Blade of the Emperor

Book I: Shadows of the Past

Chapter One


North Point, Imperial Province of High Rock, Summer 4E201

Magnus had dawned that morning with a pale, clear light, bringing with him the promise of clear skies and easy winds to the sailors and boatmen who watched his appearance with the apprehension known only to those whose livelihood depends on the vagaries of the gods. And though no man may know the mind of a god, on this day, at least, the sailors were hopeful, and many a hasty prayer was offered that the day's early promise might mature into a fuller and more plentiful middle - and, perhaps, were it not too much to ask, a quiet end as well.

Alain took a deep breath, and the chill air burned its way down into his lungs, wakening him with the vibrant smell of morning and the sea. He had taken a room at one of the city's inns rather than take the long walk home and had risen before the dawn, as was his custom. The city around him was still largely asleep, but a few were now stirring in their stone houses; their lamps glinted through windows and between alleyways as the early risers began their daily business.

How alone we all are, he thought, as he watched a young woman open her door and begin to tend the garden bed which rested so decoratively on her home's front porch. She was not poor to be certain, he reflected, owning even a such modest home within the city; the woman was not beautiful, he decided, but she bore herself with such a composure, such a self-assuredness that he could not help but be captivated by her fine, high-boned, unlined features; her long blonde tresses were bound carelessly behind her head in a simple braid, a kind of elegant sprezzatura that gave her the air of an exceptional courtier, consumed with ability as an end, rather than the mere appearance of it.

She looked up and saw him staring; their eyes met and she looked hurriedly away. Alain smiled sadly to himself, remembering the joy of companionship, and then the pain of its denial; before him stood the temple of Kynareth, its high stone arches lined by the growing sunlight. Entering through the dark wooden doorway, he reached up and reflexively touched the amulet resting beneath his tunic.

By some trick or skill or art architectural or arcane, light flooded into the temple, giving the unfailing impression of having entered another world composed solely of luminance. The priestess, hooded and robed, looked up at his entrance; recognition warmed her gentle, pious greeting, and she crossed to meet him. Always she managed to make him feel self-conscious, in her fine robes, and he in a simple sailor's rough garb. It was unintentional, he knew, but she so succeeded in capturing the dignity and beauty of her goddess' presence that he always felt blessed to enter the temple she so diligently kept.

The shallow pool in the temple's center - no more than a handbreadth deep - was so still as to be like mirrorglass; the morning light gave it an ethereal clarity, and Alain watched as the priestess effortlessly crossed the small stone walkway which bisected the pool. She returned his bow as she reached him, and silently took his arm.

It was a large temple, and well-patronized, Alain knew, having seen many others across Tamriel, but this morning they were alone. They walked together, as they often did, moving up to the temple's higher reaches, where a glimpse of the sea might be caught on a clear morning such as this, and where the breeze could twist through one's hair, bringing hints of far-off lands and peoples unknown or once-forgotten. They would stand there, until the sun was past the horizon, talking of things they had seen, and people they had known long ago.

She had once been a mercenary, and had fought in every province of the Empire before finally taking a wound that had nearly killed her. Rosalyn had never revealed to him how she had come to be a priestess; he had never asked. She considered that fair, given that Alain had never revealed how a warrior such as he had come to be a simple fisherman.

Rosalyn watched him as he stared out the high temple windows; the stance and tone of his body, the hardness of his eyes and features, the scar on his cheek - even the way he wore his hair all told of years of hard experience for those with eyes to see; to others he would seem no more and no less than a mildly prosperous fisherman of High Rock.

Alain noticed her gaze at last, and turned to meet it. There was pain in his eyes, she realized, and for a moment she felt a wound in her heart that this moment between them was a source of suffering. Then she saw something else, a feeling, deep within; a moment grew between them, a sense of tension, of the precipice. Rosalyn felt, rather than saw him lean forward slightly, as if to bring some consummation about, but instead he closed his eyes and turned his head away.

She understood, at last, and reached out to take his hand in her own; her fingers slipped between his as he looked at her once more, and she squeezed his hand gently. They smiled quietly to one another as they stood, bathed in sunlight and the cool, calm winds of the sea.


Seagulls called and squabbled incessantly with each other above the harbor, arguing over scraps and the occasional roosting place. They were a part of the sea, Alain mused, as much as we are, he supposed. The masts and rigging of the harbor's ships formed a small forest on the ocean's outskirts. Though it was still early in the morning, the barkers had already taken up residence, selling this or that to new-come passengers or weary sailors, and finding their business well-prepared for their advances.

Alain smiled to himself at the weary cycle of things, and proceeded down the dock to where his own vessel - a simple one-man craft - awaited him.

Slipping out into the open ocean, Alain readied his nets, and soon after began to fish. It stayed clear throughout the day, and though it became briefly warm after the noonday sun, the weather was pleasant enough, fulfilling the promise it had given at the day's dawning. But despite the pleasantry the catch was not a good one, and Alain turned for shore with some disappointment.

His return was observed by several old hands as they reclined at an old inn just barely removed from the harbor itself. It survived more by simple inertia rather than anything else.

"I swear, brother," remarked one old salt to the other, "that man's got no damn sense. Tryna make a living off a one-man piece of shit like that."

The other nodded his agreement. "He's no great sailor, neither, I tell you, brother. Watch as he tries to bring 'er into harbor." And indeed, they watched intently, missing nothing. Certainly to the outside observer there could be nothing lacking in the little boat's performance, but to those whose entire lives had been spent in the accomplishment of such tasks, the recent sailor stood out without chance of concealment. "I'll bet he didn't make no great catch neither." The other nodded slowly.

"But he seems to make a living well enough."

"Chana! Another set of ale, if you please!" His great, booming voice, accustomed to shouting across a galley's deck, filled the small inn and spilled boisterously out of it, startling the young woman already approaching their usual table.

"Well I'm already here, ain't I?" Came the annoyed reply as she set down the two tankards of ale and departed with a wink.

One kept his weather eyes on the serving girl's departure, while the other returned his attention to the small fishing boat now mooring alongside the dock.

"Might you know who that is, then?" asked the man a table over, drawing a suspicious glance from both of the older men.

"Might do," replied the one. "What's it to you, friend?"

"Oh, nothing," came the half-laughed reply, "I'm just looking to hire out a boat and thought he might be the one for me. Do you know much about him?"

A shrug was his most expressive answer. "Not really. Been around, what, five years..." he looked to his brother for confirmation, who shook his head, "six?" he questioned, received a nod, and continued, "six years at least, but keeps to himself mostly. Has a house way out on The Point, outside the city walls, but spends time at the inn when he's fishing, or at the temple," a smirk, here, "if you're looking to catch him that might be the place to start."

The newcomer nodded thoughtfully, and tossed a septim onto their table in thanks, laughing internally at the foolishness of age. They watched him as he walked out of the tavern, shaking their heads in joined disgust at the impudence of youth.

The younger man paused on the street outside, unaware of the disapprobation directed towards him; the grimy cobblestones gritted beneath his boots, and the shouts and calls of sailors filled the afternoon air. It would be impossible, he decided, to intercept his target on the docks, but if he caught the man leaving the temple he would lead them right to his home. A sweep was the only other alternative, he supposed, but he knew that Lylim disliked such imprecise measures, especially for operations such as this. His feet had taken him along the road towards the temple of Kynareth and there, indeed, was his quarry, conversing quietly with a delicate Breton priestess of around his age.


He bid her farewell at the steps of the temple as the sun began its slow sinking towards the western horizon. Their eyes lingered upon each other, and he looked back twice before turning the corner leading to the main gate, and still she stood there watching after him. Alain felt a pride that he had not felt in a long time; the pride which comes from knowing one is valued, that one is loved.

It was a long walk to his home by the sea. He lived in a small village, tributary to the great city of North Point, but wealthy in its own way. Though the city was one of the cleanest he had ever seen, it was still occupied by a great press of humanity, and Alain had been too long subjected to such a life to willingly return to it now.

His village was a few hours' walk away, and he found the solitude afforded by its isolation was not unbearable - and often preferable to the raucous noise of urban life. Alain enjoyed the silence, the smell of the flowers still blooming beside the road, the still-heard roar of the breakers on the shore. A luna moth descended from the sky and fluttered along the road ahead of him, its shimmering blue wings glinted in the light of the moons. He stopped suddenly; half-buried instincts from another life warning him of unseen danger behind him. Alain turned and inspected the road behind him, looking for any sign of pursuit. A minute or more he stood there, motionless and watchful, but no danger revealed itself.

Up ahead Alain could see the lights of his village shining through windows and doorways as the final business of the day was carried out, and the people prepared for the night. It was warm, and Alain could feel the weariness of the day weighting down his limbs; it was a good feeling, a tangible reminder of the work he had done and of a day well spent.

Friendly faces greeted his return, and he smiled in response, feeling the jingle of gold in his purse. It had not been an exceptional catch, but he had sold enough to live on for a while, and it was not as if he needed the money to survive.

He turned off the road, taking a path down to the sea's edge. The sounds of even the village were cut off here, leaving him alone with the sea. Alain stripped off his boots and tunic, leaving only the amulet around his neck. The warm sea lapped against his ankles as he waded into it; the leap submerged him and cleansed him as the salty brine washed the dust of the road away.

Alain swam back and forth along the beach, letting the soreness of his muscles fade away in the warmth of the sea's embrace. When he was done, and the sun had touched its rim to the horizon's edge, Alain pulled himself slowly from the water and sat naked on the beach, watching as the sun's reflection lengthened across the ocean, reaching out across the water as if to touch him, like the great red finger of a god.

Once, long ago, he had shared moments like this; moments which changed a person in ways so small that they could not be identified. Such moments might still be shared, but could he open himself to that kind of change? Was he able any longer to do such a thing?

The sun had set fully by the time he returned to his home, a small stone house built many years ago, but still comfortable and roomy for Alain. With the door closed and latched behind him, Alain stripped off his clothing and sank gratefully into his bed.


Brandon coughed as the wind shifted, blowing smoke back towards him from the smouldering city and ruffling the white horse-hair crest of his helmet. The city's high walls still stood as strong as they had only days before, when Ulfric's banner had waved proudly above them.

Now that banner was gone, replaced by the red and black symbol of the Empire. Before its fall, Riften had been the last Stormcloak stronghold outside of Windhelm, and now all eyes turned north, to where the last rebel army lay in wait. Two legions, under Fasendil and Hrollod, would move north from the Rift; Telendas and Tituleius would drive South from Winterhold, while Rikke, Cipius, Admand, Duilius and Skulnar moved east under the command of General Tullius to crush Ulfric once and for all.

But that was all in the future; for now there was a city to occupy and prisoners to disposition.

His men stood ranked behind him, their blue tunics distinguishing them from the red of the other imperial soldiers. They held themselves proudly, aloof from the other legionaries; they were a special unit, for each legion had only two antesignani centuries attached to it. They did not stand in the line of battle; they were light infantry, giving the legion reach and flexibility: eyes to watch its van and trail for signs of ambush. But they could fight, Brandon knew; how they could fight.

The city's gates lay open, and from it shuffled long slow lines of prisoners; Brandon and his men watched them dispassionately as they passed; a few stormcloaks tossed curses and looks of hatred, but his men ignored them.

Minutes before, one of his soldiers had tried to take advantage of a prisoner - had wanted some gold or plunder. But an old sergeant - who hadn't had the learning to pass for centurion - remembered the Great War, and had beaten the man bloody. "The Nords fought with us, boy," he had said, "they deserve our respect for that, at least." The young legionary had spat a gobbet of blood onto the ground and returned stiffly to the formation. "Sorry about that, sir," the sergeant had apologized, coming to attention in front of Brandon and saluting.

"Carry on, sergeant," Brandon had replied, returning the salute, "you were quite right to take action."

"Thank you, sir," said the sergeant, taking Brandon's nod as dismissal.

The prisoners would be taken to a holding area at the army's base camp; there they would be given a choice: duty in a labor camp for five years after the war's end, or entry into the legion and posting far from Skyrim. To Brandon it seemed an efficient and pragmatic measure.

"Well, Brandon," said Legate Rikke, appearing unexpectedly nearby, "that was a pretty stiff business." Her mounted guard circled watchfully around her as she spoke, their horses and uniforms immaculate, and their eyes ever-watchful.

"Yes ma'am, it was." She returned his salute silently.

"Close run, there, for awhile," she continued, and Brandon nodded silently. "Your men did very well indeed." Here she dismounted, and handed her horse's reins to a member of her guard. "I would have prefered," she paused, considering, her eyes never leaving Brandon's, "I would have prefered to give this before the legion, but with matters so pressing..." she waved a hand. "Bring forth your standard."

Brandon turned to issue the appropriate order, but his men had been listening, and the standard bearer was already approaching.

"Kneel," she commanded gently, and Brandon knelt, the standard lowering across his left shoulder. Rikke brought out a bronze medallion a handbreadth in diameter, and affixed it reverently to the standard's crosspiece. "Let all know," she spoke, and her voice carried to every member of Brandon's century, "that on this day I award you and your men the Imperial citation for gallantry, touched by the Emperor's own hand; bear it proudly henceforth." Then she took Brandon by the hand and raised him up, kissing him on each cheek. His men shouted their approbation, and beat their spearshafts upon the steel rims of their upraised shields.

A hand clapped down on Brandon's shoulder, and it all faded: the cheers, the smoke, the defeated prisoners; all that remained was the wall, still scorched from the fires of its taking. He was no longer First Centurion Brandon of Cyrodiil with one hundred men under his command; now he was merely... Brandon.

He turned to face the Riften guard who stood behind him. Dark eyes glinted from behind the helmet's eyeslits. "Are you wanting entrance to the city?"

"Yes."

The guard squared his shoulders and held out a hand. "You'll be paying the toll, then: ten septims."

"You're joking." The guard shook his head.

"Very well," Brandon sighed, and pulled ten gold coins out of his dwindling purse. "Is there an exit toll as well?" His tone was biting.

"Indeed not, sir," replied the guard, sounding mildly offended, and indicated to the gatehouse that it was all clear. The two other guards there relaxed, and returned their attention to their dice game.

"Oh, where might I find a bed for the night?"

The guard hesitated before answering. "If it's just a bed you're after, try the Bee and Barb."

Brandon inclined his head in polite thanks, wondering at the guard's strange reply, and entered the city he had seen only once before. She was not beautiful, and certainly not wealthy. Indeed, to Brandon's eye, she had the air of an ailing aunt, who survives on her past merits and her family's indulgence. The people who walked her streets seemed downtrodden and dismayed, uninterested in the warmth of the air or the color of the sky.

It took him a while to find the inn, and gathered him many an odd glance; Riften, it seemed, was not accustomed to strangers. Later, rather than sooner, Brandon found himself at the inn, just as evening was beginning to set. Squaring his shoulders, Brandon pushed his way through the door and found himself in a brightly-lit tavern with many patrons.

"Ah!" Exclaimed a Redguard man at his entrance, his dark eyes fixed fervently on Brandon, "another heathen come to partake of your villainous services?"

Immediately confused, Brandon looked behind him, ensuring that it was in fact he, Brandon, who was being addressed. No more sinful individual appeared behind him, leaving Brandon with the uncomfortable conclusion that he was about to be harangued.

"You must agree sir, do you not, that the return of the dragons is not mere coincidence." The priest's eyes shone fervently beneath his yellow hood. "I say that this is one of the signs: the signs that Lady Mara is displeased with your constant inebriation." Here he began addressing the inn as a whole. "Put down your flagons filled with your vile liquids and embrace the teachings of the handmaiden of Kyne!"

An Argonian woman interrupted just as the priest drew in a breath with which to continue his sermon.

"No, no... Maramal, we talked about this." She looked desperately around, her eyes finally fixing on another Argonian who was approaching from the far side of the room. "Talen..." Her voice trailed off pleadingly.

The priest rounded on her. "Keerava," his voice now soft and full of understanding, "certainly we can come to an understanding. These people must be aware of the chaos they have sown."

The second Argonian broke in on the conversation. "But what of these rumors of a Dragonborn?" he asked, "Certainly that must be a sign as well, must it not?" Keerava nodded gently in agreement, looking gratefully at the newcomer.

"Perhaps, perhaps," murmured Maramal, but the priest was not to be so lightly dissuaded from his message. "But wherever this Dragonborn, may be, if he even exists," Brandon was now on the forgotten fringes of the conversation, "he can never triumph without the aid of the Goddess - aid which you sybarites deny him by your insistence upon this vile drink!"

The other Argonian spoke harshly now; he was angry, and his voice carried across the entire tavern. "Enough Maramal. We've all heard of the dragons and their return. There's no need to use them as an excuse to harass our customers."

"Very well, Talen-Jei," sniffed the priest, "I will remove myself from this den of iniquity."

"Please Maramal," Keerava said softly, "we're not kicking you out, but... please, keep the sermons at the temple and let us all sin in peace."

Maramal brushed wordlessly past Brandon and let the door slam behind him. Talen-Jei looked apologetic, but waited for Keerava to recover herself.

"I'm sorry about that stranger," she said, passing a hand across her eyes before looking up at him, "but that's been building for a while. Ever since the dragons appeared he's been harping at all of us...

"Anyway. What can we do for you? A hot meal, perhaps?"

Brandon shook his head, "No, thank you, but perhaps some brandy if you have it?"

Talen-Jei nodded and led Brandon towards the bar, where he poured a small glass of Colovian Brandy and slid it across the well-polished wood.

Brandon sipped the brandy contemplatively as he took a seat at the bar, feeling the questioning eyes of the tavern's patrons moving interrogatively across his back. He shifted uncomfortably, feeling their gaze across his weather-stained cloak and boots, the black-sheathed longsword that was slung across his back, his short-cut shock of dark brown hair. A close, closeted group of people.

Forcing a smile on his face, Brandon returned his attention to the bartender, who was busy tidying up behind the bar. Brandon cleared his throat; Talen-Jei looked up, a little startled.

"Yes?"

"There is something else, actually. I'm looking for someone." Talen-Jei's eyes narrowed slightly, and Brandon sensed the other Argonian, Keerava, approaching. Brandon sipped the brandy again before continuing. "Yes. A friend told me to find a man named Brynjolf, but as you can tell I'm new and..."

Talen-Jei released his breath in a hiss that took Brandon off guard.

"You won't find him here, that's for certain. So why don't you show yourself out. No associate of Brynjolf's is welcome here."

"But..." was the only thing Brandon managed before a strong hand slipped its way around his bicep. He twisted, reaching his right hand around to grasp the hilt of his dagger. A woman confronted him, a Nord, dark-haired and dangerous.

"Easy, friend," she said, eyeing the dagger hidden beneath his cloak, "wouldn't want to start something you couldn't finish."

"That right?" Brandon asked archly, but she only nodded. Brandon kept his fingers wrapped tightly around the dagger.

"Why are you looking for Brynjolf?" she asked, making no protest as Brandon wrested his arm from her grip.

"That sounds like business between me and him. What's it to you?" The woman opened her mouth to reply, but Keerava cut in.

"I want both of you out of here. I run a peaceful establishment, or Mara knows, I try. So please, if you have a grievance, take it elsewhere."

The woman stared viciously at the irate Argonian, but finally relented. "Fine," she said at last, "come along, stranger." Brandon, uncertain of what to do, shrugged, glanced apologetically at Keerava and Talen-Jei, tossed a few septims on the bar, and followed the woman out into the night.

Riften's streets were dark and lifeless; the only light came from the moons overhead.

"What's your name, stranger?"

For a moment, Brandon considered lying. He had no idea who this woman was, who she represented, or what she might do. But he was not a deceitful man, and, for all his experience, he liked to think the best of people.

"Brandon," he answered, and the woman grunted skeptically; perhaps she had the same doubts.

"And what do you want with Brynjolf?" she asked again.

"I said already that my business is my own. If you know where Brynjolf is, why don't you take me to him and we'll get this settled right now?"

The woman sighed wearily. "You don't seem to understand: you don't see Brynjolf until I say so, got it?" She sighed again. "So why don't you tell me what you want and maybe I'll take you to Brynjolf."

"I'm looking for a man."

The woman snorted. "Sounds to me like you're looking for two." Brandon ignored her sally and continued.

"My friend told me that he was here in Riften, hiding, and that Brynjolf would know where to find him."

"Is that so?"

"It is."

"And the reward for this service would be..." she trailed off.

Brandon hesitated, again uncertain of the extent to which he could trust, well, anyone. He took a risk and pulled a heavy purse from within his cloak.

The woman was silent for several seconds as she appraised its contents. "Ah." she said, breaking the silence at last. "Then perhaps I might be able to lead you to Brynjolf after all."

"What's your name?" Brandon asked, and she froze, half-turned from him.

"Sapphire," she answered, and led him on.


It seemed wrong, somehow, that even in the dark, dust rose from their boots and their horses' hooves to cloud around them, choking and blinding them. They cursed the horsemen ahead of them, and the moons above them for giving light to their torment.

Asliel twisted around, shifting his spear to his left shoulder in an attempt to reach the loosened leather strap that bound his breastplate against him. He grunted in frustration as his gauntleted fingers fumbled clumsily with the strap, and he cursed silently the blacksmith who had so clearly bungled the forging of his armor.

The corporal ahead of him looked back and glared, but Asliel raised a placating hand, and the corporal turned away.

A hand tapped him on the shoulder, and then reached down to grasp the strap and pull it tight. Asliel looked gratefully back at Kael, who grinned in response; his white teeth shone in the moonlight.

"What in oblivion are we doing out here anyway?" whispered Asliel, moving his spear back to the more comfortable right shoulder.

"Don't know for sure, brother," replied his comrade with a despairing shrug, "but Maenan says we're after some Blade or something - fought in the First War, supposedly."

Asliel dismissed that idea with an abrasive, "Pff," which brought another threatening look from the corporal. "What, the twenty-five of us going after one old man? Don't be ridiculous brother."

Kael shrugged, still convinced of the veracity of his rumors. "Maybe," he said, "but those Blades were something else, or so I've heard; there's a couple in the company as fought in the War - might be you should ask them; might be you'll hear more than you'd want."

The pair fell silent as the column continued along the dirt road, and after a few hours of marching they halted, the lights of North Point fading in the distance.

Kael and Asliel sank down against a berm at the side of the road, and shared a drink of water from Asliel's canteen as they rested. Their helmets off, they could hear much better, and the night sounds carried far across the landscape; they were still a ways from the sea, but the crash of the waves on the shore could be heard even here. "Almost reminds me of home," murmured Asliel, and Kael nodded in silent agreement.

"Do you remember how warm it used to be on nights like this?" He asked. "My father and I used to go fishing together at our village just outside Skywatch. We used to catch-"

Kael was cut short by Asliel's raised hand, and a quiet "shhh, something's happening." Up ahead a shadow detached itself from the roadside and approached their leader, Lylim, a Thalmor Justiciar sent all the way from Daggerfall to command their mission.

"Is it done?" Asked Lylim of the shadow.

"It is, my lord," replied the shadow; a Man by his accent - Breton, maybe - and Asliel sneered.

"Lead us to him, and the gold-" here Lylim held out a large purse of coin, "-will be yours."

The shadow paused, seemingly calculating the wealth contained in that leather bag, and then bowed his head. "Yes, lord."

Asliel looked across at Kael, who merely grinned at being proven right. Asliel shook his head in disgust. A few minutes of blissful rest passed, and Asliel began nodding off, his head sinking down and then jerking up as he caught himself. His efforts at staying conscious became less earnest with each passing minute, until finally...

"Get up, you useless sacks. We're moving." The corporal kicked Asliel's foot as he passed, proceeding to wake the rest of the file with similarly silent encouragement.

Asliel sighed and buckled on his helmet before turning to help Kael do the same. The horsemen remounted, the archers reformed, and the watchmen pulled back in from their posts. The dust which had just settled back to the ground was roused up again by the iron horseshoes, lifting up to choke the soldiers in the rear as they marched along towards their final goal.

Another few hours of marching saw them to it; the shadow always ahead with Lylim, guiding him on which fork to take, and how much further was the man's village. Until finally there it was, nestled between the sea and the slope of a small ridge, and there, further back and separated from the main village, was a solitary house: their target.

The captain gave the signal, and they silently moved off the road, breaking into little sub-units to surround and contain their enemy's home. Asliel and Kael followed the corporal's lead, trailing behind Lylim and creeping silently towards the dark and shuttered house. The archers took position on the ridge overlooking them, and the others spread out, circling around to cut off all possibility of escape.

Three split off to cover the house's front door while they, Raven, the captain, and Lylim crept to the back.

"Ready?" whispered the captain. They nodded, and Lylim made an impatient gesture; magicka glittered in blue sparks around his fingertips, and the hair on Asliel's neck stood on end to see him demonstrate even this evidence of his arcane power.

The captain gave the signal and Raven kicked the door in, his bulky armored form following soon after. Asliel and Kael burst in after him as Lylim sent a spark of magelight in to light their way. From the far side of the house they heard the other team enter, the crash of the front doorway carried far, and dogs began barking in the village, bringing with them a few shouts and curses.

Raven fell heavily to the floor, the magelight reflecting darkly in the spray of blood that issued from his lacerated neck. The dark, curved sword withdrew from their comrade's neck with but a whisper, and settled back into a fighting stance.

The target had been alerted, somehow, and Raven had paid the price. There the Breton stood, shirtless, his long brown hair in disarray, but he was awake and alive.

Asliel brought up his spear and joined shields with Kael, each covering the other as they advanced cautiously toward their enemy. He gave a shout, and beat aside Asliel's spear and spun around, trying to get on their flank, but then there was the captain, bringing up his own shield to block the stroke. The Akaviri sword skittered off the elven metal, sending sparks flying through the air as the captain riposted, his sword darting forward to seek their enemy's flesh.

But he was too quick: the Breton jumped back, his hair flying about his face, and parried the blow, sending it far wide, and off-balancing the captain. Like a snake he moved in, his katana hissing through the air, but Asliel moved up and stabbed out with his long-bladed spear. The blow almost connected, forcing a clumsy parry from the Breton, who retreated once more, further and further into the room; he was running out of space, and Asliel and Kael closed in like hounds harrying a boar.

Now Lylim was through the door, and their compatriots could be heard in the room beyond. A bolt of lightning spat from the justiciar's hands to hiss over their enemy's shoulder, leaving the air tasting of ozone. The captain recovered and pressed the skill of their enemy with a renewed attack, sending blow after blow ringing off the Breton's defences.

Another forceful parry and the captain's sword flew singing across the room; another stroke and his armor parted at the waist, sending a flood of gore splashing down onto the wooden panels. Kael gave a shout and thrust forward with his spear, but the Breton flowed to the side and grabbed the spearshaft with one hand and tugged. Kael's spear flew from his grasp as the door behind the Breton crashed inwards and the other team moved in behind him.

Sweeping the spear in his left hand, the Breton kept Asliel and Kael at bay as he slit the throat of the first entrant with his sword. Reversing his grip, he swung to bring the long blade of the spear stabbing down below the second elf's shield, skewering his foot to the floorboards. The elf screamed, and the other behind him, already in motion, ran headlong into his compatriot, his momentum sending them both tumbling to the bloody floor.

Kael drew his sword and they advanced again. Lylim threw another bolt of lightning that caught the Breton in his chest and flung him bodily against the wall. Somehow he kept hold of his sword, and was able to parry Kael's stroke and Asliel's thrust while he attempted to regain his feet. But now the last member of the second team was up and had reclaimed his own weapon. On one knee, still reeling from the blast of magickal energy, the Breton threw himself bodily against Kael, throwing his full weight against the gilded, upraised shield. Taken off-guard, Kael fell backwards, the Breton on top of him, and then the sword plunged down, pierced through Kael's armored chest and withdrew, letting the Breton circle around once more.

Asliel gave a shout as he saw his friend fall, and rushed the Breton, slamming his own shield into the unarmored body of his foe. He was not thinking, indeed his mind was blank; he felt only rage and sorrow for the loss of his friend - and the newfound desire for revenge. The Breton staggered and fell awkwardly. Something crunched sickly underneath him; the blood-slicked Akaviri sword slid from nerveless fingers. Asliel stood triumphant over him, the razor-sharp point of his spear hovering an inch from the Breton's throat. His arm started forward, longing to take the life of his enemy.

"Hold." And Asliel froze, his arm trembling.

The justiciar moved forward and pushed Asliel out of the way. The Breton was lying on his side, cherishing his sword arm. Lylim nudged the katana out of reach with his foot and ordered the other soldier to bring in the rest of the company. Asliel remained with his spear lowered, ready to kill the Breton should he show any further sign of resistance.

Lylim smiled, and Asliel, blood-mad though he was, shuddered at the horrid sight of that awful expression.

"May I have the honor of knowing your name?"

The Breton grimaced and spat forcefully at the black-robed justiciar. "Piss on you."

Lylim fastidiously wiped the spittle from his robes and smiled again. "I highly doubt that," he replied archly. "Now, if you please," he placed his foot atop the Breton's broken sword-arm. "What. is. your. name?" When his question was finished he put his weight down, and Asliel could hear the grinding of bone. The Breton screamed.

"Alain. I am Alain of North Point." He screamed again. The balance of the company was inside the house, now, tearing through the rooms.

"I doubt that even more. I warn you, I shall not ask again: what is your name?" Lylim pressed down with his foot again, and the Breton writhed in agony, spreading blood in great sweeps across the floor.

"Eduard," he gasped, "Eduard of Farrun."

Lylim smiled gently and lifted his foot. "So we have found you at last, my friend. It is so good to finally meet the Sword-Brother of Titus Mede."

The Breton was incapacitated by pain, and he trembled uncontrollably as two Thalmor soldiers slowly picked him up from the floor.

"Goddess forgive me," he whispered as they dragged him out of the house.

"She may indeed, my friend," replied Lylim, "she may indeed."

"Let us find out together, shall we?" he added, and followed him out of the house.


It had not taken Brandon long to understand why it was called "The Ratway:" the dank, torch-lit tunnels that wound their way beneath Riften were well-suited to their namesake. Sapphire had led him to the center of the city, where a canal ran sluggishly through a channel sunk deep into the earth. The cobblestone streets halted at its edge, plunging down some twenty or thirty feet to form a second level of the city; shops and vendors lined the riverfront, and as Brandon and Sapphire descended the decrepit wooden stairway leading to this antediluvean realm, Brandon felt even the moonlight dim as the narrow, high walls cut them off from the city at large.

The stink of the canal, seemingly contained by the high stone walls, was unavoidable now. Sapphire seemed undisturbed by it, but Brandon wrinkled his nose reflexively and tried, unsuccessfully, to breath through his mouth.

They were separated from the water only by the services of a rotten old boardwalk that creaked menacingly with every step. At last, Sapphire reached the doorway she was looking for, and unslung a lantern from its post above the gate. Brandon stood looking nervously around as Sapphire struck flint against her dagger in an attempt to light the lantern.

A warm, orange glow finally emerged, gently lighting their surroundings and illuminating the rusted iron gate before which they stood. Sapphire gave Brandon a last appraising glance, now in the lantern light, before turning to unlock the gate with a key she had mysteriously produced from within her tunic.

Brandon watched, slightly astonished, as the gate swung smoothly open - he had rather expected it to be rusted shut. Sapphire passed through without comment, however, and motioned for Brandon to follow.

The smell mercifully faded as they advanced deeper into the tunnels, and Brandon was able to breathe freely once more.

By the time they reached their goal, Brandon had completely lost his sense of direction. The darkness, combined with the twists and turns of the Ratway had him entirely disoriented.

Sapphire rapped her gloved fingers against a rotten old door, rousing an angry mutter as a wooden shutter within the door was pulled back. An angry face peered out and surveyed Sapphire and Brandon, and then, without a word, the shutter was closed, and the door hauled open.

Sapphire led Brandon through and past the doorman into a large open space, roofed skillfully with stone. The room's only light came from a few guttering torches that lined the walls, though Brandon thought he saw what might have been a skylight in the ceiling's center.

Only a few shadowy figures occupied the room, several seated, others standing. Sapphire half turned and smiled at Brandon. "Welcome to the Ragged Flagon."

Already their presence had been noticed, and questioning eyes followed them as Sapphire and Brandon moved around the stone walkway towards the lighted area where, against all Brandon's expectations, there stood a small bar.

"Take a seat," ordered Sapphire, indicating a chair, "I'll just be a moment." Brandon sat impatiently, and drummed his fingers on the table. The minutes dragged by, and Brandon shifted in his seat, anxious to be done and gone.

"So," began a deep, strong voice, "I understand that you have been looking for me."

Brandon stood and turned to face the direction the voice had come from. "If you are Brynjolf," he replied, "then yes, I have."

"I am, Brynjolf; and you are Brandon, I understand. Please, have a seat and we'll discuss what brings you to my establishment." The other man crossed in front of Brandon and took the seat across from him, leaving Brandon to follow suit. When they both were seated, he began.

"Now. What may I do for you?" His eyes struck into Brandon's, and the two men watched each other closely for a moment.

"I'm told you might help me find someone that I'm looking for."

Brynjolf smiled, arched an eyebrow and looked casually around the expansive room. "And who told you that?"

"Delphine." The smile disappeared, and Brynjolf looked more seriously at Brandon. "She said that if anyone knew where Esbern was hiding in Riften, you would."

"It has been a long time since I saw Delphine last." He paused, measuring his next words. "How is she?"

"Running the inn at Riverwood, though she seems to prefer adventuring."

"A tall woman, with brown eyes." Brandon paused.

"Blue," he corrected, and Brynjolf nodded.

"And Orgnar?"

"Still doing as little as possible, it seems." Brynjolf smiled at that, and nodded.

"I believe we might be able to help you." Brandon inclined his head in wordless thanks. "Esbern has been hiding in the Warrens for some time, paying us good coin to keep him hidden - but I know Delphine from the old days, so..." Brynjolf trailed off, leaving the rest unsaid. "We check in on him, every now and then, though he doesn't know it - would probably be angry if he did; Sapphire will see you on the right path." He stood, and Brandon took that as the cue for their interview's end.

"Be careful," Brynjolf warned as Sapphire led Brandon through another door, "others have been asking around Riften, looking for an old man hiding in the Warrens - I suspect you may run into them before the end; there are many ways into the Warrens." Brandon nodded his thanks, and followed Sapphire into the depths below even the Ratway.

Here in the Warrens Sapphire seemed less in her element, and their progress was slower than it had been in the upper levels of the Ratway. The long, winding passageways were very, very old, and it was clear that absolutely no kind of maintenance had been done on them in a very long time. Brandon began to wonder how exactly the city above them did not simply crash down through the tunnel's roof.

Sapphire's lantern was their only steady source of light, though they occasionally stumbled on crude torches, or smouldering fires lit by one or another of the Warrens' wretched inhabitants. Brandon had taken the first torch they had come across, and carried it held aloft, hoping to add even a little illumination to that of their solitary lantern.

Gradually Brandon came to suspect that there must have been some secret system of marking her path, for Brandon was now hopelessly lost, and was uncomfortably aware of just how much he was depending on Sapphire - should she slip off, he would be trapped down here, and the thought of that prospect encouraged him to follow a little closer on her heels.

They turned another corner and Sapphire stopped so suddenly that Brandon almost ran into her. She turned, finger to her lips, and motioned him back into the tunnel they had just exited. As he complied, Brandon saw the flicker of light moving towards them, reflected on the tunnel walls. He doused his torch as Sapphire put out her lantern, and they crouched there in the darkness, huddled against the dank stone walls.

A strident voice carried forcefully down the tunnel. "I'm telling you, I saw a light coming from down here."

"Well it's not there anymore," griped a second voice, "if it ever was. You probably scared it off with your great big-"

"I'm serious. We're not alone down here." The first voice was angry now.

"No, we've been down here too long and you're seeing things."

A sword rattled in its sheath, and Brandon's hand shot to grasp the hilt of his own sword, but Sapphire was faster, and her hand closed around his wrist to keep the weapon sheathed.

"Come on," continued the second voice, "let's go. We've still got an old man to find."

Their footsteps gradually receded, and their lights with them, until Brandon and Sapphire were left alone once more in the dark.

"This way," whispered Sapphire as she re-lit her lantern, "we're almost there." Brandon whispered his thanks and followed after her.

They moved down a long, straight hallway, evidence perhaps of a more prosperous period of the Warren's history - though Brandon could hardly believe such a thing was possible. At the end the hallway opened up into what was almost a courtyard, complete with arched balconies.

"Over here."

Sapphire was standing next to a large, well-built wooden door, banded with steel and possessing a kind of trap in the upper middle, apparently to allow the occupant to examine any potential visitors. Brandon looked questioningly at Sapphire and she nodded in affirmation. "This is it," she said softly, and turned around to survey the neighborhood. From somewhere below a madwoman muttered to herself.

Brandon stepped forward to the door and rapped thrice against it with his gloved hands. There was a pause, and then the metal trap slid aside, revealing an old man's wizened features and sharp, piercing eyes.

"Go away!" shouted the man, and slammed the trap shut.

Sapphire rolled her eyes in exasperation when Brandon looked at her, but offered no assistance. He knocked again and said "Esbern? Open the door, I'm a friend."

Another pause, and the trap opened again. "What?!" asked the old man, "No, that's not me. I'm not Esbern. I don't know what you're talking about."

"It's okay. Delphine sent me."

"Delphine?" questioned the old man, surprise coloring his voice, "How do you..." he paused, and his voice changed to anger. "So you've finally found her and she led you to me. And here I am, caught like a rat in a trap."

"She said to 'remember the 30th of Frostfall.'"

There was a long pause as the old man studied Brandon's features, deciding, Brandon thought, whether to trust him, or not.

"Ah, indeed? Indeed, I do remember." He said at last; the old man was calmer now. "So Delphine really is alive then? You'd better come in and tell me how you found me and..." he paused, "what you want."

The metal trap slid shut. "This'll just take a moment..." Brandon arched an eyebrow at Sapphire, but she just shook her head. He was still wondering what the old man was talking about when he began hearing the unmistakable sound of locks being opened.

"This one always sticks..." muttered the old man, and gave a grunt, apparently succeeding in undoing whatever mechanism had frozen up. "There we are," he said, "only a couple more."

At long last the door swung open, revealing a large well-lit room - the last thing Brandon had expected.

"Come in, come in," he said, giving Brandon an appraising look before stepping aside to allow him entrance, "make yourself at home."

Sapphire followed Brandon through the door, and nodded politely to the old man, who returned her greeting.

As the heavy door closed fast behind them, the old man sighed with relief. "That's better. Now we can talk.

"So Delphine keeps up the fight, after all these years. I thought she'd have realized it's hopeless by now. I tried to tell her years ago, but..." He let the sentence hang; silence settled over the three, and Sapphire moved to the room's far side.

"I'm sorry," he said finally, "we haven't introduced ourselves properly. Living down here dulls one's sense of hospitality." Of that Brandon had no doubt. "I am Esbern."

"Brandon - and that is Sapphire."

Another pause.

"What is 'hopeless,' Esbern? The Thalmor?" At this the old man burst into energetic speech, his voice strong and vibrant.

"No, no, no. Haven't you figured it out yet? What more needs to happen before you all wake up and see what's going on?

"Alduin has returned, just like the prophecy said."

Brandon glanced at Sapphire, but she was meticulously cleaning her fingernails with the point of her dagger. "Alduin?" he echoed at last.

"Yes," Esbern replied eagerly, "the dragon from the dawn of time, who devours the souls of the dead. No one can escape his hunger, here or in the afterlife! Alduin will devour all things and the world will end. Nothing can stop him."

Behind Esbern Sapphire stood abruptly and walked carefully back towards the door. Esbern took no notice of her and continued. "I tried to tell them," he said, and turned away from Brandon, shaking his head, "They wouldn't listen. Fools. And it's all come true... all I could do was watch our doom approach..."

"Wait a minute," Brandon interrupted, not wanting to let the old man become distracted by memory, "you're talking about the literal end of the world?" He emphasized the last words to convey his disbelief, but Esbern was unfazed.

"Oh, yes," he replied, matter-of-factly, as if he were discussing nothing more serious than yesterday's weather, "it's all been foretold. The end has begun. Alduin has returned."

"The dragon who is raising all the others, his name is Alduin?"

"Yes! Yes!" Esbern returned, rounding once more on Brandon. "You see, you know but you refuse to understand. It seems that the gods have grown tired of us. They've left us to our fate, as the plaything of Alduin the World-Eater." He sighed, at last seeming to come to grips with the bleak future he had described. "Only a dragonborn can stop him. But no dragonborn has been known for centuries."

Brandon hesitated, and heard Delphine's words echo in his mind. "The world has no use for reluctant heroes." She had said. "You either are dragonborn, or you aren't." He took a breath, and then the plunge.

"Esbern. I am dragonborn." It was the first time he had said the words aloud.

The old man's eyes widened in shock. "What? You're... no, can it really be true? Dragonborn? Then... perhaps there is hope. The gods have not abandoned us! We must... we must..."

Sapphire held up a hand, beckoning for Brandon's attention.

"We must go, quickly now," finished Esbern. "Take me to Delphine. We have much to discuss."

Brandon hesitated, not wanting to give the man false hope, but reluctant to begin a new conversation; Sapphire was growing insistent. "I don't know where she is, Esbern - that is, not anymore."

As quickly as it had started, Esbern's packing stopped as he turned to frown at Brandon. "What do you mean?"

Without an answer, Brandon shrugged. "She sent me here to find you and left. Didn't even say where she was going."

"Yes. Things would have gone more smoothly if she had come herself. Why didn't she?"

"Like I said, she had other business to deal with; what it was she wouldn't say. Perhaps it had something to do with the Thalmor."

Esbern dismissed the matter with a shake of his head and returned to his packing. "Perhaps. She always was an emotional creature." The silence that followed gave Brandon the chance to see what Sapphire was worried about.

"The madwoman's shut up. There's someone else down here with us. Close."

"You're sure?"

Her nod and the certainty in her eyes was all the answer he needed. She gripped the handle of her dagger and cleared it from its sheath before moving to stand ready at one side of the door.

"Esbern," Brandon whispered, "we have to go. Now."

From across the room, Esbern was still packing. "Quickly, I said, but give me... just a moment... I must gather a few things.

"I'll need this... no, no, useless trash... where'd I put my annotated annuad?" He was searching through a pile of books, discarding volumes to the floor in his haste.

"Esbern!"

"One moment, I know, time is of the essence, but mustn't leave secrets for the Thalmor... there's one more I must bring..." He opened a cabinet, dug around for a few seconds, and retrieved his last item. "Well, I guess that's good enough... let's be off..."

It was as Brandon turned away from him and faced the room's sole exit that the door, bound and warded though it was, burst inward in a shower of splinters.

Esbern threw up a hand and a shimmering field sprung up in front of them - a ward. Splinters, rivets, and shards of hot, twisted metal spattered and hissed off the magickal field; a sliver of steel as broad as Brandon's hand whizzed by and embedded itself in a cabinet.

The Thalmor moved in almost as quickly, the first soldier in before the dust and debris had even begun to settle. Brandon unsheathed his sword and moved out from behind Esbern's ward to engage the enemy. The elf's axe cut sideways across Brandon's chest, and he retreated back just enough to avoid the blow.

A fireball struck the elf square on his chest with enough force to stagger him backwards and scorch the gilded breastplate. Brandon stepped forward and cut low to sweep the legs out from under his opponent, sending him tumbling to the ground. There was fear in the elf's eyes as Brandon brought his sword down through the elf's chest.

Brandon turned back to the door. A second Thalmor was moving in, but Sapphire spun up behind him from the side of the door and slit his neck in a single smooth motion that sent a fountain of blood up from the lacerated veins. But now her back was turned to the door, and two more golden Thalmor soldiers were moving in.

Giving a shout, Brandon rushed forward and pushed Sapphire out of the way with one hand while bringing up his sword in a weak parry with the other. Another firebolt from Esbern struck one of the Thalmor in the face, and the room filled with the smell of charred flesh. The other stabbed forward with his sword and caught Brandon in the side. It was little more than superficial, but it stung, and Brandon beat the blade away and retreated to give himself time to recover. He clapped his free hand over his wounded side and brought his blade up into position.

Sapphire circled silently from the Thalmor's right as Esbern watched calmly from the left, trying to get a clear shot with his spells.

No other Thalmor entered, and Brandon attacked by feinting left; but the elf was canny and easily parried the weak blow, sending a stinging riposte hissing up towards Brandon's chest that he only just avoided.

Sapphire moved in from the side, slicing her dagger across the elf's elbow, trying for the weak point in his armor. But the scaled joint held, and her dagger's edge skittered across the elven metal. She ducked a return blow and rolled out of reach.

Brandon moved into the opening and thrust forward, piercing the weaker armor at the abdomen and then bringing his sword in a hissing arc up and around to slice into the elf's neck. Their last opponent crashed to the ground with a look of surprise on his face, and the three of them stood breathing hard, each watching the door and expecting more Thalmor soldiers to burst in at any second.

But none came, and as their breathing slowed Brandon slowly approached the door and peeked out: nothing. The madwoman was still silent, but there was no sign of other enemies.

They crept out into the Warrens, expecting the heavy tread of Thalmor soldiers at every turn, but Sapphire guided them well, and eventually they found themselves safe returned to the Ragged Flagon.

Brynjolf was still there, and greeted them with a shallow nod and acknowledged the older man among them with a simple, "Esbern."

"Brynjolf." returned the elderly Blade, "it seems the time has come for me to release you from my services. You have kept your part of the bargain it seems, and I am more than grateful."

Brynjolf chuckled. "You paid well, Esbern, and I am merely a businessman."

"Quite so," agreed Esbern, smiling slightly. "Farewell." Then he turned to face Sapphire, "And to you my dear. Your help was most appreciated." Brandon murmured in agreement, and the two made their departure, emerging silently from Riften's waterway into a pale dawn. They passed, cloaked and hooded through the main gate, rousing a sleepy carriage driver to take them to Whiterun.


A single, salty drop fell unnoticed into the temple's pool; tiny ripples distorted the flawless surface, sending sunstarts glinting from their peaks and troughs.

"You are sure?"

"Yes, priestess," said the man, his hat held before him in both hands. "They came in the night, and when the lord and his men rode out to meet them..." He looked helplessly at her. "There was nothing they could do... the Thalmor..." Another pleading, helpless look.

"Why me?" she questioned, "did he have no one..." she hesitated, "no one else?"

The man shook his head. "No one, priestess. He kept to himself mostly, but he was known to have an... attachment in the city - other than the fishing, of course." He grimaced. "The lord thought that, well, that you should be told."

Another tear ran unnoticed down Rosalyn's cheek as she nodded her thanks. "That was very kind of him - very kind indeed. Please give him my blessing on your return."

"I will priestess." And with one final pitying look the man departed, leaving her alone in the light and air of her temple.

She sank down, leaning her back against the temple's wall and cradled her head in her hands, sobbing silently. Rosalyn stayed there for a long while, letting her sorrow run its course, and as the sun settled into its afternoon skies, she raised herself up and walked up to the high balcony, where she and Alain had stood together so often. A warm wind blew in from the sea, and brought with it a solid unbreaking feel of his presence: the warmth of his hand in hers, the feel of him next to her, even the smell of him - salty from days spent on the sea.

The zephyr rustled her robes and she pushed back the hood from her head, letting her long dark hair stream back as it was released from its confines.

No, she decided: he was not dead. She would not allow him to rot away under the vicious care of the Thalmor.

She replaced her hood and descended into the lower part of the temple, where the priests and priestesses made their home. She knocked on the ornately carved door of the high priestess' quarters and was received with a gentle command to enter.

"Rosalyn," greeted the high priestess, seated on a small couch. "The man from Alain's village came to see me first; I should have come to you myself," she said apologetically, "I am sorry I did not."

There was a pause, and the two women watched each other, unsure of what next to say.

"Is there anything I may do, Rosalyn? I know you were close, in your way."

Rosalyn's eyes lit up. "Yes, priestess, there is one thing: release me from my duties here - only for a month, perhaps two."

"For what purpose?"

"I do not believe Alain is dead. I believe he still lives - and I wish to find him."

"Rosalyn, we do not ask questions of those who join our order, so I do not know what your experience was before you came to us. But from what I was told, there is little chance that Alain survived the Thalmor." Her eyes were sorrowful, and Rosalyn looked away, not wanting to bear the pity of the other woman.

"Give me leave, priestess," Rosalyn's eyes were hard now, and flashed with decision, "for I will go anyway."

The high priestess bowed her head and studied her hands, so elegantly folded in her lap. "Very well. I grant you leave for as long as you should desire it." The two women stood, their eyes meeting in mutual understanding. "But remember that you will always have a home here with us."

Rosalyn bowed in thanks and turned hastily towards her own quarters.

In a forgotten corner of her room, beneath a pile of papers, treatises, and religious works, there lay a smooth wooden chest bound and latched with iron.

Unbinding her hair, Rosalyn lifted her robes up and over her head, revealing a slender shape - still strong and lean even after her years in the temple; a long, lethal-looking scar ran the length of her body from her waist up between her breasts.

Taking a key from the thin chain around her neck, she unlocked the chest and slowly opened it. Within lay her armor, and her sword, still sharp in its sheath. Feeling her memories come back to life, she slowly buckled on her armor and belted her sword around her waist.

She knew that would have to rely on supplies she would gather along the way, but she collected a loaf of bread and some cheese from the temple's stores. On the temple's threshold, Rosalyn looked around her, feeling suddenly afraid to leave the place which had been her home for so long - the place which had, in fact, saved her life.

But another part, buried for many long years, was eager to feel the open road beneath her feet.

As she stepped out onto the city streets for what felt like the first time, Rosalyn breathed deep of the salty sea air. A warm breeze sprang up, and she felt her purpose warm within her heart, and knew that the goddess was with her.

UH