Morndas, 4:56 PM, 6th of Frostfall, 1E 173

Mzulft

"Wake up, Dalzren."

Dalzren opened her eyes slowly. A hand was shaking her shoulder. She'd fallen asleep with her head on a stone desk. She couldn't feel the right half of her face.

She rubbed her eyes and pushed herself upright a little. "What?"

Angnthamz, the white-haired Dwemer mage, was looking down at her. "It's almost five. You need to be getting home."

Here they were, in the secret room, next to the secret device. Two of the thing's five crystal jaws were still closed, the other three still open and waiting. Over the past month, Dalzren had replaced all of the lenses on the machine with ones she had ground herself, reinforced the metal armatures, and established a magic-neutral aura in the room for added security.

She had also done a great deal of sleeping. It was still the only way that she could handle the Soul Fray. Sleep came easily now. When the soul was at rest, when it wasn't being strained by waking existence, it couldn't tear itself yet further asunder—or at least, that was Angmthanz's idea about it all.

Meanwhile, Chief Designer Hizeft was barely to be found. She could never be around for long, not with an entire Domain to oversee. She'd been notified of Dalzren's condition, and had acknowledged it without comment. That was all that could be said for her. Any further attempt to reach out had failed.

There was still hope yet. There was hope that this project would be finished in time for the inevitable to be averted. In the meantime, Dalzren had found that dwelling unnecessarily on harsh truths still didn't lessen their harshness.

"I suppose so." She braced both of her hands on the desk, then began pushing herself to her feet.

"The project will be here tomorrow," Angmthanz told her, as though ameliorating the grievance of her having to leave. "You can rest at home until then."

From anyone else, that would have sounded like unbearable condescension. But Angmthanz didn't seem to be like most other Dwemer. Perhaps that was why he had ended up in the Domain of Magicka instead of something more in line with Dwemer priorities.

"Thank you," the younger Dwemer replied, before starting towards the exit. "I'll see you tomorrow."

She proceeded out in what felt like a trance. The secret corridor, the secret door into the storeroom, the path outside… other people, other Designers, were filtering through the corridor as well. They barely noticed her. People went into and out of the storeroom all the time.

Yet almost as soon as it had begun, her trance was interrupted. A voice yanked her back harshly to reality, spoken from directly behind her.

"Dalzren. Where have you been?"

She turned around.

It was Nirthas, of all people. Presumptuous, flirtatious, uncomfortably artificially young-looking Nirthas. He was striding right at her, a look of consternation on his face.

"Working," she replied blankly. She couldn't properly answer that question even if she desired it.

"You're wanted in the Hall of Learning," Nirthas said. His usual cavalier attitude was gone. "They've been asking after you all afternoon. I've had to tell them to wait until you're done working."

Dalzren frowned. "Learning? Why?" But she already knew the answer. She had only one connection to that place. "Has something happened with my son?"

"Just… go over there." Nirthas walked right past her, shaking his head dismissively.

Either this was some sort of practical joke, or something had gone very wrong in Amalest's day.

The conversation was over. Dalzren hurried out.

The walk from here to there was going to be long. The Hall of Design was near the very top of Mzulft, and the Hall of Learning was near the very bottom. It was almost right on top of the residential blocks, to permit the children of Mzulft to reach their daily destination with a minimum of foot traffic. Or something of that sort—Dalzren hadn't built the place. What mattered was that she had to cross a very long distance downhill, down one ramp after another, through one pair of doors after another, all while wondering what had happened with her son.

If this did turn out to be Nirthas' idea of a joke, she was going to ruin his image in the Domain of Design forever. That mer had disrespected her for the entire time they'd known one another.

So she descended briskly through the main passages of Mzulft, passing by the city's hundreds of other workers returning home from their own jobs. Many wore the robes of the government-managed Domains, but the majority, as always, were common laborers. They gave her a respectful berth as she wove through the crowds.

The entrance to the Hall of Learning was a pair of reinforced doors with the domain title on a large sign above them. The doors were open. She stepped right inside.

As she understood it, the Hall of Learning was arrayed in a T-shape, with the main classrooms along the corridor straight ahead, and more specialized rooms along the far back corridor. She could see the numerous doors on her left and right, connecting to classrooms filled with desks and tables and wax tablets and miniature models and all the other things that children needed to learn. But the children themselves were all gone. School let out at the same time as Domain day shifts, so as to let families reunite at the end of the day.

It was just as well, however—the Chief Educator's office was on the direct left of the entrance. There would likely be no need to venture anywhere else today. She went to it and knocked on the solid metal door.

A metallic lock disengaged on the other side, and the door immediately swung open. That had been simple.

On the other side was a small, sparse room with a single desk and a few metal chairs. A bespectacled, thickly bearded Dwemer in gilded black robes was sitting behind the desk, reading through a large stack of handwritten papers. In front of him, Amalest was sitting and looking glumly at the floor.

So it wasn't a joke after all. Dalzren didn't know how to feel about this yet.

The bespectacled Dwemer was Chief Educator Kaglan. It was always strange seeing him here, because when Dalzren had been a young student, the Chief Educator had been someone else—and Kaglan had been her classmate. Many things had changed since then.

"Good evening," Dalzren said, looking between the two of them expectantly.

Amalest glanced up at her, then looked right back down. His eyes were just the tiniest bit red. And upon closer examination, his nice school outfit had been badly disheveled. This wasn't promising.

Kaglan, meanwhile, put down his papers and addressed her with impeccable calmness. "Designer Dalzren, thank you for coming," he said, although his tone of voice conveyed an ever-so-subtle point to the effect of, 'What took you so long?'. "Please take a seat. Amalest has an apology to make to you."

"I see," Dalzren nodded gravely. She stepped inside and closed the door again behind her, then sat down as she was asked.

Once again, Amalest looked up. His eyes were welling up with tears. "I'm… sorry," he managed to get out, "I'm sorry, I used… physical violence against another student."

Dalzren frowned. Seeing her son in this state upset her already. But she couldn't imagine how this had even managed to happen. Amalest had never had a history of acting out in such ways. He was so well-behaved at home. There was nothing to complain about. And yet here they were.

She asked, "What happened?"

Across the desk, Kaglan was staring intently at Amalest—no doubt, making sure that the boy knew he couldn't try to twist the story in his own favor.

This all felt so macabre and random. It was like a slow, drawn-out version of a Soul Fray attack. There was little to do but wait for it to be over. And, ostensibly, to make sure that Amalest knew never to misbehave this way again.

Amalest began trying to reply. "I—I—I was trying to talk to Nenza during luncheon break, and he started—"

"Nenza was speaking to Amalest about clan politics," Kaglan said, cutting him off. "Amalest replied by striking his face repeatedly. It was witnessed by three supervisors and the entire room's worth of students. Nenza was sent to the Hall of Healing. Amalest is being placed under suspension for one week. In situations like this, a parent is required to pick the child up at the Hall, hence my asking for you."

Suspension for one week. That boded ill for Amalest's academic achievements. No doubt, he was already very well aware of this fact.

Dalzren gazed at her son impassively. "Very well," she said. "I'm sorry my son misbehaved so egregiously. Unless you need my input for anything else, I'll take him on our way."

"No, that's all." Kaglan shook his head. "Thank you for your cooperation, Designer Dalzren. Good day to you."

"And to you." Dalzren stood from her chair. She had no more pleasantries to offer. There was a very taxing conversation ahead of her.

They completed the walk home in silence. Amalest kept his eyes on his feet the entire way. There were more corridors to pass through, more ramps to descend, but eventually they made it. Dalzren fished out her key from her pocket, unlocked the front doors, and ushered her son inside with her.

She closed the door behind them with a meaningfully drawn-out click, pausing for a moment afterward. Then she pocketed her key and turned back around.

Amalest was standing there in the middle of the living room, right out in the open, arms at his sides, on the verge of tears once again. Deservedly so, based on the account of what he'd done. But now they were alone together, and now they could talk.

Dalzren asked, "Why?"

"I couldn't help it," Amalest said, and now the tears began to run anew. He wasn't even bringing himself to look up at her. "The things Nenza was saying… I couldn't let him keep talking like that."

It was self-evident to Dwemer thinkers that violence wasn't the correct answer to a problem of words. Of course it was necessary to use against enemies of the clan, but to use it against one's own brethren was to forfeit any claim to a superior argument. In a way, it amounted to conceding defeat in a debate.

Dalzren gestured for Amalest to sit down at their table. She remained standing, if only so she could begin removing the attire of her office. The belt and jewelry alone would take a minute. "All right. What did he say?"

Amalest swallowed and composed himself as best he could.

"He was saying that the old way of Dwemer thinking was going to go, and there would be a new world, new ideas… and then he pointed at me, and he said that I was the old kind of Dwemer, because my father was from Husbandry and my mother was from Design, and I only knew how to… to exploit the weak. And then he asked me if I had anything to say, and I couldn't think of anything. Everyone started laughing. And I just… I couldn't let him get away with it. So I went in and I got him."

He glanced away again. "It made them stop laughing, at least."

A moment passed. There was only the sound of the city machinery. Then he continued.

"I tried to tell them that he'd been belittling me in front of the class, but they didn't care because I hit first, and…" Now his composure began to waver again. "And I went to the Chief Educator's office, and I'd never been inside it before, and he told me I'm being put in suspension, and then I had to sit there, and sit there and sit there until you got out of work, and now all of… now you're going to do something to me too, and…"

Dalzren had heard enough. She stepped forward and knelt down in front of Amalest's chair, taking hold of him by the arms, before he could begin shedding any more tears. "Hey. Look at me."

He did.

"I'm not happy that you attacked another student. But it's done now. You're home. And I think you've been through enough punishment today. Now go get yourself cleaned up, and we can have dinner."

Amalest stared at her for a few seconds, uncomprehending. Then he leaned forwards and hugged her. It was a brief, tight embrace. Dalzren returned it in the same manner.

This evening's events were a woeful turn in many ways. It was worrying that the political divide in Mzulft had stretched all the way down into the discussions between children at learning. And it didn't help matters that Amalest had succumbed to representing one side of that divide with violence.

She wondered what family background that Nenza boy belonged to. She didn't know him particularly well.

"Go on, now," she said, leaning back from the embrace, still kneeling. "Get yourself out of your fancy clothes."

Amalest nodded and began to leave the room.

Despite sleeping through much of the day, Dalzren was already beginning to run out of her ability to focus. She was reaching that point where her mind was starting to feel like a veil had drawn over it. Her face itched. She wiped at it.

Then she glanced at the full-length mirror on the wall. She instantly knew it had been a mistake.

In her reflection, there was blood. Oozing down her face, flowing out from her eyes and nose, soaking her robes. The dark puddle spread rapidly beneath her.

Panic engulfed her. She knew what this was, this wasn't real, it was… it wasn't real…

She looked down. Her arms were coming apart. Flesh was melting like wax, separating from bones, dripping to the floor. Blood was everywhere. There was a horrible, constant shriek in her ears, like metal machinery being torn apart.

The room began to tilt. She was looking at the ceiling.

A voice called to her. A distant, tiny voice, drowned in the sea of piercing noise.

"Mother? Are you alright? … Mother!"

Then it all faded away.

And then she was looking up at the ceiling again, with two faces staring down at her. They were moving, speaking. They looked like blurs. Bright light was passing in front of her. "... pupils are responding…" a voice said, among other sounds.

Dalzren didn't understand what was happening. She tried to sit up. A hand pressed firmly on her chest. "Don't get up," said a voice. "You could fall again."

Healers. These were healers, inside her home. They were examining her, even though they weren't going to find anything. Amalest must have called them.

The horror jolted through her like an electric shock. Amalest had seen her have a Soul Fray attack. The secret was out. She would have to explain this to him now, and find some way to keep it from upsetting him. What could she say? I'm slowly dying from an incurable magical ailment, but it won't affect you too until I'm dead? How could she tell her child what this meant?

This must have been an increasingly traumatic day for Amalest. The horror gave way steadily to a mounting, aching, unbearable sorrow. She wanted to protect her son, and she couldn't. Not from Mzulft, not from the Soul Fray, and not even from the truth. It made her want to scream. To cry out and raise her fists and beat the gods bloody for doing this to an innocent child.

She willed herself to speak. "Where… where's … Amalest?"

"I'm here, mother," Amalest's voice said. He was very nearby. "I'm holding your hand."

Dalzren's heart was going to melt. Even after everything, her son was still by her side.

"I can't feel it." She grunted and pushed back a little, trying to sit up. This time, the healers allowed her to.

Amalest was sitting there by her side, just as he'd said. And when Dalzren looked down, she saw the boy's right hand grasping her left.

She saw it, but she didn't feel it.

"You're still in shock," one of the healers said. "They may be numb."

She held her hands up in front of her face, pulling away from Amalest's grasp. They were trembling slightly. She tried giving her fingers a flex.

Nothing happened.

What had she just seen in the vision? In the visual metaphor of the Soul Fray? What had her body been doing to her?

All of the horror, all of the woeful sorrow, gave way to a sudden, all-consuming panic.

"I can't… I can't move them," she breathed. "I can't move my hands."