Author's Note: 250,000 words is far too many, but there's still much more to come - like some discoveries, for instance.*

So yeah. I'm still writing this in the hope that one day it'll be finished and bound together in all its terrible glory. It was certainly nice to slip back into Templar's world again (as always, the actual writing process took less than a week if you ignore all the procrastination – though trying to decipher short, frenzied 'CHUCK THIS IN THE NEXT CHAPTER' notes written half a year ago was quite difficult. What, the Blades are all in Leyawiin? Why did I do that? And why have I got a dot point that just says 'chess game?'), and I shall attempt to keep the ridiculous eight month waits to a minimum in the future.

And of course, Skyrim's out (hooray!). Still haven't played it much, partly because I'm afraid of what it'll do to my study habits. Apparently the main quest is a bit less janky than Oblivion's, but it's probably too late for a switch.

*Disclaimer: The discoveries are in the next chapter, which got split off from this one because the action scene is about 3,000 words too long and didn't turn out entirely how I wanted it to. Some things never change...

EDIT: I do have an excuse (kind of) for not updating. I've been working on an original science fiction novel for a few months now, and told myself I wouldn't write any more fanfiction till I'd finished the first third. That didn't work out, so… here's some fanfiction!

Monsters in the Dark

Cloud Ruler Road (Northwest of Bruma), the Jerall Mountains, Hearthfire 12 3E433

He jogged up the snowy hillside, breath burning in his lungs. Somewhat annoyingly, it had been burning in his lungs for at least the past ten minutes, but gods-dammit if I'm going to let Baurus get there in front of me.

"Are we – are we there yet?"

"Nope."

Templar grunted incoherently in reply. He glanced forwards and saw the lights of Cloud Ruler Temple flickering in the upper distance, looking no closer than they had five minutes ago. Dashing through the snooooww, on a one-horse open sleeiigghhh… He stumbled, gave a large hacking cough. "Oh, my kingdom for a horse."

"You haven't got a kingdom."

"I know! It was hypothetical!" Templar decided to focus back on breathing, since Baurus was living up to his usual standards as a conversational partner.

The path curved left along the edge of the mountain, and upward, always godsdamned upward, winding between ice-slicked boulders and hardy shrubs that were no more than spots in silver in the moonlight. Templar could feel his sweat freezing as soon as it emerged from his pores; there was a slight wind whistling across the hillside, which mixed with the night and frosty chill to create this ungodly essence of coldness.

But his lungs really did feel quite hot; quite hot. Seriously, if I started breathing actual fire I would not be surprised.

And, then, well, at least I'd be warm.

Because right now I am cold.

Because it's snowing, in case you needed some clarification.

ALWAYS WITH THE SNOW.

His sword slapped against his legs, slush soaked between his toes. His muscles ached. But he kept himself moving, kept sucking down air, kept looking up at those distant fires perched upon the mountaintop, because as the Mythic Dawn spy had said – something bad had been planned for Cloud Ruler temple tonight. Something bad for the Blades, and Jauffre, and the new Emperor-in-waiting. Something that would probably result in a few important people getting killed.

But not if I have anything to say about it – and, as always, I have many things to say. Many things.

He ran onwards, pushing through the pain, into the endless night…

"…is dark, and full of terrors."

"What?"

"Oh, nothing. Just a quote." Martin turned another page of the Xarxes. Steffan shrugged, and got back to guarding. 'Guarding' seemed to involve little more than standing in the corner with a sword, but Martin was glad to have him there regardless – it was always oddly lonely in the great hall at night, as the winds ripped at the walls and the candles flickered low.

The night is dark and full of terrors…

…such as this wonderful book I have here.

The spread of parchment before him displayed a triangle, drawn in smudged red paint. Not blood. It's too vibrant for that. Sprouting from the edges were strange forks and sweeping curves, annotated with rows of tiny runes – daedric runes, sharp and angular, drawn with precise strokes. In the very centre of the triangle was a larger symbol, like an 'M', bordered by a crimson circle. Though the Xarxes had to be thousands of years old, the letters still glowed brightly upon the page.

He smoothed out a crease and made a small note in the margin. These passages seemed important; they described some sort of summoning ritual, a portal to a 'holy realm' that needed 'a trinity of power' to open. Translating the runes was still frustratingly slow, but with every sentence he grew a little more familiar with the ancient language.

"How's the book?" Captain Steffan asked.

"I'm not… entirely sure. Some of it seems useful, but it's extremely hard to interpret. And the writing is tiny, which doesn't help."

"Well, keep at it."

"M-hm." Martin stifled a yawn.

'Come slow and bring four keys: in my first arm a storm, my second the rush of plague, the third all the tinder, the fourth the very eyes of Padhome (?). Be winnowed the timid shall be at my feet and pray for pardon. Master, master, miasma, mother, master…'

"Will… will you be alright for a moment? I have to piss."

Martin looked up. "What?"

"I have to piss, and I'd rather not have you watch," the Captain said bluntly.

"Oh. Uh, be my guest."

"Remember, the others are in the eastern wing; they'll come running if you so much as raise your voice—"

"—and if something happens, I stay here. I know the drill."

"Good. See you soon, then." Steffan nodded and tramped out through the western doorway.

Despite himself, Martin began to feel a prickling on the back of his neck as soon as he was alone. Some people seemed to enjoy the stars, the inky darkness that came with the setting sun, but he never had – and he gave into the urge to look over his shoulder, cursing as he did so.

But of course, there was nothing. All the other tables were empty. The stone and plaster walls were silent. The fire in the hearth crackled merrily as it chewed through a couple of thick pine-wood logs, and braziers dangled from the mouths of carved dragons that leapt from the top of every pillar. Hanging from balcony were rows of Akaviri katanas, and he'd been told that each one had been wielded by a Blade, long ago; some of the swords were still dotted with old bloodstains, or nicks and scratches that had never been polished away. To better remember their struggles, perhaps?

Sighing, he set the book down onto the carpet by his feet. That was enough for one night; the letters were beginning to flow together on the pages, and he was almost jumping out of his skin every time the wind rattled one the upstairs windows-

Clunk.

He jumped, turned around.

Of course, there was nothing behind him. It was probably just – just a door banging, or a box falling over. Except – I know that sound. That's the sound of the doors being locked, when you drop the wooden bar between the handles…

He walked quickly over to the eastern doorway, pushed against the wood. It didn't budge.

Hm. That odd-

Clunk. Clunk.

The sounds came from behind him. His heart fluttered.

"…Steffan? You there?"

No answer. He glanced behind him again. There was still no one else in the great hall, but unless someone was playing an unusually cruel joke… "Hey! Anyone there? Hey!" His voice sounded nervous. He banged against the door a couple of times, felt it shudder on his hinges.

Martin looked around the hall. It suddenly seemed much darker, more lonely, with shadows pooling in the corners and peeking in through the upper-level windows. He walked quickly past the fireplace and stopped before the western entrance, pulled at the handles until his arms ached, but they were also stuck fast. "Ah, come on." He kicked at it half-heartedly, shivered as he felt the doors press up against the locking bar that had been dropped into place outside.

He strode over to his chair, glanced at the enormous front doors at the other end of the hall. What's the bet that they'll be locked too? The night is dark…

Okay, calm down. Steffan will be back soon, and then you can all have a good laugh. The Blades are in the eastern wing, they'll come running if anything's wrong. Now, just sit down, take a take a moment, and feel how warm that fire is-

"Hello."

He whirled around. There, standing in the middle of the great hall, was a man – a man in a black cloak. His face was covered with a hood, but Martin could see his breath steaming. Where did he come from?

"…Hello?"

The man began running towards him. Something glinted in his left hand as he darted around the chair, awfully quick. Martin began backing away, felt the fire crackling at his back, thought he reeeallly should've started running by now. He lurched to the side with a sudden rush of movement, legs caught in his robes, turning with pure desperation-

Footsteps scraped across the carpet. He got a few strides in before the man was suddenly there, a silent black blur. A hand reached out, grabbed his hair roughly. His legs buckled as he was jerked to a stop. He tried to pull away, struggled incoherently against the arm that was holding him there and the other arm that was sweeping down towards his neck – a jagged sliver of grey, too close to dodge, too close to twist away…

Stay alive.

A sudden burst of clarity.

He grabbed the blade that would've cut his throat and felt the metal slice into his hands. It was like clutching fire. The assassin was at his back, grunting, trying to force the blade down, and they stumbled together awkwardly; he threw his head backwards and felt something crunch, kept his hold on the blade as it vibrated centimetres from his neck. Blood dripped from his fingers, from seared nerves and muscles.

And then, suddenly, he was focusing on the edge, on the little ball of pain in his hands, trying to make it disappear, go away, so that he could stop holding the knife.

His fingers twitched. The man lurched sideways as he lost his grip on the blade, which was suddenly crumbling, disintegrating, turning to rust as magic flowed through Martin's bloodied fingers. Brown powder scattered across the floor. Then they both staggered into the wall, right next to the flaming hearth, the assassin shouting angrily and backing off to get another weapon, the priest reaching upward for something, finding it, pulling it down in a swirl of firelit silver-

The Akaviri katana slashed across the man's chest. He fell backwards, screamed, clutched at the wound with a spray of arterial blood.

The sword dropped from Martin's hand and clattered upon the stone floor. He stood there for a moment, breathing heavily. The assassin writhed upon the carpet, blood still spewing from his chest, but moving less and less with every passing second until…

…he lay still.

Martin shuddered. Still alive.

All that matters.

He absently wiped his hands on his robes and had to suppress a scream as fabric scraped through the cuts. A few small bursts of healing magic fluttered from his palms, almost involuntarily, but it would take more than that to repair them; every time he lifted a finger, pain spasmed from a gashed nerves and muscles. There was even some bone peeking out.

He felt strangely calm as he examined the damage. The magic kept flowing, numbing the pain. The assassin was dead at his feet. He'd almost been dead ten seconds ago himself, but…

The assassin was dead at his feet.

The first person he'd ever killed.

The first person he'd even hurt , really (except for that time he'd pushed someone down a stairway as a kid and they'd ended up with a broken arm). And how do you feel about that? You spend your life healing people, two minutes ago you're complaining about reading a book, and now look what's bloody happening.

He wasn't sure if he felt disgusted, or afraid, or relieved, or… what. Sick, maybe. He stared at the assassin's frozen face, twisted in pain, remembered the feel of the katana as it had cut through flesh. He remembered how he hadn't even thought about it, really, just acted on instinct, but when you got down to it was that really good enough to cut a life in half-

CRASH!

A row of the upper windows exploded inwards. Glass showered down. Wind rushed in through the openings, whistling and shrieking, together with another two black-cloaked figures that dropped cat-like to the floor. They stood up in unison, robes pooling around their feet, dusted in snow. One had a pale face, northern; the other was a dark-furred Khajiit.

Martin stood there dumbly, unable to process this new information.

"Are you Martin?" the Khajiit asked.

"Uh… no."

"I think you are," the Khajiit said. His eyes were large and yellow, and glittered in the gloom.

Well, would you blame me for lying? It was oddly quiet in the great hall – serene, almost, except for a slight tension in the air. The promise of violence. He managed to overcome his surprise, knelt down, picked up the katana again with the tips of his injured fingers. Blood covered the hilt.

The other man spoke up. "Put away the sword."

"No."

"Fair enough."

The two assassins began advancing towards him, slowly, matching strides. "I see you've already met James," the Khajiit said.

"I… I guess so…" He glanced at the body lying by the fireplace, then at the locked eastern entrance; perhaps if he could reach it he could call for help again, since I don't fancy my chances. "Why are you here?" he asked nervously.

"Because we are the Mythic Dawn, and you must die if the world is to ascend to Paradise – but if you are asking about why we are here, at this very moment…" The Khajiit sniffed. "Poison?"

"Too unreliable," his partner replied.

"An arrow?"

"Possibly not fatal."

"Magic?"

"Inefficient."

"But a knife… with a knife, you know you've done the deed."

Snowflakes began to pass through the broken windows. They fell lazily through the air, melting as they touched the floor. Martin had managed to edge over to the eastern doorway and he tensed his muscles, got ready to slam it with his boot and shout louder than he ever had—

Clunk.

"Ahhhh…"

The scream died in his throat as the door suddenly slid open. On the other side was a mass of bodies – four Blades and two of the Mythic Dawn, swords clashing, unable to get much leverage in the narrow corridor. Steffan had thrown the locking bar away and pulled the door open; he saw Martin standing there and pushed him aside, rushed into the great hall with his katana at the ready. About time. Another soon followed, Achille it looked like, and took his place by his Captain's side.

"You alright?" Steffan asked breathlessly.

"Not really, no," Martin muttered.

"Sorry about all this. It was gods-damned stupid—"

"I'm just glad you're here." He took cover next to the doorway, slightly bewildered, the katana hanging limp in his hand (which stung more with every passing second, until every thought had to pass through a haze of pain). The Captain yelled over his shoulder – "Ferrum! Get the Emperor out of here! He's hurt!" – then exchanged a glance with Achille and started advancing towards the two assassins.

The Khajiit backed away a little, eyes focused on the Blades. His companion began moving to the left, still trying to get towards Martin. Someone shouted from the corridor in pain or triumph as the last attacker in the hallway was struck down and fell.

Then the Khajiit shook his head. "I think plan B is in order," he murmured.

"No matter. Magic, then?"

"Indeed. Inefficient, but…" He pulled a small scroll from the pocket of his cloak; then he darted towards the fireplace and threw it into the flames.

Martin felt a shock of realisation. He'd seen a scroll like that before, sealed with a scarlet cross, and scrolls like that were quite bad things.

Suddenly, a bright flash of light exploded from the hearth, blinding everyone, searing sparks into his brain. Martin recoiled on instinct, heard someone shout. Metal clanged. As his vision returned he saw a cloud of smoke blossom from the fireplace, thick and black, flowing almost as if it was alive – clumping together, solidifying, forming some sort of shape in the chilly air. Turning into…

…turning into what?

Another flash.

And suddenly, there was some – thing standing before the fireplace. Something large, and angry, and very much alive.

It had far too many legs for Martin's liking.

Templar trudged onwards, pushing through the snow. His armour weighed him down and chafed at every exposed bit of skin. His legs felt like lead; every step made his knees ache. He'd long ago stopped trying to breathe evenly, and had settled for gulping as much air as he could. But it was never enough. Going down the mountain is fine, but going UP the friggin' thing… Baurus was still jogging along ahead of him with gritted teeth.

"Are we there – are we there yet?"

"No."

"…How 'bout now."

"Shut up. Less talking, more – more walking."

They rounded a rocky outcropping and suddenly the entire forest was spread out before them – rows upon rows of dark pine trees, carpeting the slopes far below. The path continued along the side of the mountain, circling around boulders and chasms, rising higher, until it finally ended at the walls of Cloud Ruler temple. Why did they have to build a stronghold perched on top of a bloody mountain? It's defensible, sure, but did practicality ever come into the discussion?

Templar could feel a stich forming in his chest, a sharp stabbing pain that came with every burning breath. The next section of the path was steeper, and he had to stop himself from going down onto his hands and knees; that'll just make it worse. Come on, you're almost there. Wind tore at his hair, and at the few patches of grass that still grew among the rocks.

Suddenly, a strong gust swept along the mountainside. Baurus was pushed off balance, tripped, fell to his knees. Templar stumbled backwards and had to brace himself against the ground. As his hands disappeared into a foot of fresh snow, he realised that he was so very, very tired…

The wind passed.

"Come on. Let's go." Baurus clambered to his feet.

"Yeah, yeah. Just give me a second."

"We don't want to get caught out here overnight."

"I know." Templar groaned, tried to push himself up… and failed miserably. He collapsed onto the ground, panting and shivering. His legs seemed to have gone from lead to jelly.

"Get up."

"I will. You – you go on ahead. I, I can't—"

Baurus glared at him for a moment. Then he sighed and leaned forwards, hands popped against his knees; he looked utterly exhausted. "Okay. Two minutes."

"Thank Akatosh."

"…Two minutes."

"I heard you the first time."

The beast that had just materialised in the great hall was a dreugh, Martin thought distantly. Dreugh: An amphibious, tropical crustacean. Dreughs are carnivorous creatures with aggressive territorial tendencies. Though relatively uncommon in Cyrodiil, they are occasionally found in swampy areas within the Blackwood region. In addition, the dreugh is a relatively intelligent animal, capable of primitive communication, and the wax found in their shells has several minor magical properties.

The dreugh hissed, looked around the room. Light glinted from its carapace as the last vestiges of smoke curled up towards the ceiling. It backed away a little from the fireplace.

Dreughs have six segmented legs, two clawed, muscular forearms, and an additional pair of thin, single-clawed limbs that emerge from their shoulders. The dreugh's upper body is humanoid, and merges with an insectoid horizontally-held lower thorax. Most of the body is covered a bony exoskeleton. The head is cone-shaped, with a wide mouth, sharp teeth and mandibles, and several fin-like appendages mounted upon the skull. The largest males can grow up to two metres in height and three metres in length, and can weigh as much as an ogre.

Unfortunately for him, the Khajiit was closest to the beast. The dreugh jerked forwards, blindingly fast, picked him up with one thick claw and threw him against the far wall – so hard that his skull cracked as he hit. There was an awful crunching sound. He fell to the ground, limp and bloody, but the other assassin was quicker and had already clambered up onto the nearest balcony; a moment later he leapt out through one of the broken windows.

Then the dreugh turned its attention to the Blades. Steffan and Achille began backing away from the creature, towards the western corridor. "Martin! Get over here!" Steffan hissed. "We'll try and lead it out, or – or away, or something!"

He was only too happy to oblige. He ran over to the doorway and was pulled inside by waiting arms; there were two Blades already in the corridor, Ferrum and Jena, and scratches all over the walls from where their swords had bounced off the wood. A pair of dead Mythic Dawn lay upon the floor.

"My lord. Are you hurt?" Jena asked.

He held up his hands wordlessly. Jena winced. "Okay. Well, we're going to hole up someplace safe, the armoury maybe until we figure out what's going on…"

In the great hall, the dreugh chittered loudly and clicked its mandibles. Martin heard it scuttling on the stone, rapid-fire, like hail on a roof.

"What's it doing?" Ferrum whispered.

"Looking for something else to kill, probably," Jena replied. "They're vicious beasts when in unfamiliar territory."

"Oh, so you're a biologist are you?"

"Shush. I think a more relevant question is 'can we kill it?'"

"Well, can we?" Ferrum asked.

There was a pause. Jena crept up to the doorway and glanced out. "…I don't know… Wait. It's coming closer. Where's the Captain?—"

"Jena, run! EVERYBODY RUN!" Steffan cannoned through the open doorway at full pelt, sword in hand, closely followed by Achille, closely followed by a thumping, shrieking blur—

Jena took his hand and jerked him forwards. He caught the barest glimpse of the dreugh as it squeezed into the hallway – front legs ripping the door off its rails, throwing it away with an almightily crack – and then he was running, stumbling over the wooden floorboards and paper-screen walls. Ferrum pushed him along from behind and they turned right at the end of the corridor, leaping down the stone steps that led towards the library. Achille tried to hold the dreugh off as it came skidding around the corner and took a few vicious swings at it with his katana; the beast lashed back with its claws and gouged a deep slash in his breastplate, sending him tumbling down the steps in a clatter of armour.

"Just stay out of its way!" Steffan shouted. "We have to GET OUTSIDE!" The rest of them sprinted into the library, keeping to the outside wall, ran past the shelves of books towards the corridor at the other end. Achille stumbled in a couple of seconds later, clutching his stomach, winded, threw himself aside as the dreugh rushed forwards into the small stone room, its head almost scraping against the low ceiling, screaming like a banshee, legs skittering. It was only a couple of metres behind the Captain when it reached out and swept one of its arms in a wide slashing arc, ripping through paper screen partitions and knocking a lantern from the ceiling, which splashed against the wall in a burst of flames. Martin felt the heat as he disappeared into the far corridor.

I hope the books are okay.

Gods, what am I thinking. I hope the people are okay. I hope I don't get stabbed in the back by a stupidly large swamp monster—

"Why is it so bloody angry?" Jena asked breathlessly. "Where's Achille? Where are we running to?"

"One don't know, two hiding in a corner hopefully, and three just – just far away!" Ferrum retorted. The world was a blur as they ran down the passage. Martin tried to keep up as Jena pounded up the stairs at the end, fuelled by adrenalin. They emerged into the western wing of the temple; the barracks and kitchen were to the right, the Emperor's and grandmaster's chambers to the left, up another flight of steps.

"Where to now?"

"Barracks," Steffan said tersely. "Then we can get to the courtyard and have some room to move, stop this thing from tearing up— FUCK!"

A black-cloaked figure materialised from behind the barracks door and kicked Steffan in the chest – the last remaining assassin. The Captain was knocked flat, his sword flying from his grip, and was about to get a knife through the chest when Ferrum rushed forward and tackled the assassin to the ground. "Jena, take him and go!"

The Blade nodded. "Martin, come on!" She led the priest in the opposite direction, away from the assassin and the dreugh (which was still hissing and clacking somewhere behind them – perhaps it was distracted by the fire; swamp creatures probably don't like fire, right?) and everything else, up the stairs to the Temple's second level. They turned the corner, climbed another few steps, then reached the long hallway that ran above the barracks. Decorative wooden panels jutted from the walls, carved in repeating semicircles almost like fish scales. A couple of candelabras hung from the ceiling, illuminating pale plaster and faded carpet. Martin's and Jauffre's bedchambers were at the end of the hall, next to a meditation chamber that overlooked the mountainside.

After a moment's thought, Jena pulled him over to the meditation room. She opened the door cautiously, checked inside. No more surprises.

Inside the chamber it was almost bare – just a small square room with a bench at the far end, right in front of a wide, rough-etched window. Now it was dark and featureless, but during the day it revealed a spectacular view of the forests and lands below.

"There isn't exactly anywhere to hide in here," Martin muttered.

"No. But if we're going to be cornered, I'd rather it was in a room with a window." Jena smiled grimly. "Besides, I'm hoping it won't fit through the door."

"It probably could if it ducked."

"…Ever the optimist."

"Well. It's true." A pessimist is just an optimist with all the facts.

Jena took off her helmet for a second, ran a hand through her shoulder-length black hair. Her pale skin was flushed with sweat. "With any luck, it followed the others instead of us. Horrible thing to say, but then at least we have a chance of—"

Click-clack. Click-clack.

Jena immediately pushed him into the corner and then pressed up against the wall next to the door, so that they wouldn't be seen by anything walking past the opening. She reached out and pushed the door shut as quietly as she could.

Click.

Darkness.

The only light came from under the doorframe, a little golden triangle that illuminated the barest hint of stone. Martin focused on it as hard as he could.

Click-clack. The claw-steps were getting louder. Click-clack. Click click click-

Then, a shaft of shadow swept across the light underneath the doorway – a leg, passing through the firelight. Then another, then another, which…

…stopped.

Click.

The dreugh chittered, very close. Martin held his breath. He imagined the beast leaning down, nostrils flaring, imagined a claw suddenly ripping through the wood – but all was still.

And still.

And still. The dreugh just… stood there, it seemed, perhaps testing the air for any scent of its prey. With every second Martin's heart beat a little faster, thumping against the cold stone at his back. It reminded him of Kvatch – cowering behind a doorway, running from the fire, when the night itself had come alive with screams and monsters in the dark. Now you are an Emperor, soon to be a ruler of millions, and does it feel any different? No. You're still scared. You're still afraid of death. You're still blind. If anything, it's even worse.

There was a rattle on the other side of the door.

Then, suddenly, the clicking started up again; the shadows moved on, leaving that wonderful golden light intact. Click-clack-click-clack-click-clack. The footsteps began to fade as the dreugh moved down the hallway, and stopped abruptly as it passed from hearing.

Martin shivered and breathed out slowly. Jena was just a murky shape beside him. They waited together in the small stone room, ears straining for the slightest sound, watching that little triangle of light.

He didn't know how long they stood there – ten seconds? A minute? Two? – but eventually, Jena murmured, "Is it gone?"

Martin shrugged, still too scared to speak, realised too late she couldn't see him. Jena sheathed her sword regardless and reached out for the doorhandle. "Wish me luck."

She turned the handle slowly and pushed the door open, just a sliver. Light flooded into the meditation chamber, made them both shield their eyes as Jena stuck her head into the hallway and peeked out—

SCRICK!

A shoulder-mounted claw stabbed through Jena's breastplate. The tip emerged from her back, wickedly sharp, covered in torn flesh. It lifted her up into the air like a butcher's meat hook, and the Blade was so surprised that she wasn't even screaming.

And that was how she died – staring vacantly, arms limp, a ragged hole punched neatly through her chest.

Martin just stared. The dreugh whipped its arm back and Jena came sliding off the end, dropped to the floor with a dull thump. It stepped into view from where it had stayed hidden a couple of metres down the hallway. The dreugh hissed, and Martin noted that yes, it probably could fit through the doorway if it moved just right.

Then self-preservation kicked in and he slammed the door shut, retreated away from it as fast as he could until he had his back to the window at the other end of the room.

THUNK. A claw punched through the doorway, then another and the wooden boards basically disintegrated under the onslaught. The dreugh leant forwards, stuck its head through the gaps, lifted its six legs so that it could squeeze into the meditation chamber one chitinous centimetre at a time. Martin tried to back up further, realised he couldn't. The glass felt awfully hard. It was probably too late to break the window; too late for Templar-style last minute heroics. He stared at the advancing dreugh, frozen, hyperventilating, watched it scrabble across the stone with dark black talons that glinted with malice. It was so close that he could smell its breath, feel the wind from his claws.

He sank down to the floor. A dozen thoughts rushed through his mind all at once, all useless.

I can't save my people, I can't save my city, and when it all comes down to it, I can't even save myself. Is this how it ends? Is this thing so desperate to kill me? I am the Emperor of Tamriel, and yet, in this moment, I am utterly… powerless.

There's probably some irony in that.

Don't be afraid.

He looked away, knees pressed up against his chest.

And…

Don't give up.

Never, ever give up.

Didn't someone tell you that, long ago?

But as you said, it's probably too late for any last minute heroics—

Suddenly, a shape appeared in the doorway behind the struggling dreugh. It raised its sword and stabbed down hard, aiming for a gap in the beast's carapace. Sharp steel pierced deep into flesh and the beast screamed in shock. It recoiled and tried to back out of the meditation chamber, turning to face the new threat. Martin stood up. Ferrum took his sword out and stabbed again. The dreugh shrieked, slashed wildly with its two shoulder-mounted claws. Ferrum ducked and backed away quickly, running off down the corridor then down the stairs, the dreugh pursuing him in a charge of pain and fury.

"Lead it over here!" Steffan shouted distantly. "Is Martin alright? Is Jena with him?"

"He's okay, I think, but Jena, she's— argh, come on! Try and get around…"

The voices faded away again. Martin staggered, dizzy for a moment, and knocked his head against the window; the sudden ache jolted through his mind. Forget your self-pity and THINK. He ran over to where Jena was lying in the hallway and bent down over her, laid a hand under her chin.

And felt a pulse.

Faint, definitely there, but not for long if the pool of blood around her was anything to go by. The dreugh had stabbed her just beneath the right breast and probably punctured a lung. Martin summoned up all the strength he had left in him – looked at her frozen, shocked face and tried to imagine it smiling once more – and let it flow into that smooth blue sensation, let it build up in his chest and flow out through his open arms. At least you can do one good thing…

Martin's vision darkened. His shoulders slumped at the sudden drain of willpower. He gasped, forced himself to stay upright. The magic kept flowing, twisting, out of one heart and into another… and as exhaustion threatened to overwhelm him, an azure haze materialised above the carpet. It settled around the Blade's body, pulsing gently in the light.

The priest took a breath, and hoped against hope that it would be enough to keep her alive.

Then he ran off down the stairs, following the sounds of combat from below.

They were up high now, really high. Close enough to touch the stars. The lights of Bruma glittered in behind them in the night, deceptively close, and Cloud Ruler Temple was nearby too – just half a kilometre ahead, standing tall upon its small rocky plateau.

Templar ran with renewed strength, drawn on by the lanterns glowing brightly upon its battlements. That two-minute rest had done him a world of good; that, and the fact that he'd decided to strip off his armour and leave it lying in the snow three-quarters of the way up the mountain. "Almost there," he muttered under his breath.

"Almost there," Baurus echoed.

…But surely the Mythic Dawn got a huge head start on us? Wouldn't it be funny-slash-terrible if we were two hours too late?

Urgh, don't think about that. Templar pounded along the path, feeling his feet almost fly off the tight, hard-packed snow. The air misted ahead of him, cold and clammy, clinging to the ground. A couple more crests, a few more turns, past that dead tree and then you're there—

"KRREEEAAAARRGGHH!..."

Suddenly, a scream echoed out over the mountaintop – well, not really a scream but more like a furious monstrous roar, earsplittingly loud. It didn't sound human, and Templar wasn't quite sure if that was good or bad. Probably both.

"What was that?" Baurus exclaimed.

"No idea. But we should probably run faster."

"Yeah, look – there's something moving up on the walls."

Templar squinted past the Blade's outstretched finger, and could just see a group of tiny black silhouettes running up and down the battlements. A couple of them seemed to be holding torches; he could hear faint shouting above the blood that rushed through his ears.

Okay, here we go. Sprint sprint sprint sprint SPRINT—

Wind, cold, snow. Martin burst out into the courtyard and was immediately assaulted by the night-time chill. To his left was the pagoda-like structure that sheltered the main entrance; to his right, the thick temple walls curved out in a wide semicircle. In front of him, the western wing of the temple rose into the night. A couple of lanterns provided spots of brightness to focus on, illuminating the icy stone courtyard, the twin patches of grass, the wide stairway that led down the lower front gates.

"It doesn't like fire! USE YOUR TORCHES!"

Steffan and Achille held torches in their hands like swords, swiping them back and forth, trailing sparks. The dreugh scuttled back and forth nervously between them, hissing and snarling, blood leaking from the wounds in its carapace. Ferrum was dancing around in front of it, acting like bait, trying to—

"Lead it towards the edge! We can push it off!"

Ferrum backed towards the eastern wall. His katana lay discarded on the ground, not much use when facing the dreugh from the front. The beast followed him as the other two Blades forced it along from behind. It shrank away from the fire, its humanoid upper body reflecting the light.

Martin grabbed a torch from the nearest wall and began walking towards the dreugh. He knew that the eastern wall of the temple stood right on top of a long drop, almost a cliff – a sheer jagged rock-face that ran a hundred metres down the mountain. If they could get the beast to fall off the edge…

The dreugh suddenly darted forwards, sensing the threat, swiped at Achille again with one arm. He tried to dive away but his injuries made him a millisecond too slow; it caught the Blade on the shoulder and sent him tumbling. Martin rushed forward instinctively to fill the gap, cutting the dreugh off. So apparently being Emperor involves taming dangerous animals. If I'd known that, I would've paid more attention to Sister Sarassri and her troll shelter–

Captain Steffan shouted and leapt forwards and the dreugh recoiled a little more. Ferrum tried to get its attention and ran along the edge of the wall, leading it closer to the waist-high battlements. Claws and footsteps clicked against the stone. Martin gripped his torch tightly, held it out in front, stared at the creature with watchful eyes. His fingers throbbed with suppressed pain. He abruptly realised that he hadn't seen Grandmaster Jauffre through all of this (hadn't seen him for hours, actually), and wondered briefly where the old man was.

But then, suddenly, as the two torch-bearers advanced – the dreugh found itself backed up against the edge. It screamed in frustration and lashed out furiously. Ferrum ran out of the way and found another lantern, pulled it off its hook. Martin swallowed and braced himself, held his ground, swiped the torch threateningly.

And so this night is almost over.

Almost. You've been a lot of trouble for a summoned beast, Mr Dreugh.

Then the dreugh rushed forwards once again, and for the second time that night his thoughts were perfectly clear – just focused on the seconds ahead. Stay alive.

The gates are open – that's a bad sign, Templar thought as he ran past the big wooden doors. The guards aren't here, he through as he sprinted up the long stairway to the upper courtyard, desperate for a glimpse of… anyone. He ran upwards, Baurus two metres ahead, running, running, clambering up to the top.

Templar reached the courtyard, and saw…

The familiar slanted rooves of Cloud Ruler Temple, the grand pillars at the entrance and the tall watchtowers behind.

Steffan and Ferrum, standing upon the eastern wall, peering over the edge with torches in their hands.

Martin, pale and bloody, looking on determinedly, robes covered in grime.

Achille lying on the stone, clutching his side.

And the shadow of a beast, clawed, six-legged, the barest glimpse of it as it tumbled from the battlements and down the cliff-like mountainside, shrieking all the way.

Thump.

The shrieking stopped.

As the last echoes faded from the air, the Blades and their Emperor turned to look at the new arrivals. There was a bit of an awkward moment as people fell silent, trying to recover their breath and general levels of sanity. Steffan sheathed his weapon, walked away from the perilous drop as Ferrum jogged towards the temple doors.

"I guess – we were too late – for the party?..." Templar asked brightly, panting desperately, feeling rather like he should be throwing up.

"If by 'party' you mean 'Mythic Dawn attack,' then yes. You were late. Just missed it, actually," Steffan said grimly.

"You… knew it was coming?" Martin added.

"Yep, we did. Long story." Templar coughed, trailed off. He squinted at the priest, trying to figure out if he was unhurt. Because, Martin, you are the key to this whole f—cking thing and I don't want you becoming dead. Also, I have no idea what just happened.

"Ha. It's been a long story here, too," the priest replied.

A moment of calm. Templar imagined his bed in the barracks, and thought that falling into it would feel mighty good right now. Sleep now. Talk tomorrow.

"…But you're alive?"

"Yes, Templar, I am very much alive."

"Well, thank fuck for that."