Into the Light

by Aurora Nova

Marcus of Whiterun, called Dragonborn, prepares to launch resistance against the final assault from the Aldmeri Dominion, to fight the Last Great War for the freedom of Tamriel. Fourth in a series; sequel to "Into the Maelstrom," "Into the Darkness," and "Into the Ashes."

4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

There was silence around the basin for several moments.

"Is this true?" Dante murmured, not daring to believe it. "Or is this all just smoke and mirrors?"

"Your blood has given us the true vision, young Breton," Drascua confirmed. "The Old Ones do not lie."

"I don't understand one thing," Marcus interjected. "If Greyshadow here truly is Titus Mede's grandson, why wasn't his mother an Imperial? She looked more like a Breton to me in that vision we saw."

Drascua sighed in exasperation. "If you knew your history, Dragonborn," she huffed, "you would know that Titus Mede married Lady Yvara Renault of House Renault of Alcaire, in High Rock. This would make the Princess Lucinda only one-half Imperial. She always did favor her mother in all but the color of her hair. Empress Yvara's hair was very fair."

"So, Greyshadow, here, is really only one-fourth Imperial," Marcus nodded in understanding.

"Not that it matters," Drascua continued. "The stories tell that Tiber Septim himself came from Alcaire, and was a Breton, not an Imperial. The stumbling block to Master Greyshadow being unable to inherit is his illegitimacy, unless the Emperor himself recognizes him as his grandson."

"And that doesn't seem likely to happen," Dante grimaced sourly.

"Why not?" Marcus demanded. "As I understand it, you saved the man's life. Isn't this what you were angling for? To be named heir in gratitude for services rendered?"

"Just because it's something I wanted, doesn't mean it will happen," Dante fired back. "The Emperor has a mind of his own about such matters."

"Oh really?" Marcus frowned, certain things beginning to click in his mind. The Breton Guildmaster's attitude for the entire trip had been almost adversarial. It was time to get to the bottom of that and find out why. "You're his confidante. He must have said something to you about it."

"I'm not going to discuss that here," the Breton Guildmaster frowned.

"Oh, yes you are!" the Dragonborn rumbled, storm clouds looming in his narrowing eyes. "Why are you here, Greyshadow. Why are you really here?"

"I thought I made that crystal clear," Dante scowled. "I'm after Mehrunes' Razor to keep it out of the hands of the Dominion."

"Bullshit," Marcus bit out. "You could have simply sent Tamsyn or myself after it to repay this debt that I don't deny we owe you. You didn't have to come all the way up to Skyrim yourself. We could have found it and brought it down to you. Mission fulfilled, debt repaid."

Dante simmered. As much as he hated to admit it, the Dragonborn had seen through his ruse. He threw a glance at the Matriarch, but Drascua held her tongue and watched the two men with glittering onyx eyes.

"Fine, then," he sighed, reaching into his tunic and pulling out the Emperor's sealed letter. "The Emperor sent me to give you this." He handed over the letter. Marcus gave the Breton man a sour look.

"When were you actually going to give this to me?" he demanded.

Dante didn't even blush as he replied blandly, "I was hoping I wouldn't have to. But since you've forced my hand, you might as well hear it from Titus Mede himself."

He waited while Marcus broke the seal and perused the contents of the parchment. He was unprepared, however, for the Dragonborn's reaction, as the younger man burst into peals of laughter. Still guffawing, he handed it off to Drascua, who merely smirked as she read the letter.

Dante lifted an eyebrow. "That's not really how I imagined you would respond," he drawled.

"No…fucking…way!" Marcus gasped between fits of laughter. "Begging your pardon, Matriarch."

A slow smile spread over Dante's face. "Do I take this to mean you refuse the offer?" he asked, guilelessly.

Marcus was overcome with another fit of hilarity. It was several minutes before he calmed down enough to speak coherently.

"You can tell the Emperor for me that…how shall I put this delicately?" he began, grinning.

Dante allowed a smug smile. "That he can expect no carnal intimacies?" he suggested.

Marcus chuckled again, but managed to get himself under control. "That might do, for a start," he nodded.

Dante felt a weight lift from his shoulders. "Not that I'm trying to convince you otherwise," he mused, "but is there any particular reason why you wouldn't want to become the most powerful man in all of Tamriel?" He already had a fairly good idea, having travelled with the Dragonborn for the past week.

Marcus sobered. "I think you know the reason," he replied. "I don't like the spotlight. I never have. I do as much as I can, when I can. I never wanted power. I only wanted to be able to help people. Being the Dragonborn allows me to do that. If I had wanted that kind of power, I would have followed through on Mephala's suggestion to become the next Jarl of Whiterun. I would have taken Clavicus Vile up on his offer instead of stealing his dog."

"Wait a minute—" Dante held up a gauntleted hand. "Back up a second. You said Mephala wanted you to become Jarl of Whiterun? You mean…murder Balgruuf?"

"Yeah," Marcus nodded. "And that was never going to happen, so—"

"But how did you even initiate contact with her?" Dante pressed. "Daedric Princes don't just manifest anywhere. Even I know that!"

Marcus glared at the Breton Guildmaster before sighing in resignation. "I stole the Ebony Blade of Mephala from Jarl Balgruuf," he finally admitted. "It was hidden in the dungeons under Dragonsreach, but Mephala had already gotten to his kids, making them act up. It was only a matter of time before she might have turned them into junior assassins herself. So, I took the Blade."

"You…took the Blade…"

"Yeah, but I lost it soon after," the Dragonborn admitted. "I had to infiltrate the Thalmor Embassy in Solitude to find out what they knew about the dragons returning, and I was forced to trust someone I didn't know to smuggle my armor and the Blade into the place before I got there. I didn't want to leave the Blade at home, knowing what Mephala was capable of doing in my absence."

"Hold it," Dante interrupted, putting up his hand again. Things were clicking into place. Reports that had made no sense at the time suddenly fused into clarity. "It was YOU," he breathed in admiration. "You were responsible for the chaos within the Dominion!"

"Don't remind me," Marcus grumbled morosely. "I never should have brought it with me—"

"No, no!" Dante chuckled gleefully. "It was beautiful! I couldn't have planned it better myself! You have no idea the ramifications this has sent through the Dominion! They have recently lost scores of their upper-echelon officers, and no one knew why! It was all due to the Ebony Blade! It's brilliant!"

"Well, I've found some of my best plans are the ones I didn't plan on," Marcus admitted with a rueful grin. "So, where does that leave us now?"

Dante shrugged. "I'm not sure. The Emperor made it pretty clear to me to try to persuade you to become his adopted son. I can't just spring my identity on him. For one thing, he'd never believe me, and for another, he has his heart set on you."

"I'm unavailable," Marcus said flatly. "You can tell him from me, 'thanks, but no thanks'."

"I'll pass that along," Dante shrugged. "It doesn't mean he'll accept it and move on."

"Why can't you tell him who you are?" Marcus rejoined. "You have that birthmark, or scar, or whatever you want to call it. Wouldn't he recognize that?"

"He might," Dante nodded, "but it might not be enough to convince him."

"What about that nurse of yours? Clarice?" Marcus reminded him. "She'd be able to prove your identity, wouldn't she?"

"The word of an elderly wet-nurse?" Dante was skeptical, but remorse stung him again. As soon as he returned to Cyrodiil, he was going to send out agents to discover if Nonna was still alive.

"She might have other documentation she didn't share with you," Marcus reasoned.

"Perhaps," the Breton Guildmaster admitted, dubious.

"Hold on a moment…" Marcus rubbed the beard on his chin thoughtfully. "Doesn't Titus Mede have a cousin living in Skyrim? It seems to me Vittoria Vici in Solitude has a connection to him."

"Yes, but she's out of favor," Dante replied. "Vittoria is related to his Imperial Majesty through a connection on her mother's side, who was a second cousin to Titus Mede the Second. The relationship is there, but it's distant, and he'd like to keep it that way. In any case," the Breton Guildmaster continued, "we can focus on that later." He turned to Drascua. "Right now, I need to know if you, Matriarch, will give me the Pommel?"

Drascua chuckled. "It was my intention all along, young Master Greyshadow," she assured him as she handed it over, "as soon as I knew your intentions. Indeed, it would be in my best interests, and in the best interests of all the Reachfolk, to remain on the good side of the next Emperor of Tamriel."

"That hasn't happened yet," Dante mused soberly. "And I'm not sure what I can do to help you. I know what you all want, but I don't know that it would be within my power to give it to you. The High King or Queen of Skyrim has to secede the land."

"But it must be approved by the Emperor," Drascua replied. "I know we don't have a High King or Queen right now, but soon…very soon. The Dragonborn is helping us with that."

Marcus understood the gamble the Matriarch was taking. Rather than pin all her hopes on the Dragonborn, she was hedging her bets by getting in good with a potential candidate for the Ruby Throne. But it hadn't happened yet, and they still needed to return to Dawnstar.

"We'll need to head back," he said. "You mentioned the Thalmor know about the Razor?" At Drascua's nod he asked, "Will they make a move between here and Dawnstar?"

Drascua's beady black eyes narrowed, as if peering into the not-too-distant future.

"Difficult to say," she finally replied. "It will depend upon which way you take from here."

Dante frowned. "There aren't a lot of options," he drawled. "We either walk or take our horses."

Marcus gave a smug grin. "That's…not entirely true," he suggested lightly, as Drascua cackled.

"We'll see that the horses get back to your home safely, Dragonborn," she promised.

"Thank you, Matriarch," he smiled. "We're at Heljarchen, in the Pale, at the moment."

Drascua gave a quick nod to one of the Briarhearts, who bowed and left, presumably to tend to the horses.

"And just how are we getting back to Dawnstar then, Dragonborn?" Dante frowned. "Don't tell me you have some sort of portal already, or secret underground passage."

"Oh, much better than that," Marcus chortled. He led them back down through the tunnel and out into the open area at the bottom of the stairs. Throwing his head back he bellowed.

"OD-AH-VIING!"

The ground shook alarmingly with the force of the Dragonborn's thu'um, even though it had been directed to the skies above. Stacks of spears nearby rattled, and crockery danced across wooden tables to thunk softly into the dirt. Several goats roaming in an adjacent field bleated in fright and scurried to the furthest reaches of the Redoubt.

"What in the name of all Aedra and Daedra was that?" Dante gasped, more than slightly unnerved himself. He was certain he could still feel the vibrations in his blood.

"Wait for it," Marcus advised, holding up a hand.

For a long moment, there was nothing but the sound of the wind whistling down the Dragontail Mountains and the noises of a busy Reachfolk encampment around them. Then, faintly, in the far distance, came a sound that chilled Dante's blood and defied definition. He had simply never heard anything like it before. A smudge of something appeared in the eastern sky, catching the light of the afternoon sun and blossoming into a bright ruby red. As it drew nearer, he felt his blood run cold. He had only heard the reports, seen the sketches, but had never actually seen one living. A dragon! And it was headed right for them!

He brought his hands up, vapors of frost drifting from them, but Marcus reached over and forced his hands down.

"I'll thank you not to shoot my dragon," he frowned.

"Your dragon?" Dante gulped, allowing the spell to fizzle.

Marcus nodded. "Technically, he's his own dragon," the younger man replied as the dragon circled overhead searching for a place to land. "His name is Odahviing, and he's more like a…a partner, I guess you could say. But he acknowledges me as his Thuri, his Lord, because my thu'um is stronger than his."

"You're sure about that?" Dante asked, with a healthy bit of skepticism and nerves combined in his tone.

Marcus shot him a glare. "I killed Alduin," he reminded the Guildmaster. "For a dragon, that's as good as it gets."

Dante said nothing, but followed the Dragonborn down another flight of stairs to a lower area large enough to accommodate the dragon, who raised his head upon their approach.

"Drem yol lok, Thuri," the dragon rumbled. "Hi lost faan ahrk Zu'u lost bo. Fos los nii hi hind do zey?" Greetings, Lord. You have called and I have come. What is it you wish of me?

"Thank you for coming, Odahviing," Marcus responded. He gestured to Dante, behind him. "This is my traveling companion, Dante Greyshadow. We need to get to Dawnstar as quickly as possible." Dante noticed that with the firedrake, the Dragonborn didn't even try to hide his companion's identity.

The dragon studied the Breton Guildmaster for a long moment. Dante met the gaze unflinching, though inside his gut was clenching. The dragon seemed satisfied, for after several heartbeats, he turned back to Marcus.

"I will take you both there, Thuri," he offered. "Climb onto my back and hold on tight, Munfaliil," he advised Dante. "I promise to make the trip vahk…easy…for you."

"I appreciate that…Odahviing," Dante acknowledged, ducking his head in a short bow. "Out of curiosity," he added, "what did you call me?"

Odahviing chuckled, an alarming rumble in his throat to anyone who did not know dragons. Dante did not, and started uncertainly. "Munfaliil," Odahviing repeated. "It means, literally, 'man-elf.' Your ancestors were both men and mer, so all the dov refer to Bretons as munfahliil."

"Fascinating," Dante murmured as he settled himself behind the Dragonborn. "I didn't know that."

"Indeed," Odahviing replied. "It is one of the reasons why Bretons live longer than Nords, Redguards or Imperials, and why your zeymah…your brethren…have an inborn resistance to magic being cast at you. Hold fast!" he called as he launched himself into the air.

To his credit, Dante kept his eyes wide open as the world fell away from under them. The Reachfolk were reduced smaller and smaller as they gained height, until they resembled nothing more than ants, crawling around their Redoubt. He caught a last glimpse of Matriarch Drascua lifting a clawed hand in farewell from the top of her Tower before Odahviing wheeled away towards the northeast, heading for Dawnstar.

"How many days will it take to get back?" Dante shouted above the noise of rushing air.

Marcus laughed. "Traveling by dragonback is measured in hours, not days!" he called back. "We'll be there before sunset!"

Dante settled back, satisfied. They would avoid any potential ambush on the road this way, and reach their destination far quicker than the Dominion may have planned. But he didn't fool himself; where one plan failed to pan out, the Dominion usually had two or three others in place as back-ups. If they weren't able to take the pieces of the Razor from the Dragonborn and the Guildmaster traveling out on the roads, they might try to wrest them from a clueless Silas Vesuius once they had been returned to him. Worse still, they might even wait until Vesuius had somehow managed to reforge the blade before killing him outright and taking it off his body.

Dante, himself, had no qualms about killing Vesuius, should it become necessary. The man was definitely unstable, and should never be trusted with a butter knife, let alone a Daedric artifact. He had no desire to continually watch his back waiting for that butter knife to be plunged into it, if Vesuius' misplaced hero-worship of the Mythic Dawn suddenly turned into a stiffer spine than the man currently had. The Thalmor worried him more. He knew their methods of carefully cultivating an operative until the time was right to strike. He had his network of informants, his inner circle of fellow Nightingales, and his own rather impressive skills at self-preservation. He simply didn't want to enter into a firefight with an entire cadre of fanatical Dominion operatives. The Thalmor tended to shoot first and ask questions later.

They were over the western edge of the Whiterun plains when they heard the challenge. An ancient bronze dragon rose from one of the peaks cropping up out of the tundra.

"Dovahkiin, Zu'u jur hin viilut wah rel mii!" Dragonborn, I challenge your right to rule us!

"Oh boy," Marcus muttered as Odahviing veered away. "Odahviing, set us down and stay clear. This is between me and the old timer."

"As you wish, Thuri," the firedrake replied, nose-diving towards the ground. Dante held his breath and clung to the neck frill in front of him.

"What is it?" Dante asked in concern. "What's going on?"

"That ancient dragon isn't happy about my position among the dov," Marcus replied as Odahviing landed. "Seems he wants to change that. Stay out of this, alright? This is my fight."

"What am I supposed to do?" the Guildmaster demanded, as they jumped off Odahviing.

"Find cover," Marcus said shortly. "The old one won't discriminate between non-combatants."

"You just told Odahviing this was between you and the old guy," Dante protested.

"Dragon's honor," Marcus shrugged. "The ancient one thinks he can take me on all by himself. He won't include Odahviing because it would then be two against one, and he's too smart to do that."

"What am I? Chopped liver?" Dante frowned.

"You're a joor, a mortal," Marcus explained as the ancient dragon winged overhead. "You don't count. Now get back! Here he comes!"

Marcus charged out into the open as Odahviing took off and the ancient dragon pulled up, hovering in mid-air in front of them. It took an indrawn breath, and Dante threw up a ward for protection.

The attack never came as Marcus thundered, "JOOR ZAH FRUL!"

The dragon staggered and floundered as the thu'um limned it with blueish light. Desperately, it tried to claw its way back into the air, but time and age caught up with it, bringing it down.

"Fos lost hi drehlaan wah zey?" the ancient one wailed. "Fos bein kromaar los daar?" What have you done to me? What foul sorcery is this?

"It's not sorcery, Old One," Marcus replied. "It's what makes me stronger than you. Will you yield?"

"Niid, Dovahkiin," the dragon replied, and snapped out at the puny joor in front of him. Dante's stomach lurched as it seemed the Dragonborn would have been bitten completely in two, but Marcus quickly leaped to one side and slashed down on the ancient one's snout with the Akaviri blade in his right hand. In fury, the dragon roared, struggling to get airborne, but the Dragonrend Shout held it fast in its grasp.

Marcus made a dash for the wing, to attempt to clamber to the dragon's neck, but the old one was still more spry than he let on. A buffet from the wing knocked Marcus back about ten feet. He landed hard, with an "oof!" before kipping back up on his feet.

This time the dragon inhaled and blew out a cone of frost so wide it caught Dante in its area of effect. Despite his Nightingale armor, and the warding spell he continued to maintain, he felt chilled to the bone.

Marcus staggered as the wall of frost hit him, but a ring on his finger glowed briefly and he pushed through his pain to send a whirling dual attack around the dragon's head and neck. Again, the old one snapped out, but got a dragonbone sword across the snout for his efforts.

"You wear the bones of my brothers," the ancient drake sneered, "but you will never be dovah."

"You're not the first one to make that insult," Marcus jibed back, as the Dragonrend Shout began to fade. "The others are all dead, though, so you can't really ask them how it worked out for them. JOOR ZAH FRUL!" The thu'um hit the dragon full in the face, and it roared in pain as once more, the weight of its own mortality came crushing down upon it.

Marcus took the opportunity to leap to its neck, unobstructed this time, and he placed the point of the Akaviri blade at the juncture of the spine where it met the base of the skull. "Do…you…yield?" he hissed dangerously.

There was a moment's pause.

"Niid, Dovahkiin," the dragon snarled. "I will never yield to a joor. Kill me. I will not live to be ruled by such as you."

Dante saw a look of regret sweep across the Dragonborn's face as he threw all his weight against his sword, driving it into the dragon's brain. The ancient one slumped, and Marcus leaped lightly down to the ground as the convulsing body immolated. He stood in sober contemplation as the soul flew into him and settled into a corner of his mind.

In that moment, Dante realized for the first time just how different the Dragonborn was from nearly all other men. No other man in his experience could have taken down a dragon single-handedly. No man in living memory could devour a dragon's soul, as Marcus had just done. Most would have been happy simply to run away from a dragon with their life. Some, perhaps knights or other glory-seekers, would have endeavored to kill the dragon outright, without attempting to reason with it. Marcus gave it more than one chance to yield, but the dragon had refused. It was this quality, more than any other, that set the Dragonborn apart: his compassion. He had demonstrated it time and again on their journey, and Dante knew that for this reason alone, if no other, the Dragonborn needed to be out among the people of Tamriel, not cloistered in a White-Gold Tower.

Odahviing had returned, and Marcus turned to Dante.

"There's some treasure here, if you want it. It doesn't all burn up when they go."

"Don't you want it?" the Breton Guildmaster asked.

Marcus shook his head, brooding. "Not this time."

There was some gold – quite a bit of it, actually – and some gems, which Dante pocketed. He left the minor armor and weapons. He had better.

Turning to Marcus, who was already preparing to remount Odahviing, he couldn't help but ask, "Something on your mind, Dragonborn? You don't seem very happy about taking out that dragon."

Marcus sighed and waited until Dante had remounted behind him before answering.

"I'm supposed to be recruiting the dragons to my cause," he explained. "I'm…not having much success. The younger ones seem to think it's a great adventure, to fight the Dragonborn's enemies. The older ones…well…you saw what happened here. They think now that Alduin's gone they can call me out, have a…a showdown at high noon, to take my place."

"Like the best knight in the world having to fight every beardless boy with a sword who thinks he can take on the hero," Dante nodded.

"Exactly," Marcus agreed, as Odahviing launched himself into the air once more. "I'm not sure what I'm going to do yet, but building up my dragon force is taking a bit longer than I anticipated."

Dante said nothing, but held on as Odahviing turned north and headed once more towards Dawnstar. A scant handful of hours later, the elder firedrake set them down just outside the capital of the Pale, and the two men walked into town. The sun was low in the sky, and Dante noted that the shops were already bringing in their outdoor displays, preparing to close up for the night. The smith was banking the fire in his forge, and the alchemist was taking down the herbs hanging from the roof of her covered porch.

The Museum of the Mythic Dawn, however, was still open, as they could see warm light spilling from the windows. Dante gave a preemptory knock before entering.

"Ah!" the curator beamed. "You're back! Do I take this to mean you've found one of the pieces?"

The Dragonborn and the Guildmaster exchanged a hesitant look. At a nod from Marcus, Dante opened his pack and took out the carefully-wrapped bundle. He set it on a nearby table and undid the leather thongs holding it all together.

"Actually," he replied soberly. "We found all of them." He flipped back the last layer of cloth to reveal the pieces.

"All of them at once!" Silas gasped, eyes widening in wonder and admiration. "You're efficient! I like that. Here," he continued, handing over a large pouch of gold, which Dante set on the table for the moment. "You deserve this for all your trouble." An almost fanatical expression of elation spread across Vesuius' face. "Finally," he breathed. "All the pieces are mine! There is but one step left to take. I'll let you in on a little secret. There's a fourth piece: that scabbard in the display case." He took a key from his pocket and opened the case, retrieving the scabbard. "And there's more!" he exclaimed gleefully.

Dante knew what was coming, but wanted to hear it from Vesuius how he planned to accomplish it. "What's that?" he asked.

"I know how to reforge the Razor!" the curator enthused. "We must take this to the Shrine of Lord Dagon himself and ask him to put it all back together!"

Dante felt his heart sink. The Arch-Mage had been correct. Vesuius didn't actually intend to put the blade into the fire himself; he was hinging all his hopes on the Daedric Prince of Destruction to be genially disposed enough to do it for him.

"This seems like a bad idea," Marcus rumbled. Up until now he had allowed Dante to take the lead, but he felt honor-bound now to voice his objections to this mad scheme. Dante threw him a look of pure irritation.

"You don't want to be a part of history?" Vesuius glared, his mouth compressing to a thin line. "Fine, then. I'll take it to Dagon myself. Meet me there if you change your mind."

He swiftly rolled the pieces back into their cloth and shoved the entire bundle into his side-satchel. Giving the two men barely another glance, he bolted for the door and was gone before they could make any further objections.

"What was that all about?" Dante demanded. "I thought we agreed to let me do the talking?"

"I'm not going to apologize, Greyshadow," Marcus returned with some heat. "I said from the beginning that searching for this Daedric artifact was a bad idea. If Vesuius only wanted to put the pieces on display in a locked case, I would have been okay with it. But taking it back to Mehrunes Dagon to get it reforged? Even you have to admit it's just asking for trouble!"

"I was never going to let him keep it to begin with," the Guildmaster said, exasperated, as he swept up the pouch of gold and pocketed it. He noticed the Dragonborn did not object. "It was my intention all along to come back after he fell asleep and reclaim it."

"Locked in a case, locked up in his house," Marcus pointed out. "Are you that good a thief?" His disapproval was clearly written all over his face.

"Actually, yes, I am," Dante shot back, unashamed. "And while we stand here arguing over ethics, Vesuius is getting a head start on us. Which means the Thalmor can get to him just that much quicker!"

Both men fell silent as the sounds of a horse whinnying outside, and rapidly receding hoofbeats came to their attention. They both ran for the door, Dante two steps ahead of the Dragonborn. Wrenching it open, they saw Silas Vesuius' retreating figure as he whipped his horse into a gallop along the beach, heading out of town.

"Brilliant!" Dante said sourly. "Just brilliant! And we're without horses to follow him. Can your dragon follow?" he asked, as the thought occurred to him.

"I'm not sure," Marcus admitted. "Odahviing would need space to land. And I don't know where this Shrine to Mehrunes' Dagon is."

"Would your wife know?"

A smile bloomed on the Dragonborn's face. "Yes, I believe she would," he replied.

---

"There he is!" Dante pointed from his position behind the Dragonborn. They were at least two hundred feet in the air, on Odahviing's back, heading south across the snowfields towards the ridge of mountains that separated the Pale from Hjaalmarch. Masser and Secunda were both out, bathing the world below with their mixed glow of copper and silver. Marcus realized they weren't that far from the ruined Hall of the Vigilants, and Dimhollow Crypt, where he had found Serana Volkihar not very long ago. So much had happened in so short a time! Looking over Odahviing's shoulder, he could see Silas Vesuius on his horse following a narrow trail past the cave and deeper into the mountains.

From this height, it was quite easy to pick out the Shrine of Mehrunes Dagon. The hideous, four-armed apparition of the Daedric Prince of Destruction had been carved into the side of the mountain, seated on a throne with a small, flatter area laid out in front of him. Marcus could even make out some kind of altar table in the dim light of the moons.

"Odahviing," Marcus called out. "See if you can find an area in which to land. Put us as close as you can to the Shrine."

"As my Thuri wishes," the great red dragon called back, and wheeled sharply to the left to circle the area, looking for a likely spot.

"What about that area there?" Dante called, pointing to a flatter area surrounding a standing stone. A scant handful of bandits were camped there, drawing their weapons as the dragon approached. One was already firing iron arrows at them.

Points for bravery, Dante thought, but negated due to foolishness.

"Good enough," Marcus nodded. "Odahviing! Flame those bandits, then set us down near the Lord Stone!"

The dragon did not reply but rumbled with approval as his thu'um roiled out. The bandits scattered, but could not avoid the flames, succumbing quickly. Odahviing chuckled as he settled onto the snow-packed ground.

"That was hardly worth the effort," he complained good-naturedly.

"Stay close," Marcus told him. "I have a feeling you'll get a better opportunity soon."

"If the Altmer are nearby, as you suspect, Thuri," the dragon replied, ducking his head in acknowledgment, "I am certain it will become more interesting very soon, even if I do not get to participate."

The elder firedrake lifted himself into the air and tilted his wings to shear off to the north to patrol the area. Marcus and Dante paused a few moments to get their bearings and strategize.

In the ruddy, silvery light of the twin moons, high overhead, they could see a flight of stairs some distance to the southeast. They could also see that Silas had now abandoned his horse to the appetite of a frost troll and was sprinting his way up the steps while the beast was otherwise occupied.

"That's one big fucking troll," Dante said dubiously. The ones in Cyrodiil never got that large!

"That's a baby," Marcus replied, but a hint of a smile curled his lips, and the Breton Guildmaster hoped his companion was joking. "Fire works best on them," he added. "Just don't let them hit you. Their punch packs a wallop!"

"Noted," the Grey Fox nodded.

In the end, between the Guildmaster's firebolts and Marcus' arrows and Odahviing's Fire Breath as the creature attempted to escape, the troll never stood a chance.

"LAAS YAH NIR," Marcus breathed, and the world lit up around him. Odahviing had veered off to a neighboring hilltop to avoid the bolts of frost that Silas Vesuius, near the Shrine, was sending his way.

"What was that?" Dante murmured. Since the Dragonborn had whispered, he felt the need to do the same.

"Aura Whisper," Marcus replied quietly. "It's one of my abilities. It lets me know if there's anything living nearby."

"Like a Detect Life spell?" Dante murmured. "You used this back in that cave with the spriggans, didn't you?"

Marcus nodded.

"See anything?" the Guildmaster asked.

"Yep," Marcus grinned, satisfied. "Foxes, rabbits, a couple of bears further away, and Vesuius up there." He pointed up the stairs.

"That's it?"

"Nope," the Dragonborn said smugly. "There are at least a dozen other humanoid figures hidden in the rocks around the Shrine up there." His smile faded as he added grimly, "I'm guessing the Thalmor are taking no chances."

"A dozen," Dante mused, disconcerted.

Marcus blew out a breath. "Yeah, we're really outnumbered here. Even if I were to call Odahviing back. They're hidden in the rocks. And if Odahviing tried to flame them, he could catch us in the area of effect."

Now it was Dante's turn to smile. "Want me to take a few out?" he asked. "Even the odds a bit?"

"Can you do that?" Marcus asked doubtfully. "I mean, without tipping them off?"

A pained expression crossed the Guildmaster's face. "My dear Dragonborn," he complained. "You wound me. I am not a servant of Nocturnal for nothing!"

Marcus gave a feral grin. "My apologies, Guildmaster," he replied contritely. "See if you can leave the Justiciar alive. I'd love to see his face when he gives the word to attack and realizes he has no backup."

"Cornered animals fight the fiercest," Dante cautioned. "Just be prepared for anything. Wait here for me. I'll make this as quick as I can." He slipped away after confirming the locations of the Thalmor guards with Marcus.

And wait Marcus did, for at least another hour as Masser moved across the sky with little sister Secunda chasing him. Every quarter-hour or so he fired off another Aura Whisper, and noted with satisfaction how the number of red blobs continued to diminish.

For his part, the figure that was Silas Vesuius seemed oblivious to what was going on around him. He remained in one spot, moving only slightly and waving his arms around, as if to keep warm. It was clear he appeared to be waiting for someone. That the Justiciar himself chose not to reveal himself at this time was revealing. Clearly, he was also waiting for something to happen; something that Vesuius himself was having trouble initiating.

A little over an hour later, Dante returned.

"Any trouble?" Marcus asked.

"Of course not," the Guildmaster replied. "I am a professional, after all."

"We each have our own bailiwicks," Marcus shrugged.

"Indeed," Dante agreed. "Shall we go confront Vesuius?"

"I think we should," Marcus nodded. "What was he doing up there, by the way? Could you see anything?"

"A bit," Dante admitted. "He was clearly attempting to summon Mehrunes Dagon, but nothing was happening, and he was getting very frustrated."

"That's a good thing, then," Marcus said, relieved. "Maybe he was wrong all along, and he can't summon Dagon to reforge the Razor."

"Perhaps," Dante acceded, though part of him was sorely disappointed that that might be the case. "But I'm still not letting him keep the pieces."

"We'll see," was all Marcus would say as they climbed the steps together.

As they reached the top, Vesuius – who heard their approach, if not their conversation – greeted them warmly. In his eyes, they had apparently had a change of heart and had decided to help him.

"Good!" he exclaimed happily. "You're finally here! Now all that remains is to ask Lord Dagon to reforge the Razor!" He made no mention of the fact that he had spent the last hour attempting to do just that without success.

He returned to an altar table, the type of which Marcus had seen many times in many barrows, whereupon the pieces of the Razor lay. This altar, however, bore effigies of a twisted, evil, demonic face at either end, instead of the stylized Atmoran dragons Marcus was used to seeing. Under the throne upon which Dagon perched, a set of iron doors was fitted into the face of the mountain.

Turning toward the table, Silas raised his face as well as his hands in supplication to Mehrunes Dagon, and spoke out loud.

"Mehrunes Dagon, the Lord of Change, we've brought your Razor to you. We beg you, please bring the blade's full glory to Tamriel again!"

Marcus held his breath, and he felt fairly certain Dante did the same. After several moments of silence, however, Silas dropped his hands.

"It's not working," he said, crestfallen. He made no mention of his earlier lack of success. Inspiration seemed to strike, however, as Vesuius turned to the two men with him. "Why don't you try?" he offered. "Perhaps Dagon will speak with one of you?"

"That's far enough!" a haughty voice called out. Stepping out from behind a pile of boulders to the left of the effigy of Dagon, a black-robed Thalmor Justiciar and two gold-and-glass-clad guards confronted the three men.

"I thought you took them all out?" Marcus whispered harshly to Dante.

"Those two were too close to the Robe," Dante murmured, shrugging. "It would have made him suspicious if I'd tried."

"Guards, surround them!" the Justiciar declared loudly.

Silence greeted his command. Dante smirked and Marcus' grin was positively wolfen.

"I said guards!" the Justiciar insisted, glaring around the perimeter.

"They're too busy being dead," Dante smiled urbanely. "You Altmer really are unobservant, aren't you!"

The Justiciar's face was a thundercloud of hate. "It matters not. Silas! These men are planning to kill you and claim the Razor once it has been reforged!"

Silas gasped, betrayal written all over his face. "But you – you both agreed to find the pieces –"

"Only to kill you once it was reforged," the Justiciar insisted. He motioned to his two guards. "Kill them now!"

"I trusted you!" Vesuius cried in anguish. He summoned a frost Atronach and sent a lightning bolt towards Marcus, who dodged to one side.

It caught him a glancing blow. He felt his muscle tighten, but the spell wasn't as strong as it could have been. He launched himself at the two Altmer guards, one of whom summoned a sword in one hand while streaming frost from the other.

Dodging the frost, Marcus Shouted, "TIID KLO UL!"

Time slowed to a crawl around him as he swiftly crossed the distance to the closest guard and lopped off the mer's head with Alduin's Bane. He could see the Justiciar bringing his hands up to cast electricity once more, and moved quickly across the area towards the Altmer, striking out with Dragonbane and severing one of the Justiciar's hands.

Then everything caught up to him and he was back in normal time. The headless guard slumped to the ground, to the horrified gaze of his companion. The Justiciar screamed in agony as blood gushed from one stump of an arm. The lightning spell fizzled.

Meanwhile, Vesuius' Atronach was bearing down on Marcus, not having any other target. The Breton Guildmaster had simply vanished from sight. Marcus would have been irritated, but now he knew this was how Greyshadow worked. Indeed, as he brought up Alduin's Bane to block the first blow from the Atronach, he saw the second guard drop to the ground, having sprouted a flaming ebony sword between her ribs. He couldn't see Dante, however, but knew he had to trust that the Grey Fox would have his back.

Marcus struck out at the Atronach, which crumbled under the force of his blow and the enchantments that had been laid upon the dragon bone blade. Purple fire crackled and disappeared into Marcus' backpack as he took the creature's soul.

The Justiciar had fired off a healing spell with his remaining hand and called to Vesuius.

"Silas, help me! You know I've always been your friend!"

In response, Vesuius launched a dual-cast Ice Spike directly at Marcus, who could not avoid the attack. Bitter cold lanced through his midsection, and he gasped in shock, as though plunged into the Sea of Ghosts on a blustery winter's day.

This gave the Justiciar an opportunity, and he took it. Firing off a whirling cloud of frost which froze Marcus to his core, the Dominion agent backed away, towards the stairs.

"Going somewhere?" Dante murmured in his ear as he rose up behind him and slit the mer's throat. He let the body fall down the long flight unhindered.

Marcus was on his knees, gasping for breath and shivering violently.

"You're not going to kill me!" Silas proclaimed wildly as he threw off another Ice Spike at the Breton Guildmaster. Dante merely side-stepped the attack.

"Knock it off, Vesuius," he called out. "Can't you see the Dominion has played you?"

"It's just like Maldir said!" the curator babbled wild-eyed. "You pretended to help me, but all along you planned to kill me and take the Razor!"

"Maldir was only partly lying," Dante said blandly. "I never planned to kill you. Not if you saw reason."

"So, you do plan on taking the Razor!" Silas cried. "I knew it! Well, I won't let you!" He threw another spell at the Breton Guildmaster; lightning this time, and Dante stiffened as it hit. He had a natural resistance to magic being cast at him, but it still hurt.

"I said that's enough, Vesuius!" Dante thundered darkly, as Marcus got to his feet. "Don't force me to do something you'll regret."

But Vesuius was too far gone to listen, and he backed away, firing another lightning bolt at Dante.

"I will bring back the Mythic Dawn!" Vesuius babbled. "I'll kill you both, and Lord Dagon will have to acknowledge I'm worthy to bear his Razor!" He summoned another Atronach and sent it against them, still gibbering almost incoherently. "And when I have the Razor, I'll return to the Imperial City. I'll kill the Emperor, and a new day will dawn for the Empire! We'll be rid of the tyrant and can build a paradise here on Tamriel!"

"The guy's nuttier than Grandma's fruitcake," Marcus growled, facing off against the second Atronach. "We have to stop him!"

"I'll stop him," Dante muttered, crouching. Silas' eyes widened in fear as it appeared to him that the Breton had simply vanished.

"Where are you?" he cried, casting his gaze around wildly. He put up a ward in front of him while Marcus whittled the Atronach down.

"Behind you," Dante whispered in his ear, as he sank his blade into Vesuius from behind, practically lifting the Imperial off his feet. With a short, choked gurgle, Vesuius died, and the Atronach dissipated.

"What a waste!" the Grey Fox muttered scornfully as he rejoined the Dragonborn.

"He didn't leave us much choice," Marcus observed. "But I guess in the end it's for the best. That guy had bats in his belfry."

"You have some very colorful euphemisms, my friend," Dante chuckled.

"You have no idea," Marcus replied, returning the grin. "Anyway, it's done. You've got the pieces of the Razor."

Dante frowned. "Yeah, but not reforged. I was kind of hoping Vesuius would manage that much, at least. I have no idea how we're supposed to manage that."

"Do you really have to have it all in one piece?" Marcus inquired, skeptically. It seemed to him that keeping the pieces apart would be better in the long run.

Dante shrugged. "Yes, actually," he returned. "There's a chance I could be Emperor one day. I'd rather have this in my hands, where I know where it is, than to leave it for someone else to use against me, or against Titus Mede – my grandfather – before his time." The last part was spoken almost in hushed tones of wonder, as if Dante himself was still coming to terms with it.

Marcus mulled that over in his mind. Shaking his head and blowing out a breath of resignation, he finally sighed, "Well, if anyone will know how, Tamsyn would. Go ahead and contact her."

The Arch-Mage answered immediately this time and listened patiently while they explained the situation to her. She was silent for several heartbeats.

"You're sure you want to do this?" she finally asked. They could hear the conflict in her voice.

"Absolutely certain," Dante replied.

"Alright," Tamsyn sighed at last. "I'll tell you what might work. It's really up to Dagon to decide. And then you'll have to deal with him. He'll probably want one of you to kill the other, so be prepared. He cheats."

"It's been my experience that all the Daedra cheat," Marcus said sarcastically. Tamsyn tinkled a laugh over the earbud.

"You're not wrong, dearest," she giggled. "All you need to do is put your hands on the altar. If he's interested in you, Dagon will do the rest. You can flip a coin to see who gets the honors."

"Not me," Marcus said, shaking his head vehemently after Tamsyn signed off. "I'll have nothing to do with this!"

"I'll give it a shot," Dante shrugged. He really didn't expect it to work. After all, Vesuius was clearly a devout follower of Dagon, and the Prince wouldn't even talk to him.

He placed his hands on the altar table, on either side of the pieces of the Razor. But before he could formulate what to say, a deep, sepulchral voice boomed around the mountaintop.

"You," the voice rumbled. "You are worthy of speaking to. You have claimed the pieces of my Razor. It has been an amusing game to witness. You have already killed Silas Vesuius. He and his family were useful tools, but that usefulness has passed." There was a thoughtful pause. "I will give you my Razor, mortal," Dagon continued, as the pieces lifted themselves off the altar and reforged into a perfect whole for the first time in centuries. Dante plucked it carefully out of the air.

"But be advised, mortal," Dagon continued, "Dagon does not declare a winner while there is still a piece on the board. Use my Razor to kill the Dragonborn! He has been a thorn in the side of my brethren for long enough!"

Marcus tensed. This was the moment of truth. He had traveled with the Grey Fox for over a week, and knew his capabilities and impressive skills. Now it came down to character, a quantity about which the Dragonborn could not be certain. But he needn't have worried.

"No," Dante said flatly, having expected this. "I don't serve you, Dagon. I'll use the Razor as I see fit!"

"You insolent, insignificant worm!" Dagon thundered. "Kill him! Take your rightful place as my Champion, or I WILL CRUSH YOU!"

"Maybe I wasn't clear enough, Dagon," Dante frowned, irritated. "Let me repeat in case you're hard of hearing. Understandable, I suppose, given your advanced age. I said, 'No…fucking…way.'"

"YOU SEEK TO DEFY DAGON?" the Prince bellowed. "FOOLISH MORTAL! SUFFER!"

A warping sound echoed around the mountaintop as two portals opened and two huge, beefy figures stepped through. Dante had seen sketches of these before. Dremora; and judging from their size, the armor they wore and the weapons they carried, not just any Dremora. These were Dremora Valynaz, the highest level, just shy of Dagon himself. The Prince was pulling no punches.

"A challenger has appeared!" one growled, while the other roared, "I honor my Lord, by destroying you!"

"Time to put that pig-sticker to the test!" Marcus called, drawing both his blades.

Yes, indeed, Dante thought as he dropped to a crouch and invoked Nocturnal's blessing.

It didn't work. The Valynaz closest to him came at him anyway.

"You cannot hide from the Daedra with a Daedra's blessing!" the Valynaz grinned cruelly.

Oh, crap, Dante blanched, rising to his feet. And then the creature was on him, and it was everything he could do to keep the gigantic Daedric greatsword from cleaving him in two. Across the clearing he heard the Dragonborn battling his own Dremora, but he couldn't take the time to look.

As the greatsword came down, Dante stepped swiftly to one side and sliced the Dremora's side with the Razor. Preternaturally sharp, it opened up the armor and cut deeply. Black ichor oozed from the wound as the Dremora roared in pain. Dante realized that the armor wasn't actually separate from the Oblivion creature, but was more of a thick, hardened outer skin. Regretfully, he knew he wouldn't be able to loot the armor from the corpse – and he had no doubt it would end up a corpse. Until that happened, however, he needed to make sure that greatsword never made contact with him.

Dancing around the Dremora was difficult in the tight confines of the mountaintop Shrine. Between the rocks that made up the base of Dagon's statue, and the altar table near the edge of the cliff, there wasn't much room to maneuver. With the fierceness of the Daedra's attacks, Dante soon found himself back-to-back with the Dragonborn.

Marcus was whirling both dragon bone and Akaviri blades keeping the Dremora's battleaxe from cleaving him in two. He blocked and parried, ducked and riposted. The Dremora was getting the worst of it, but the dragonplate armor was already broken in a handful of places, and blood dripped on the snow.

Dante kept up a stream of frost spells from his off hand, knowing the Dremora were weak against it. He kept the Razor in his right, only because swapping out weapons at this point would have left him open for an attack.

Slashing once more with Mehrunes' own weapon, he was pleased to see another long slice open up across the Dremora's chest, and it howled its fury at him. A lesser man might have quailed, but Dante was not a lesser man. He launched another Ice Spike straight into the demon's face, and it staggered back. Quickly following through, the Breton Guildmaster swiped again with the Razor, and the Dremora stiffened and collapsed. It had only been a glancing blow, Dante knew, but the Dremora was as dead as if he had plunged it directly into the creature's heart.

The rumors are true! he gloated. There is a chance to one-shot your enemy!

Instinctively, he crouched again, though he knew the Dremora fighting the Dragonborn was aware he was there. He circled around to get behind the creature, but it turned and slashed at him with its Daedric battleaxe. Dante quickly tumbled out of the way as Marcus pressed his advantage with the dragonbone sword.

Snarling, the Dremora turned back to the Dragonborn and whirled the battleaxe around as easily as if it were a toy. The blow was staggering, and Marcus fell back a few steps from the force of the blow, but was able to bring his Akaviri blade around to slice across the Dremora's midsection. It would have disemboweled a mortal. The Valynaz merely roared in annoyance and brought the battleaxe around again in response. He made the mistake of forgetting the Nightingale behind him.

"Now we end this!" Dante hissed in his ear as he brought Mehrunes' Razor across the creature's throat.

Gargling, choking on its own ichor, the Dremora went down as its life-blood oozed around it in the snow. Not satisfied yet, Dante opened up its chest and yanked out its heart.

"Was that truly necessary?" Marcus complained, disgusted. "It was already dead. And…thanks, by the way."

"These things are worth money," Dante grinned, as he proceeded to remove the heart of the second Dremora. He wrapped them both in some cloth torn from Silas Vesuius' robe and stashed them in his pack. "Besides, I dabble in alchemy. These can be used in potions to restore one's health."

"Don't tell me," Marcus replied, making a gagging noise. "Tamsyn does alchemy all the time. I'm glad to have the potions, but I don't want to know what's in them!" He surveyed the area. "I suppose we'll have to bury Vesuius."

"I wouldn't," Dante said flatly. "But that's just me. The guy was prepared to bring down the Empire…again."

"Let's not forget who put that idea in his head, though," Marcus reminded him, pointing at Justiciar Maldir. "I wonder…" He rummaged through the Justiciar's pockets and found a small packet of letters, holding them up for Dante to see. "Bingo!"

"'Bingo'?" Dante queried, puzzled. "What does that mean?"

Marcus shrugged. "Just an expression where I came from. It simply means I found what I was looking for."

"What do they say?" the Breton man asked eagerly.

"Not here," Marcus said, shaking his head. "Let's wait until we get back to Heljarchen. I know Tamsyn will want to see these."

"What about the Shrine?" Dante asked, giving a nod back towards the doors. He held up a key he had pilfered from one of the Dremora.

"What about it?"

"There's probably some loot in there," Dante pointed out.

Marcus considered this. "You know, if this had been a Shrine to one of the Aedra, I'd have said absolutely not. But this is Dagon we're talking about here."

"I'm glad we're thinking alike on this," Dante grinned. "Besides, he's already pissed at us. Well…at me, specifically."

"Join the club," Marcus laughed with a wry smile. "I think I've already pissed off half the Daedra."

"Then I'm in good company, I think," Dante replied, offering his hand.

Marcus took it and the two men shook hands.

"This doesn't mean I condone what you do, Greyshadow," he warned the Breton Guildmaster as they headed for the door.

"Of course not," Dante smiled. "Consider me an ally against the Thalmor. How I get the intelligence isn't as important as getting it in the first place."

Marcus threw back his head and laughed. "You know, Greyshadow," he grinned, "I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship!"

He knew the Breton man wouldn't understand the movie reference, but it didn't matter. He found he was genuinely beginning to like this man, who might possibly become the next Emperor of Tamriel.

We just need to make sure he lives long enough for that to happen, he thought. Whomever the Emperor chose as his successor – And it won't be me, Marcus thought firmly to himself – would find they had a target painted on his back the moment the Dominion found out. Perhaps they needed a candidate like Greyshadow, who already knew how to watch his own back.

Coming to a decision, Marcus waited until they had remounted Odahviing, then directed the dragon to take them to the Tower of Mzark.

"Mzark?" Dante echoed. "What's that? I thought we were headed back to Heljarchen?"

"This is close to home," Marcus nodded, "and there's something I need to show you."

---

Dante stared around in awe.

"What is this place?" he murmured. Even his headquarters in the Ayleid ruins under the Imperial City weren't as impressive as this place.

The had entered through a lift in an old Dwemer tower which – as the Dragonborn had said – was close to Heljarchen. The guards at the tower had recognized Marcus at once, and had allowed them to pass after he responded with the correct password. Tamsyn had joined them there with Lydia attending her. The Steward left to return to her duties at home once the Dragonborn arrived.

The lift had descended hundreds of feet into the bowels of the Pale and opened into a large chamber whirring with Dwemer machinery. They passed through the chamber into the hall beyond, and from there to what was considered – for this place – the 'outside.'

From his vantage point at the top of the stone ramp, Dante could see a wide river rushing below them, feeding into a large lake beyond. It was dark, but the realm around him was lit up with luminescent fungi and ores. Glowing mushrooms towered on stalks as thick as a man's body, reaching for a cavern roof lost to the darkness. They passed by what appeared to be a farm yard abundant with mushrooms of all kinds. Here and there, Dante could see patrols of mixed Imperial and Stormcloak troops guarding the cobbled streets. In the gloom, he could barely make out other structures that had been lit with torchlights, and across the way, a large stone fortress was illuminated with an artificial sun of Dwemer construction, that cast a normal, healthy glow over the landscape.

Tamsyn grinned at his wonder.

"This is Blackreach," she told him, sobering. "It's a series of connected underground Dwarven cities with access points here and there above in the overworld. We're using this as a training base, to build up troops and supplies against the Dominion threat."

"Do the Thalmor know about this place?" Dante asked shrewdly.

"Not that we're aware of," Marcus replied. "But in all honestly, we really don't know how much they know. They keep their secrets pretty close to the vest. They haven't attack us here – yet – and as far as we know they haven't infiltrated. Except for the troops in training down here, only a handful of people know about this place."

"A secret this large is bound to get leaked," Dante frowned.

"I know," Marcus nodded. "That's why we're performing diversionary tactics topside."

"What kind of tactics?"

Tamsyn answered for her husband. "We've been seeding their intelligence with false reports of skirmishes breaking out between Stormcloaks and Imperials," she explained. "We want them to think the civil war isn't over yet, but we can't use that forever. We need to start normalizing relations between the two factions soon, or it won't happen at all."

"We've set up ambushes in remote areas to draw them in and take them out," Marcus added. "All we have to do is say 'Talos worshipper,' and the Justiciars come out in droves. They're rather predictable that way."

"How expansive is this…this 'training ground' of yours?" the Guildmaster asked.

"It's huge," Tamsyn admitted. "And we haven't explored all of it yet. We still have to deal with Falmer down here, as well as Dwemer machines that still think their Dwarven masters are here to be protected. Sorine and Calcelmo have been working on repairing and realigning some of them, to get them working again."

"Dwemer machines?" Dante echoed. "I've heard of them."

"You need to see them," the Arch-Mage smiled. "We're very optimistic on their usefulness."

She took the lead and headed for the large stone fortress, which she simply called 'Fort Blackreach.' Four guards stood at the entrance – two Imperial and two Stormcloak, Dante noticed. The artificial sun overhead bathed the area in a warm, yellow glow, and the Breton man could see several towers and ramps rising around the perimeter of the central Debate Hall, as Tamsyn called it.

Inside, Marcus spoke quietly with one of the soldiers and was pointed up the stairs. In a small chamber off the main hall they met with Captain Hadvar, a young Nord in Imperial armor.

"It's good to see you again, Dragonborn," Hadvar grinning, clasping wrists with Marcus. He bowed to Tamsyn. "My lady, you're looking well. I hope the journey hasn't fatigued you?"

"I'm fine, Hadvar," Tamsyn smiled. "I still have a couple months to go. We'd like to introduce you to someone you should know."

"Dante Greyshadow," the Breton man said, stepping forward and extending his hand to clasp wrists. The look of surprise on the Dragonborn's face was worth it, he smirked privately. Clearly, the Imperial hadn't expected him to use his true identity. "I'm also known as Councilor Lance de Fer to his Imperial Majesty, Titus Mede the Second. To my friends in the Guild, I'm the Grey Fox."

Hadvar blinked. "That's a lot of titles for one man," he said slowly. "But I shouldn't be surprised at the company the Dragonborn keeps. We're all in this fight together, and we'll all need to wear different hats."

Dante gave a slight bow. "Precisely," he replied. "I suppose for the purpose of secrecy, you should simply refer to me as the Grey Fox. If word of this place does reach the Dominion, I'd prefer not to have my true name or connection to his Majesty known to them."

"Understood, Guildmaster," Hadvar nodded, and Dante gave the man a mental note of approval. The young Nord was intelligent and had a quick grasp of the importance of secrecy. In his current position, that was critical. He also noticed the small silver stud in the Captain's left ear, the first one he'd seen since being given one by the Dragonborn. It made sense; maintaining contact with their Captains would be essential in coordinating resistance against the Dominion, and he doubted the Thalmor had any such form of communication.

It's bad enough they have portals, he thought sourly.

"Is this the only place you're training?" he asked now. The thought occurred to him that it would be a bad idea to put all of one's eggs into the same basket. "How can you defend an area this large?"

"It isn't easy," Hadvar admitted. "We still have to fight the Falmer when they come out of their hives, and sometimes the Dwemer machinery here will build another sphere or ballista or Centurion to protect against our invasion of this place, but we're managing. It helped when we moved families down here."

"Families?" Dante echoed.

"We had to," Tamsyn said. "We had so many men and women being rotated from here back to the surface that it was starting to look suspicious. We asked for volunteers to stay down here permanently, and they told anyone who mattered only that they were 'moving' to another part of Skyrim. This city is coming alive again! We're getting merchants, tradesmen and other skilled labor down here. We've had to set up an infirmary to deal with illness and injury, as well as a school to educate the few children that are here. I have a branch of the College of Winterhold set up down here, also, to train up battlemages. J'Zargo is heading that up for me. I should check in with him while I'm here."

"Let's go talk with Sorine," Marcus suggested. "I wanted to show Greyshadow what she and Calcelmo are working on."

"You'll find them in the workshop," Hadvar said. "I have to return to my other duties now. Guildmaster, it was a pleasure to meet you," he added, bowing. "If I can be of service to you in any way, let me know." He touched his ear in an unobtrusive manner, but Dante knew exactly what he meant.

"I'm pleased to have made your acquaintance as well, Captain," Dante replied. "And if I need anything, I'll be sure to let you know." He made the same gesture, touching his ear, and realized this might well become a standard form of farewell for the Alliance.

Marcus led them to another building in the same complex. The cacophony of noise that greeted them upon opening the door made Dante grimace. It was in stark contrast to the quiet beauty around them.

Several workers were scurrying around both levels of this building, which looked as though it had been refitted from some original unknown purpose. Large bronze pipes, at least two feet in diameter, ran through the rooms along the tops of the walls. Steam hissed and pistons pumped; turbines whined and gears churned. If it weren't for the people attending the machines and running here and there, Dante would have thought the place was alive without life.

But it was the center of the room that drew his attention. Two people, an elder Altmer male in mage robes and a middle-aged Breton woman in a distinct steel-and-leather suit of armor were arguing over a large, conical contraption.

"And I tell you again, Sorine," the Altmer insisted, "you have the focus set way too far ahead. It won't be as effective the further out you go from the source."

"Why do you always have to be so negative, Calcelmo?" the Breton woman, Sorine, groused. "Let's just try it and see what happens. I've boosted the capacity of the holding chamber. We can put at least three grand soul gems in there now. It only held one before. That should give us more power for longer distance."

"It's not a question of power!" Calcelmo protested. "It's a matter of diffusion! When your focus is too far away from the source, the light is broken up. It won't be intense enough for you to hit anything with it."

"Is there a problem?" Marcus interrupted, before the argument could go any further.

"Oh! Dragonborn!" Calcelmo started. "No, not a problem. Not really. Sorine and I are just having a disagreement."

"What is this thing?" Dante asked.

Two sets of eyes, a pair of blue and a pair of amber, regarded the Guildmaster with suspicion. Marcus noticed and introduced the Breton man to the two tinkerers.

"Well, I doubt you'd understand," Calcelmo said slowly, "but—"

"We're trying to intensify and focus a beam of light through the crystals in this machine," Sorine explained, enthusiastically, eliciting a scowl from her Altmer colleague. "If everything goes right – and my calculations are correct—" she glared at Calcelmo, "—we should be able to burn through anything at great distances. In fact," her glare intensified, "we were just about to test it."

Calcelmo threw up his hands in defeat. "Fine, fine," he huffed. "Do what you want. Just don't say I didn't tell you!"

Sorine beamed as she had finally gotten her way.

"Now, I'll just set the coordinates here…" She pushed a few buttons on the lighted control panel, and the cone-shaped machine swung around on its spherical base to point away from the group, pointing out the window of the tower.

"What are you shooting at?" Marcus asked, concerned. If this thing worked, he didn't want anyone to get hurt.

"There's a large lake in that direction that we can see from here," Sorine explained. "We've been trying to hit some of the stalactites in the roof over that lake with this beam, but we haven't managed to do it yet."

Calcelmo harrumphed under his breath. Sorine ignored him.

"Now, I'll just throw this switch here," she said, doing so, "and…"

Nothing happened. A beam of light emitted from the nozzle of the cone, but it was diffused, and faded several feet from its source. Sorine's face fell. To his credit, Calcelmo kept his face impassive.

"It didn't work," Sorine moaned, stating the obvious. "Why didn't it work? I was sure…"

Before Calcelmo could speak – and start another potential argument – Marcus spoke up. "I think you're on the right track, Sorine," he said kindly. "But I think Calcelmo also has a point. You're losing too much of the light intensity from the get-go. Try refocusing that light by bouncing it off mirrors inside the cone. Also, maybe the cone isn't the right shape. Maybe a cylinder would work better."

Sorine's face cleared. Even Calcelmo's pointed ears perked up.

"Of course!" he exclaimed. "If we target the first mirror and bounce the light back and forth—"

"—we could build up enough intensity all along the length of the chamber," Sorine added.

"And that would force the beam of light to remain compact enough upon leaving the cylinder to retain its intensity for a longer distance," Marcus finished.

"I have an idea!" Calcelmo exclaimed as he grabbed a piece of paper and a bit of charcoal and began sketching. Sorine huddled closer and the two began collaborating on a new design.

Marcus chuckled as he, Tamsyn and Dante left the two inventors to it.

"Dragonborn," Dante began soberly, "what were they doing?"

"They're trying to build a laser gun," Marcus said quietly. "Sorine was already on the right track when I first met her, not long ago. She just needed the right resources and support."

"What will that thing do, if they get it working?" Dante asked. "Sorine said it would 'cut through anything.' What anything?"

"Dominion troops, I'm hoping," Marcus replied. The look on his face was grim. "I'm not exactly thrilled with the idea of cutting living creatures in two with that thing, but if we don't, we'll be the ones cut in half by Dominion forces. This is our very existence we're talking about."

Dante said nothing. Indeed, there was nothing he could add to that, but the thought of being literally cut in two by a beam of light shocked him.

In the yard behind the workshop, several apprentices were working on assorted Dwemer machines, in varying degrees of construction. Dante saw several spiders crawling around, as well as one or two spheres. Across the way, a Centurion stood sentinel, steaming quietly in its docking bay.

"These are all ours," Tamsyn told him. "Calcelmo, Sorine and their team have managed to rebuild these, based on the remains of the ones we've had to destroy to make this place safe and habitable. The controllers use a kind of helmet we found in the Silent City Catacombs. The team took it apart to see what made it work, and figured out how to make new ones that will control the automatons. It seems that the more complex the construct is, the higher level of soul gem is needed in the helmet to control it. The Centurions take grand soul gems. The spiders are managed with lessers. We fill them with the souls of animals."

"That's fine for smaller soul gems," Dante said, "but the larger ones work best with human souls. How do you manage that?"

"One of the Dwemer machines we found seems to be some sort of soul gem converter," Tamsyn explained. "For lack of a better term, it takes smaller souls, like vermin and animals, and compresses them, filling larger gems like greater and grand soul gems as well as if they had human souls. I have a team of enchanters here working to create another machine like it to use at the College."

"Where do you get all the soul gems?" Dante asked.

"There are ore veins all around Blackreach that produce them," Tamsyn explained. "That's why we have miners down here as well as soldiers. We've found other veins of ores, too. Mining those helps to finance this operation. In addition, there are tithes that come in from other sources that keep us going."

"Other sources?"

"Some of the Jarls contribute," Marcus said. "They know the importance of the work we're doing here, and they trust us." He didn't name names.

Dante said nothing as Tamsyn led them out of Fort Blackreach and headed back to Tower Mzark. There, they took the lift to a lower level, closer to the river, where scores of mages were training in all schools of magic. A Khajiit in Expert robes came over to greet them.

"Ah, Arch-Mage Tamsyn! J'Zargo is pleased to see you again. You have come to inspect the troops, no?"

"How goes the training, J'Zargo?" Tamsyn smiled.

"Very well, very well," the big striped cat grinned, showing all his teeth. "J'Zargo is especially pleased with the Illusion Adepts. They have just mastered the Rally spell and will soon be working on the Frenzy Rune."

"What about the Conjuration Experts?" Tamsyn inquired. "From your last report, they were working on Storm Atronachs."

J'Zargo hesitated. "They are…not doing so well," he admitted. "It is easier to summon fire or frost than it is to summon storm."

Tamsyn frowned. "We need them to be able to summon the Storm Atronachs, J'Zargo. The Dominion will certainly be summoning them against us."

"J'Zargo knows this, Arch-Mage," the Khajiit nodded. "J'Zargo will concentrate his efforts in this area."

"Did you get the tome I sent you for Dispel Magic?"

The big cat grinned again. "Oh yes, Arch-Mage! There are a handful of Expert-level student working on that spell right now. It doesn't seem to fit into any particular school of magic that J'Zargo is familiar with, however."

"It's a Mysticism spell," Tamsyn told the Khajiit. "It's one of the spells the Dominion was keeping from us. My friend Sylfaen gave it to me the last time I saw her."

"J'Zargo himself is learning this one, Arch-Mage," he assured her. "It is too valuable and useful to be forgotten."

"Who do you have helping you?" Tamsyn asked, looking around at the students practicing their craft.

"Onmund was here until last week, when he returned to Winterhold," J'Zargo admitted. "J'Zargo has yet to receive a replacement."

"I'll get someone out here before the week is out," Tamsyn promised. "You should have called me. We can't let this training lag."

"J'Zargo understands," he nodded enthusiastically, now that his dilemma was resolved. "We will be ready when the time comes!"

"This is quite the set-up," Dante complimented her as they took the lift upwards once more.

"It's not like the College," Tamsyn admitted modestly, "but they're doing some fine work here. I just hope it will be enough. I have Thalmor spies watching my every move at the College. We can't do any kind of magic they deem to be 'advanced enough to use against the Dominion.' That's why most of the Adept-level and higher courses are taught here."

"And you're certain the Dominion knows nothing of this?" Dante asked skeptically. "All these people down here, and all the people at your College, and none of them talk about this place to the wrong person?"

Marcus said nothing, looking at Tamsyn to answer.

"We haven't had any outright attacks on any of our installations," Tamsyn said. "I think part of the reason for that is that the Dominion knows it would be seen as an attack on the Empire. And they're not quite ready themselves to open that can of worms."

"'Can of worms'?" Dante repeated, puzzled.

"It's an expression," Tamsyn shrugged. "Once you open a can of worms, they only way to put them all back is to get a bigger can. If the Dominion launched a full-scale assault on any of the bases we have hidden around Skyrim, it would require them to be prepared to face the Empire once more in an all-out war. Right now, I'm fairly confident they've crunched the numbers and decided the cost is too high. They don't want a repeat of the Battle of the Red Ring. They'd have to fight a battle on too many fronts. If they do know about this place, they would want to take it out quietly. They would infiltrate, send in spies, learn our weaknesses from the inside."

"And I say again," Dante insisted, "how do you know this hasn't already happened?"

Sighing, Tamsyn explained. "I'm the Arch-Mage of the College of Winterhold. I'm very good at magic. Very good," she emphasized sternly, with no false modesty. "All of the people that enter and leave Blackreach – or any of our training areas – do so through only a small handful of access points. I've enchanted each of those access points with a binding spell. Unless you are of a certain level in the hierarchy here – like Hadvar or J'Zargo – the ordinary mage or soldier or tradesman is bound to say nothing about it. They might want to, might even open their mouths to do so, but they won't be able to. Fighting the binding just makes it stronger. So even…" she hesitated. "Even under torture, they wouldn't be able to talk about it. I had to make it that way. Too much is at risk to do otherwise."

"Alright," Dante acknowledged. "What about the others? The ones who are, by your own admission, 'high enough in the hierarchy' to be free from that binding? What's to prevent them from speaking out of turn?"

"They wouldn't have been chosen for their positions if they couldn't be relied upon to keep their mouths shut," Marcus answered. "But there's a lesser binding on them. They can't talk about it to outsiders, to anyone who doesn't already know. You won't be able to mention this to the Emperor, or anyone in your organization, unless Tamsyn lifts the binding from you."

"Which I'm not prepared to do at this point," Tamsyn pointed out. "You're too far away from us, and too close to the Dominion to take the risk."

"What about you two?" Dante demanded, just to be perverse. "You're talking to me about it."

"We know we can trust ourselves," Marcus grinned. "We're the exception to the rule. As are a handful of others in our inner circle. We know we can trust them to say nothing."

On a certain level, Dante appreciated this. The fewer people who knew a secret, the better it could be kept. His mentor, Praxus, used to say, "Two people can keep a secret if one of them is dead." But a dead Dragonborn and Arch-Mage wouldn't save the Empire. This was – as far as solutions went – a better one than most. Still, he couldn't help but wonder what it would take to achieve the rank of 'inner circle.'

---

Dante watched carefully as the Dragonborn and his wife sifted through the documents he'd brought, as well as the packet of papers he and the Dragonborn had taken from Justiciar Maldir. They had returned to Heljarchen, and Dante's mind still reeled with what he had seen in Blackreach. An entire training grounds – no, an entire city – dedicated to defeating the Dominion! He wondered if there were other installations hidden under Skyrim of which he was unaware, but found he couldn't form the words to ask. The binding spell was in full force. Still, it was exciting to be even just a little bit on the inside of this operation.

Now, as Marcus and Tamsyn read each of his dossiers thoroughly, he appreciated their dedication and wasn't offended at all that they chose to familiarize themselves with the intelligence he'd gathered. It was entirely possible they could have corroborating information of which he was unaware, that might make his information that much clearer. It seemed this was the case, as the Arch-Mage sat back with a sigh.

"I was afraid of this," she said, pointing to one report. "The Dominion has infiltrated the court at Wayrest in High Rock. They're stirring up trouble over there, keeping the Houses fighting against each other."

"It looks like things are heating up in Hammerfell, too," Marcus added, lifting the report he'd been reading. "The Redguards have accused the Dominion of attempting to lay claim to the island city of Stros M'Kai in the Abacean Sea. The language the Dominion used in that report was just short of condescending. If that's how they're treating the nobles in Hammerfell, it won't be long before they come to blows again."

"I don't know if Hammerfell can withstand another full-on assault from the Summerset Isles," Tamsyn reflected. "They fought the Dominion once before, after the Great War ended, but it cost them heavily."

"It cost the Dominion equally as much," Dante pointed out. "I think they might just be bashing shields at this point, but it wouldn't hurt to stay informed. I'll let the Emperor know."

"Not that it will do much good," Marcus rumbled. "Hammerfell doesn't trust Titus Mede. He flung them to the wolves in order to save Cyrodiil's backside and end the Great War."

"That's why it might be a good idea to start mending fences," Dante pointed out. "And who better to make such overtures than someone who has the Emperor's ear?"

Marcus said nothing, but rolled his eyes.

"I'm more concerned about what's happening in High Rock," Dante frowned. "It looks like the Dominion's 'divide-and-conquer' tactics are in full swing again. If they are successful in cutting High Rock out of the Empire, there's little chance it could withstand another assault from the Dominion."

"They've been at it for quite some time, it would appear," Tamsyn agreed, "but Marcus and I haven't been in Tamriel long enough to see what's been going on over there."

Marcus threw her a sharp look. Dante saw this and raised an eyebrow.

"You mean 'in Skyrim,' don't you?" he asked the two of them, looking from one to the other curiously.

For a long moment, Marcus glared at his defiant wife.

"He needs to know," was all the Breton girl said, meeting his gaze steadily.

At length the Dragonborn sighed, caving. "Fine," he muttered. "If you think it's necessary."

"I do," Tamsyn nodded soberly. "This isn't something I'm taking lightly, Marcus. Especially in light of his background."

Curiosity strained to the breaking point, Dante waited patiently while Marcus closed the door to the study and Tamsyn cast a Muffle spell at the door. Barbas, he noted, had been permitted to stay, and was lying next to the fire. He looked to be asleep, but Dante now knew better.

"What I tell you must be kept in the strictest confidence," Tamsyn warned, a glitter in her eyes. "Only three other people outside this room know the truth, and I don't include Lydia or Gregor in that number," she added. "I confided very early on, when we first came here, in someone we first met, in order to get their help. I knew then I was taking a risk, but my trust has not been betrayed. I won't name that person. The less you know, the better. Cicero is the second, because I needed to prove to him that I trusted him. He's repaid that trust time and again, and I'm actually quite fond of the little madman. The third is someone Marcus recently met. In point of fact, he wouldn't have confided to that person at all, but a certain Daedric dog couldn't keep his mouth shut."

"Hey, I said I was sorry," Barbas whined.

Marcus cut in. "I thought you told Sylfaen?"

Tamsyn shook her head. "Sylfaen knows who my father is, but not where I'm from. I didn't tell her that."

"And now you're going to tell me?" Dante prompted. He decided to save the question about who her father was for another time. No sense in pushing his luck.

"I think we have to," Tamsyn nodded. "You see, Marcus and I are not from Tamriel. We're not even from this world." She paused a moment to let that sink in before informing the Grey Fox of hers and the Dragonborn's unique origins. It took a long time.

Dante said nothing for several moments after she finished. If he hadn't traveled with the Dragonborn for the past week, if he hadn't seen Blackreach, he would have thought the two were touched by Sheogorath. He still wasn't certain that might not be the case.

Dante had never been a very religious man; his formative years had not given him much reason to believe the gods had any interest in the lives of men and mer. Nonna had attempted several times to take him with her to the nearby temple of Mara, but as soon as he was old enough to assert himself, he had refused, and she hadn't pressed the issue. He paid lip service to the Nine – including Talos only because he knew it infuriated the Thalmor – but his soul already belonged to Nocturnal, and had for many years.

"So…all this was just a…a game where you came from?" he queried.

Tamsyn nodded. "Well, most of it," she qualified. "We've sort of gone off the beaten path with a few things. Especially where the Thalmor are concerned."

"This is how you know so much of what might happen," Dante quirked a grin at Tamsyn. "You're a fraud!"

"I beg your pardon!" she snorted indignantly. "I'll have you know I've dived quite deeply into the Divination pool. I'm well aware that my knowledge of what happened in the game I played will eventually run dry. It's one reason I spend most of my days at the College in meditation, to follow the threads of possibilities to their conclusions, to find which ones have the best results."

"And have you come to any of those conclusions regarding the current threads of Thalmor interference?" Dante asked, sincerely. There was no mockery in his question now, Tamsyn was pleased to see. It warmed her to him that much more.

"I have," she replied. "What you and Marcus found on that Justiciar, Maldir, was only confirmation that the Dominion intended to use Silas to precipitate another coup by assassinating Emperor Titus Mede the Second. Maldir's orders were to kill Silas if they couldn't turn him to their cause. It was they who approached Silas when he was much younger, and informed him of his rather infamous ancestors. They guided him along, spun glory tales for him about what the world might have been like if the Mythic Dawn had succeeded. They convinced him that it was his destiny to bring that glory back to Tamriel. Silas was the one who learned where all the pieces of the Razor were, and somehow, he acquired the scabbard. The Dominion hoped he would be able to get it reforged. They couldn't know, of course, that he was never going to make that happen. If he had, they would have persuaded him to head down to Cyrodiil, to the Imperial City, for some good old-fashioned anarchy."

"Won't they try again?" Marcus asked, dubious.

"They don't know I have it," Dante said confidently. "We took out Maldir, his guards, and Vesuius, in addition to those Dremora. If anyone were to poke around up there at Dagon's shrine, they'd find the bodies, but nothing else, and they'd have no idea where the Razor ended up."

"He's right, dear," Tamsyn agreed. "For all the Dominion knows, a bandit passing by could have taken it off one of the bodies. Or they might assume Dagon reclaimed it. At the very least, they might send operatives into Dawnstar to find out what happened to Vesuius. The townsfolk would only know that he left town quickly and never came back."

She pierced Dante with a keen stare. "You'll have to realize that the Razor is rather unique in appearance, however. If you use it, someone is bound to take note of it."

"Oh, I intend to use it," Dante said blandly. "But I don't intend to let anyone see me do it." He let that sit there before continuing. "I'm honored by your confidence in me to keep your secret," he said soberly. "I don't pretend to understand why the gods chose you, to bring you to our world, but it's clear they felt we needed some outside perspective to help us through a difficult time. I won't betray your trust. You have the word of the Grey Fox on that."

"Thank you," Marcus said sincerely. "The fewer people who know, the better. I would have preferred that no one but the two of us knew, but faith and trust go both ways. We're putting our faith in you to keep the secret, and you can trust us to keep yours until the time is right to reveal it. We don't want the Dominion targeting you. We've got your back."

"Thank you," Dante bowed. "I don't know how much you'll be able to watch it from all the way up here in Skyrim, but the sentiment is appreciated."

"You'd be surprised how long our reach can be," Tamsyn grinned. "Now, let's take a closer look at the other papers you brought. We'll need to send someone into High Rock—"

"That's my job, sweetheart," Marcus told her.

"But we also have to look into this matter in Hammerfell," Tamsyn protested. "That one seems a bit more urgent."

"Leave that one to me," Dante smiled, thinking once more of Saadia. "I may have a connection there that will help."

Tamsyn huffed at the two men. "Honestly, you two surprise me," she complained. "Master Greyshadow, I would have thought you'd jump at the chance to return to High Rock."

Dante shook his head. "Someday, perhaps," he demurred. "But the time isn't right. Let the Dragonborn find out what he can. See if House Montrose has ties to the Dominion, and find out what the other Houses are doing. Are they aligning themselves with the King of High Rock, or are they jockeying for position?"

"Why House Montrose in particular?" Marcus asked, lifting an eyebrow.

"Personal reasons," Dante replied. "Perhaps one day I'll tell you, but not today."

The Dragonborn shrugged. "I'll find out," he promised.

"In the meantime, I think I'll pay a visit to a contact of mine and see about making a trip to Hammerfell. I have only one favor to ask, Arch-Mage."

"Oh?"

"Yes. May I have a few more of those ear buds?" Dante grinned. "I'd like for my Inner Circle to be able to stay in contact with each other, as well as with me."

Tamsyn smiled. "Of course. I trust you'll be able to keep them out of the hands of the Dominion?"

"I'll do my best."

Dante felt a thrill of excitement run through him. Things were beginning to come together! The news about the Dragonborn and the Arch-Mage was startling, but not unnerving. Due to his harsh upbringing, he had never concerned himself much with the Aedra, but it seemed the gods were favoring him now. He knew he'd have to have a conversation soon with the Emperor – at the very least, to inform him his choice of heir had politely declined. Well, at least he'd tell Titus Mede it was polite. He was a diplomat now, after all. In light of the recent Dominion activities, he felt he could put forth a very convincing argument to Titus Mede the Second exactly why they needed the Dragonborn out in the field, taking the fight to the Thalmor.

There were still quite a lot of rumors to run down, he knew, and information to verify before any kind of next step could be considered. Dante knew all too well that the Empire was too weak to withstand a concerted assault from the Dominion. While all the reports he'd received indicated the Aldmeri were biding their time, he knew it was imperative to find out just how much more time they had before the hourglass ran out. As it stood right now, unless more allies could be brought in to stand with them, the Empire would crumble and fall.

It was time to hit the books, Dante realized. Time to analyze the methods the Dominion used in the past, correlate that with the information they now had, and try to determine when and where the Thalmor would strike. It would take some of that precious little time they still had, he knew, but the alternative was unthinkable.

---

[Author's Note: Next up, what's happening at the White Gold Tower? And we head to High Rock and Hammerfell to find out what the Thalmor have been up to.]