more he could about them.

"Nothing, nothing," Armun said hurriedly, stepping back from the saddle. "Anyways, good work. Why don't you head on inside and have some lunch. I'll be in shortly, hm?"

Haladane opened his mouth to press his former question, but realized that it would be pointless. Armun obviously didn't want to talk about it any further, and despite his uncle's geniality, when he decided to keep his mouth shut, there was no way of getting it open.

"Of course, uncle," he said.

Armun nodded absentmindedly, already limping his way back to the forge.

"Odd," Haladane muttered, then shaking his head to clear his mind. It was his birth-day, and more than that, his entrance into manhood. He would soon be old enough to track down the answers himself.

He guided Tarathal into the barn, hanging up the stallion's saddle and tack on the wall and tossing the horse a carrot from a nearby bin before leaving.

He made his way up the steps to the farmhouse porch, wondering what Thalia was cooking. The smell was mouthwatering, even from out here.

Haladane opened the door, and was hit immediately by two things: first, the heavenly aroma of freshly-baked redcurrant rolls, and secondly, a high-pitched shriek of: "Hally!"

Haladane was barely able to brace himself against the doorway in time to meet his cousin and foster sister as she came rushing out of the kitchen to greet him. Eleyna had turned six just a few months ago, and now came up to his stomach.

She almost knocked him over, a little blizzard of dark hair and white clothes latching around his waist. "Hally, you're back!" she shouted happily, using her favorite nickname for her older cousin. "How'd it go? Did you get anything? Did you see any bears? Were they scary? What about wolves? Were there any wolves? I've never seen a wolf and Mommy says they're bad but I don't think they're bad I just think-"

"Eleyna, now, give the poor child a chance to breathe!" Thalia scolded good-naturedly as she swept into the room, hastily pulling her hair back into a bun. "Or should I say 'poor man?'" she said with a wink at Haladane.

Haladane gave a flustered grin as he slowly extracted himself from Eleyna's vicelike grip. "Well, I'm not quite sure where to start, but yes, I did get a deer."

"Was it big?" she asked immediately.

Haladane nodded. "Yes," he said.

"How big?" was the immediate follow-up.

Haladane blinked, trying to come up with a comparison that she would understand, but she kept on pressing. "Was it bigger than Brelda?"

Haladane thought. "About as big as Brelda," he said after a while. "A little shorter than Tarathal."

"Wow," Eleyna said, her eyes wide with amazement.

"Now, Eleyna," Thalia said, "before you pester him with any more questions, aren't you forgetting something?"

Eleyna paused, her tiny brows furrowing as she pondered the question, before she finally lit up. "It's Hally's birth-day!" she exclaimed in a voice squeaky with excitement. "Come on!" she said, grabbing Haladane's hand and pulling him along into the kitchen.

The delicious aroma only increased as soon as they entered, and Haladane's mouth watered at the sight of a tray of freshly-baked redcurrant rolls cooling on the windowsill. Ever since he was a child, they had been his favorite treat, but the redcurrant didn't grow in Skyrim; the Tavissons had to purchase it for no small amount from farmers in Cyrodiil, which was why they were such a rare treat.

"Mommy and I made them just for you!" Eleyna proclaimed proudly.

"Oh did you now?" Haladane said. "Well, that's very sweet of you." He lifted Eleyna up and kissed her on the forehead, spinning her around twice before setting her down.

As she giggled, he turned to his aunt. "You shouldn't have-" he began, but Thalia cut him off. "Pish-posh, young man," she said. "It's your special day, in more ways than one. Now, Eleyna, why don't you two go clean yourselves up?"

"Yes, mommy!" Eleyna charmed, grabbing Haladane's arm again. "Come on!"

As Haladane was hauled bodily down the hallway to the washroom by his little cousin, he paused to step into the small room they shared and hang his bow and quiver up on the wall.

By the time the two had gotten cleaned up with fresh lakewater, there was more than just the aroma of redcurrant rolls spreading from the kitchen. When they returned, Armun was already seated, chomping away at a roll while Thalia laid out plates for the rest of the family.

"Oh my," Haladane said as he took his seat. His aunt sure had been busy; on his plate alone were two rolls, a helping of eggs, several pieces of bacon, and a tall glass of fresh milk.

The food was delicious, as it always was, and by the time Haladane had finished wiping the last bit of redcurrant sauce from around his mouth, he was stuffed.

And then the gifts began. It was traditional that upon a boy's entrance into manhood, he would receive a hand-made gift from each member of the family.

Eleyna's gift was a doll horse that was tailored to an amazing degree of accuracy to look exactly like Tarathal. Judging from the smile on Thalia's face, she had helped a great deal, but Eleyna's skill at sewing was already substantial, even at her young age.

After promising his cousin that he would always keep the doll with him, he received his mother's present, a beautifully hand-crafted silver ring carved with the likenesses of a falcon, a fox, and a deer. The level of detail was incredible, so much so that if he held up the ring to the sunlight and rotated it, the animals seemed to come alive and dance about the band.

He put it on immediately, gushing thanks towards his aunt, who pretended to act modest, but he could tell that she really was proud of it.

Then it was Armun's turn. He turned and left the house, before returning with a large bundle. The object inside was obviously long, but it was swathed with so many layers of cloth that determining its identity was impossible.

With trembling fingers, Haladane undid the cords and slowly peeled away the layers of protective fabric. As he did so, a shape began to reveal itself.

It can't be, Haladane thought to himself in disbelief, and began to unwrap it all the faster.

And it was.

The sword was as long as his arm, resting in a scabbard the color of forest leaves and embroidered with gold around the edges.

"Uncle," he stammered, momentarily at a loss for words. "You…I…"

"Just put the finishing touches on it this morning, I did," Armun grunted approvingly, crossing his arms as he leaned back in his chair. He grinned. "Looks like I haven't lost the old skills after all."

Seeing the shocked expression on Haladane's face, he gestured, "Well, go on. Try it out. Got to make sure the balance is right, now, don't we?"

Slowly, glancing back at Armun for encouragement, Haladane wrapped his hand around the black leather grip. With a quiet reverence, he withdrew the blade from its scabbard with a quiet ring of metal.

It was a simple yet beautiful thing; a three-foot long blade of razor-sharp steel that rounded to a thrusting point at the tip. The fuller ran all the way down to the hilt, making it lighter and less brittle. Below the crossguard was a black hilt and a round pommel that balanced the weight of the blade. The whole thing weighed perhaps two pounds. It felt perfect in his hands, making a pure, humming note as he moved it back and forth.

Most swords followed a basic construction, he knew; Armun had taught him as much while they lived in Helgen. Bars of steel were heated, pounded down, and then hammered together against each other. When they reached a sufficient temperature, they would be welded together, folded over each other, and then hammered together again. The cooling, however, was the most crucial part; cool a blade just once, and it would become hard and brittle, and would most likely snap. But if tempered correctly, reheated and quenched over and over, the steel would melt together, making it less apt to crack and giving it a firm but flexible blade.

"Thank you so much," Haladane said, unable to find any other words as he sheathed it again. "But…why?"

"You're a man now, Haladane," Armun grunted. "As of today, I am no longer legally obligated to provide for you, nor you to obey me. And soon enough, you're going to have to learn how to protect yourself."

Armun must have seen the sudden alarm in Haladane's eyes, as he quickly continued. "Don't take that to mean that I'm kicking you out," he assured. "Quite the opposite, in fact; I'd hoped you would stay at least for the harvest season, and as long as you would like after that. However, no longer can we continue to hide from you the truth."

Haladane froze. "What?"

Armun sighed and leaned forward, rubbing his temples. He glanced over to Thalia, seemingly for encouragement, and she gave him a quick nod.

"Haladane…" he began, faltering. "We…"

Armun took a deep breath and then began again, his voice steadier. "We won't blame you if you're angry at us for this; it's completely understandable, but we ask that you at least hear us out first."

Haladane was too shocked to respond for a second. "What do you mean? What are you talking about? Is this something to do with my parents-?"

"Your parents," Thalia said, "did not die in a bandit attack."

Haladane's jaw opened and closed several times, like a fish trying to breath out of water, before he finally managed to wheeze out: "…what?"

"My brother was a reclusive fellow," Armun continued. "I never did know him very well, and Raela even less. However, he was more than a mere farmer, and Raela was no shopkeeper's assistant."

"Then what were they?" Haladane asked automatically. What could his parents possibly have done that Armun and Thalia would lie to him for sixteen years about? Were they criminals? Worse?

"They were Blades," Thalia said.

Haladane blinked. "Blades?"

"Yes," Armun said. "Some of the finest warriors in the Empire, serving as the Emperor's bodyguards and agents."

"Until…" Haladane began.

"Yes," Armun said. "Until the Thalmor came." He practically spat the word.

The Thalmor. The word seemed to darken the room by its very utterance. Haladane was no expert on history, but he knew enough to understand the portent of what he had just heard.

The elven-supremacist government of the Aldmeri Dominion, the Thalmor had nearly destroyed the Empire during the Great War of the Fourth Era. The Empire had only saved itself through the signing of the White-Gold Concordat, which ended the war, but with terms heavily favorable to the Thalmor. It banned the worship of Talos, the man-god of mankind, and gave Thalmor agents free reign to hunt down any who practiced it, as well as establishing a permanent Thalmor embassy in Skyrim's capital of Solitude.

The Blades, loyal to the Empire to their last breath, were seen as threats by the Thalmor, and a great purge began, with most of the organization as well as much of their families being hunted down and killed.

"So," Haladane said, his voice trembling as he came to realize the truth, "the Thalmor killed my parents."

"As far as we know, yes," Armun said. "On the twelfth of Frostfall fifteen years ago, your parents came to our doorstep during the night, begging us to take you from them. They told us to raise you and protect you as our own, and we never saw them again."

"Protect me?" Haladane asked.

"As far as we knew at the time, you were still a legitimate target for the Thalmor," Thalia said, and Haladane realized for the first time what a great risk they had taken in adopting him.

"And what about now?" Haladane asked. "Am I still a…target?"

The silence around the table told him all he needed to know.

Haladane leaned back, his mind reeling as he attempted to take this all in at once. This was just too much. Too much at one time. In a matter of minutes he had gone from a young man without a care in the world to a wanted fugitive.

"I shouldn't be here," he said. "I'm a danger to all of you."

"That's not true," Armun said. "It's been sixteen years; for all we know, the Thalmor may have forgotten about you entirely. We haven't had so much as a single strange visitor in all those years."

"And besides," Thalia said, "the Empire and the Thalmor have been at peace for years now. It's those Stormcloaks that are causing all the trouble."

"Was there anything else he told you?" Haladane asked. "Anything at all?"

The two exchanged glances.

"What?" Haladane asked, leaning forward. "What is it?"

"Before your father left, he gave me a slip of paper and told me not to read it, but to keep it for you until the time came," Armun said. He paused, then said. "I guess this is it."

He left the table, heading back to his room before returning with a small piece of parchment rolled up and sealed with wax.

"This is yours," Armun said.

With shaking hands, Haladane took it, breaking the seal with painstaking care to not damage the paper.

Written inside was a single sentence:

When the time comes that you are not who you once thought you were, talk to Delphine in Riverwood, and ask her what happened on the Twelfth of Frostfall.

"I won't ask you what it says," Armun said. "Those words are for your eyes alone. But I do ask that before you act, you take the time to think carefully about where you will go and what you will do."

Haladane nodded slowly, rolling the parchment back up and tucking it into a pocket. "I will," he promised.

For a moment longer, the table was silent as everyone mulled over these new developments, and then Thalia said, "On a bit of a lighter note, there is one other thing we have for you."

"Do I really want it?" Haladane said, only half-joking.

Thalia's smile was strained, but genuine. "Oh, I do believe you do," she said, reaching behind her to retrieve another letter from the counter. "This one's also for you; it was delivered just yesterday from Helgen."

From Helgen? There was only one person in Helgen that would bother to send him a letter.

Haladane practically snatched the letter as Thalia handed it to him, opening it up with an excitement he could scarcely contain and beginning to read:

Dear Haladane,

I'm sorry that I have not been writing as much recently; life has been rather stressful lately. I do hope that you're having a wonderful sixteenth birth-day; I only wish I could be there to celebrate with you.

However, if you are willing and able, I would like to make it up to you. If you are able, I can meet you in Helgen tomorrow morning and give you my best wishes in person.

Sincerely,

Ariadne Mirasdaughter

"Well?" Thalia asked, a grin chasing around the corners of her mouth. "What does she say?"

"She wants to meet me in Helgen tomorrow," Haladane said excitedly, glancing around. "That would be okay, right? I mean, I can get up early and do the chores tomorrow if you need-"

"I think that it will be just fine," Thalia interrupted, glancing at Armun.

"I've got a few errands for you to do in town anyways," Armun said with a smile. "I think it could be arranged."

"Thank you!" Haladane said. "You won't regret it, I promise!"

"I'm sure we won't, dear," Thalia chuckled as she pushed back her chair and began to collect the plates.

The rest of the day passed by in a blur. He spent part of the evening practicing with his new sword behind the house on an old scarecrow, but he realized that he would have to find someone to teach him if he wanted to really learn how to use the weapon to its greatest potential; currently, in his hands, it was no better than a sharpened cudgel. Armun did not know how to fight with swords, only how to make them, but he was sure that at the very least there would be some soldiers in Helgen he could learn the basics from.

That night when he retired to his bed, he found sleep long in coming. How long he lay there, staring up at the darkened ceiling, he had no recollection, his mind too flustered by the day's events to fall into restful sleep. After what seemed like hours, he finally slipped into unconsciousness…

…he was stalking a buck through the woods, into a deep and dark portion of the mountain forest into which he rarely ventured. He nocked an arrow to his string, pulling back and preparing to fire, and the deer suddenly transformed, morphing into a grinning Thalmor wizard, dark magic crackling at his fingers…

…he was running through a darkened tunnel, deep underground, with all manner of roots protruding from the walls, snagging at his clothing as he ran. Unknown monsters of darkness and shadow would rear up before him, and when he slashed at them with his sword, they would merely vanish, reappearing again farther down…

…he was in a green field, sitting on a hill with Ariadne, enjoying a meal as they watched the world go by. He looked over at her, and she looked so beautiful, with the wind blowing through her hair, laughing as he handed her a flower…

…and then the field was gone, replaced by a curtain of dancing flame. He looked around frantically, looking for Ariadne, but she was gone. The flames were growing higher, while the rumbling, evil laughter of some massive beast echoed across the burning plains…

…and then there was a voice. It was a great and terrible voice, with a strength that exceeded mere men. It was the voice of a god, terrible and thundering in its sound, and it proclaimed with such force that Haladane felt certain the world must surely fall to pieces from the sheer power behind it: "Did you think me defeated?"