Prologue:
The quiet of the Firien Wood was shattered suddenly by a vortex of black-violet light.
All the animals in the clearing fled with cries of alarm, darting into nearby bushes and scrambling quickly up the nearest trees.
They and the trees and the stars far above were the only witnesses of the sight of a gasping woman emerging from the swirl of light, clutching a blanket swaddled bundle to her breast. The light vanished and less than a moment later, the woman collapsed, her entire body heaving with quiet sobs as she came to her knees.
The wind stirred in the b ranches and the trees seemed to lean closer ever so slightly, as though they, like their animal inhabitants, wished to get a closer view of this strange sight.
For it was plain now that the woman was badly injured; the scent of blood tainted the air, and the woman's leather armor bore a large hole in the lower left abdomen. The space beneath this hole was covered with a liquid that looked black in the dark beneath the weakened light of the stars.
The woman's ragged hair, the same color as the shadows beneath the trees, fell over her face as she lifted the bundle up to her lips.
"I'm sorry, my dear one," she whispered, voice ragged with pain and tears. "I will not be able to stay with you, but I have managed to get you away from them."
A quiet cry, sounding upset and confused, emanated from the bundle.
"I'm sorry," the woman whispered again, pressing her lips to the top of the bundle. "Be strong, my little dragon. Be strong and brave for me."
Another cry from the bundle, louder and more desperate. Two small arms became visible, reaching up for the woman's face. The woman gave a brief smile, taut with pain, as two tiny hands pressed against her cheeks. She closed her eyes, more tears slipping free as she reached up with her left hand, holding a much smaller one in her own. She opened her eyes again.
"Mama loves you, baby girl," she whispered; the effort it took made it seem that the whole of the woman's soul was contained in those words. "Mother loves you so, so much."
Almost the moment the last words left her lips, the woman collapsed, eyes closing for the final time. She fell on her left side, the bundle still clasped to her chest. Her breath rattled in her throat once, twice, before her chest went still.
The heavy silence of death hung over the clearing.
It lasted only a few moments before being shattered by a cry. For, as the animals and the trees had suspected, the thing in the bundle was a child, a human baby that couldn't have been more than a few months old. The child was now struggling out of her blankets, loud, wailing cries leaving her mouth nonstop, tears rolling freely down her cheeks as she tugged on locks of black hair and slapped at bloodless cheeks, trying desperately to wake her mother.
The trees began immediately to whisper among themselves. The animals in the branches joined in. One, however, did not, and instead stepped from the cover of the shadows and approached the source of the commotion.
All chatter in the trees ceased as Carantar, leader of the Firien wolf pack, walked slowly toward the child, who in her distress and confusion at her mother's unresponsiveness hadn't noticed him.
The forest held its collective breath as the wolf came to stand over the child, who still had yet to notice him. Carantar lowered his head, scenting the child's tufted black hair.
Startled by the sound, the child turned about, unbalancing herself in the process and collapsing onto her dead mother's shoulder. She stared up at the large, gray thing towering over her, tear-filled green eyes filling with curiosity as the wolf lowered his nose toward her face. Her cries stopped the instant his soft, velvety muzzle came into contact with her head, and with a questioning gurgle she raised a hand up toward his nose.
"Carantar!" at the voice of his mate Nimril, Carantar raised his head and looked over his shoulder at his white-furred alpha female as she trotted toward him. "What in the name of the stars and rivers are you doing?"
"Her scent is wrong."
The white wolf stopped and blinked, perplexed. "What?"
"Her scent; it isn't human."
Puzzled and curious now, Nimril came to stand beside her mate and lowered her head, taking in the child's scent. The baby giggled as the she-wolf's whiskers tickled her head and proceeded to reach up and bat playfully at the wolf's nose. Her first blow was right on target and Nimril drew back with a startled snort. The baby laughed and clapped, and Carantar's tail twitched in amusement as his mate wrinkled her nose, more in indignation than out of any real pain.
"You're right, it smells human and yet… not," Nimril said. She lowered her head, mindful of the child's waving arms this time, and examined the baby critically. "Do you think there is something wrong with it?"
"It does not smell like an illness, and the child seems healthy," Carantar said, studying the infant himself.
"Do you think this is why it and its mother were attacked?"
"I would not be surprised," Carantar said dryly as the child, the novelty of the wolves having worn off, returned her attention to trying to wake her mother. He watched as the child pressed a tiny hand against her mother's cheek, nudging gently with a small sound of confusion. When her mother didn't respond, the child's pushes became harder, her sounds becoming steadily more distressed. Before the child could fully panic, Carantar gently nosed her away from her mother's corpse, pushing her toward him.
"Carantar!" Nimril said as the child tried to move back to her mother and Nimril's mate gently grabbed her by the back of her woven shirt and pulled her away again. "You're not planning on keeping it, are you? It's a human baby! You know how helpless they are!"
"I do not intend to 'keep it'," Carantar answered, nudging the baffled infant as she came to lie between his forepaws. "I intend to take it to humans who can raise it."
"The nearest village is five days' hard run from here! The pups are nowhere near strong enough to make such a journey," NImril said.
"I will wait until I deem it safe to leave the pack to itself for a while, and then I will take the child."
"That will be at least a month," Nimril said. "How do you plan to feed it?"
"Mithlas is producing plenty of milk, as are you."
"What ?" Nimril barked while her mate lowered his head, both to nuzzle the infant and hide his grin., "You expect me to feed it?"
"No," Carantar responded. "Mithlas has enough milk herself, and I'm certain she will be more than willing to take the child. You may help her if you choose to."
Nimril flicked her tail in annoyance. Carantar huffed in amusement, then returned his attention to the infant that had latched itself onto his right foreleg and was making questioning little mewling sounds.
"Hush, little one," he said, gently licking the tears from her face. The child did quiet down, then proceeded to giggle as the wolf continued his wash. With a happy coo, she reached up to touch his face. Carantar allowed the touch, pressing his nose to the infant's forehead in response.
His mate growled, startling him into looking up. Nimril wasn't looking at him, though; she was looking to the East, her lips pulled back in a snarl.
"Carantar, grab the pup and run!" she growled.
Stunned by his mate's sudden concession, Carantar opened his mouth. As though sensing his hesitation, Nimril whipped around and growled at him.
"The Deadwalkers are back, and I am not so heartless as to leave any sort of pup defenseless with them around!"
All the fur along Carantar's spine rose at the mention of those creatures. As though cued, a wailing cry shattered the nightly silence. Another piercing cry answered it, and this one was considerably closer to the clearing.
Carantar reached down and snatched up the child, who had gone rigid with terror upon hearing the first cry. Nimril sprang past him as he turned, leading the way back into the shadows of the trees.
Realms away, a figure sat on a throne constructed of books. His eyes were closed, though none could tell by looking at him; he wore a golden mask, shaped in the manner of some tentacled beast.
He was not happy. He had been trapped in this realm for several millennia now, and had been plotting his escape practically the moment he'd discovered his imprisonment. Finding a way out wasn't the difficult part; all the knowledge of the universe was at his fingertips, after all. No, it was keeping his movements and plans hidden from the daedric prince who ruled over this little corner of Oblivion.
Hermaeus Mora. The man's lips sneered in derision at the thought of the creature's name. Oh, yes. Soon, Master, I will be free of you. And I fully intend to make you pay for trapping me here.
It was almost time; he was simply waiting for word from his servants in Tamriel that they had completed their tasks, and then he would be able to begin working to free himself without having to worry about interference from the other side.
"Lord Miraak."
The Seeker's garbled words took him abruptly from his thoughts; he'd been so absorbed he hadn't noticed the creature's approach.
"What is it?" he asked, allowing enough annoyance to color his voice that the creature was visibly unsettled.
"Your servants on the mortal plane have send a message, my Lord."
Finally. "And?"
At this point the creature became even more agitated, beginning to drift side to side as it hovered. "They… they report that they were able to find and slay all remaining members of the Dragonborn bloodlines…,"
"But?" Miraak prompted. There had obviously been one at the end of that sentence.
"One of them… escaped. A woman. Your servants report that she was mortally wounded but… she had a child."
"And they are certain this child was hers?"
"Yes, my Lord."
"And if she was mortally wounded and holding a child, how, perchance, did she manage to escape them?" Miraak hissed, his anger stirring the dragon's blood in his veins. The Seeker flinched as though struck.
"My Lord, she was a mage, a powerful mage, very knowledgeable in the school of conjuration. When she saw that she would not survive, she grabbed the child and opened a portal."
That got Miraak's attention. Few mages were powerful or skilled enough to accomplish such a feat. If her progeny turned out to be Dragonborn…,
"A portal to where?"
"They do not know, my Lord."
At this Miraak fell silent, leaning back on his throne as he pondered this development. Several minutes passed in silence, the figure on the throne so motionless that when he finally straightened the Seeker was visibly startled.
"Well, all she has likely succeeded in doing is trapping the child," Miraak laughed. "And if she traveled to one of the planes of Oblivion, then she's doomed the child to a far worse death than it would have suffered at the hands of my followers."
With this Miraak pushed himself to his feet, walking past the Seeker to the edge of the platform and raising his masked face to the putrid green sky of Apocrypha.
"Relonikiv! Het! Nu!" he Shouted, the summons echoing across the wide expanse of poisonous black liquid. Barely a moment later he felt the dragon's answering call.
"Geh, Thuri. I come."
Wherever the child had ended up, it was as good as dead. With all the other Dragonborn lines wiped out, no one would have any hope of stopping Miraak when he returned to the mortal plane.
And if the World Eater should chance to return as prophesized… well, Miraak would be more than happy to send the worm back to whatever plane of existence he had first crawled from.
Tamriel belonged to him, and him alone.