Erasmus Servius had wasted no time in leaving the Arboritum following Helseth's accusations. Part of him found it almost ironic: of all the horrible things he had done in his career, the one that eventually mattered was an order that he never gave. However, the fact that Servius was being all but encouraged to leave the Imperial City worried Habasi. The Khajiit tossed occasional glances over her shoulder as they weaved through the alleyways, certain that she would see a detachment of the Royal Guard in pursuit. "Don't be so skittish," the general said to her without turning his head, "Ocato won't dare move against me."

Habasi looked towards Servius. Despite losing to Lex, he didn't seem too angry (she had expected some sort of fury). On the contrary, he seemed as composed as ever, almost even calm. His eye, however, still gleamed with a blazing intensity that was certain of a future greater than surrender to Lex, although Habasi still couldn't determine quite what that was. She scowled. "You are very bold to assume that you can just walk out of here."

"Not at all," Servius replied quickly, as though preoccupied, "I knew that this was a possibility, so I made sure to spread some of my men into the crowd. Ocato knew this. He assumed that if he tried to arrest me, I wouldn't go quietly, which caused him to worry that the troops would cause civilian casualties in the resulting chaos."

"Would they have?"

Servius didn't respond. The pair continued to walk silently through the streets. Habasi noticed the glances Servius was getting from the locals, running from a hesitant curiosity to outright fear. People whispered as soon as the general's back was turned, others pointed when they thought he couldn't see them. Despite this, Servius was still in his own world. Habasi quickened her pace to stand alongside him. "Now what will you do?"

A small grin flashed over Servius' face. "What will I do? What kind of stupid question is that? I told you, by the end of the day, I will be emperor."

Habasi looked at him skeptically. "The Elder Council will never allow it."

"Honestly, I never assumed that the Elder Council would've given it to me at all. They were looking for any excuse to give it to Lex without making too much public unrest. It makes perfect sense, really: Lex doesn't understand politics, and thus could be used by the council. I, on the other hand, will be used by no one, and the Elder Council knew this very well."

"Then how do you intend on seizing power?"

"Simple," Servius said, his grin resurfacing, "What I want, I take."

Habasi gave him an incredulous look. "You intend to 'take' it?"

"Precisely."

She made a noise akin to a laugh. "Foolishness! There is no way that anyone could seize the crown from the Elder Council—the Imperial City is impregnable even to a dedicated siege. That is common knowledge."

"Not at all," Servius responded, his voice now deadly serious, "Let's have a little thought experiment, shall we? The Imperial City has very strong defenses, true. However, think for a moment. It can only call upon three major groups when under attack: the City Watch, the Royal Guard, and the College of Battlemages. The watch is an absolute joke. The Royal Guard is skilled, but limited in number. The battlemages need to get a guild guide up and running, so the time and location of their deployment can be foreseen. Really, the manpower that this city has to defend itself at any time is actually extremely small: probably a little stronger than my legion, if one includes the battlemages."

"But they can call upon the entire Imperial Legion," Habasi said, now more serious herself.

"True, but it would take some time for any stationed legion to arrive at the Imperial City. Probably a fortnight, or maybe less if they have a very organized general."

"There you have it," Habasi added, "It would be impossible to put the City under siege. The legions would crush you while still building the tools needed to assault the walls, which in themselves would be a major, time-consuming operation."

Servius nodded. "In other words, the only way to take the City would be a lightning-fast assault."

"Which is impossible. The Council would simply blow out the bridge, and then you would somehow have to cross the lake without being destroyed from the walls."

"Unless the walls were already destroyed."

"How?" Habasi said, her voice clearly in disbelief.

Servius grinned. "You wouldn't know. If you could think of it, Habasi, the Elder Council most certainly would've realized it themselves and prepared contingencies, which would make such a tactic useless. A crafty, well prepared general would need to do something so audacious that it would dwarf any other similar venture in history. But, if the walls could be neutralized, a fleet quickly mustered, and the island raided in a single night, the Imperial City could fall. Once it did, that crafty general would have an extremely defendable location to expand outwards."

Habasi glared at Servius. "This is no longer a thought experiment."

"I see no reason to not act on it," Servius responded, "The era is crying out for a man worthy to lead it. Lex is no such specimen, and the worms on the council care more about their own power than the health of their empire. Such pathetic weakness will only sap the Empire's strength in these trying times that are awaiting us. The future is grim."

"So everyone says—"

"It is worse," Servius cut in, his voice almost fatalistic, "It is far, far worse than anyone realizes, and I believe I may be the only one in Tamriel who actually understands the threat that is eminent."

Habasi's face flickered in concern. "What are you talking about? Speak plainly!"

Servius's face was serious, and he had a look in his eye that Habasi had never seen before. "I fear that the Oblivion Crisis was just a prelude to a much larger conflict. And I know that only I have the cunning, daring, and skill to lead the Empire through it. I always knew my entire life was building up to something great, but I never once thought it would be..."

"You speak in circles!"

"The revenge on the Flyte family will have to wait," he said, picking up speed, "The next crisis will need my entire focus. Finally, a labor worthy of my brilliance! This is the task I have been so waiting for!"

"Wait!" Habasi called out, trying to match his pace, "Come back!"

It was impossible, though, with Servius burning with this newfound passion. As she watched him move with such vivid intensity, then a sudden image crossed her mind. In the middle of a great, ancient forest there was a thick layer of dead, easily burnable debris on the ground, and suddenly a torch was thrown onto it. Servius was obviously the flame. She could only wonder what he was going to burn away with his brilliant, all-consuming ambition...

Lynette Flyte slowly opened her eyes. She was most uncharacteristically sitting on the floor with her back against the wall. She had a book on her lap and a slightly bad taste in her mouth. She blinked once and looked up to a man sitting nearby her at a counter, writing in an open ledger. A thoughtful look crossed her face. "I fell asleep," she announced softly.

Maro nodded, not turning from his work. "You did. Did you want me to wake you?"

"No," Lynette replied, stretching out her arms, "It's just… I don't think I've napped in months. It's actually quite nice."

"I'm glad. You've been looking very tired lately," Maro said, turning to look at her.

Lynette gave a single, bright laugh. "I suppose I have been, haven't I? Up to this point, I've been so busy countering Servius that I've barely had any time for myself. It's still sort of hard to believe that we've won… What a pleasant feeling…" she mused, sliding down a little bit. A thought crossed her mind, causing her to smile mischievously. "And I don't even have an escort: my knights must be worried sick!"

Maro smiled in return. "That's not very nice."

"Oh, boo!" Lynette responded with a pout, "I've just gotten done with all my work, so I think I deserve a little time to rest. It's not like I'll have much more time to in the near future."

"Why's that?"

"Don't be silly, Maro," Lynette said, standing up, "In a few days we'll have Imperator Lex's gala, and the coronation the day after. I hardly expected it all to happen so soon, but the Council wants an emperor on the throne before 435. Right after that, I'll be leaving to go back home."

A nervous, unhappy frown shot across Maro's face. "Leaving?"

Lynette didn't notice the look. "Well of course. I've been here for months; all my friends and retainers back home must be dying to see me again. And besides, I have duties to attend to back in Anticlere that I can't adequately perform here."

"So you're not going to spend any more time in the City…?" Maro asked, his voice soft, even hurt.

This time, Lynette noticed his tone. A small frown found its way upon her face. "Well… I mean, there's also Nanette, Maro. I want to move her away from the crowds here, to a small estate where the two of us spent much time together when we were young. Perhaps she'll… Lose her madness that has grasped her and maybe even regain her memories there. It's worth a shot, by any means."

Maro forced a smile onto his face, although his eyes didn't have their normal gleam. "Yeah, you're right. I really hope she'll get better."

Lynette didn't yet return the smile. "I will write to you, Maro. You know that."

"Of course," Maro responded with an all-too-fast nod. "I'll write, too."

A second passed as Lynette thought for a moment, biting her bottom lip slightly. She thought about biting a nail, but resisted. "You can tell me anything, you know," she said quickly.

"What?" Maro responded.

"I mean…" Lynette said slowly, thinking carefully, "If there is anything you want to tell me, Maro, you may."

Maro shook his head. "I don't follow."

Lynette sighed and put a hand to her head. "Forget it," she said, putting the subject aside. She renewed a smile. "Anyway, I suppose that I've spent a long enough time lollygagging around. I still need to finish some preparations, as well as visit Councilman Ocato and Imperator Lex later, but I should be finished with some time left in the evening. I trust you'll be free?"

Maro nodded. "Sure."

"Good!" Lynette chimed, picking up her parasol, "Then I'll see you a little later."

She left the shop without any delay. At the sound of the closing door, Maro sighed once. He slumped in his chair, supporting his head with a hand. He could see her walking away from the store from that one particular window: the same window which he had seen her leave this shop so many other times in the past. But what did it matter now? He was running out of days. Time was marching ever onward, and Maro's great desire had yet to be fulfilled. Could he even do it? It seemed so certain before, but now he wasn't so assured. Despite him being closer to her than ever before, it still felt as though they were very far away. He wished things could be less complicated.

Maro frowned. "How nostalgic," he mumbled to himself.

Where does genius end and madness begin? Habasi had asked that question numerous times since she had met Servius. He had always found a way to beat her expectations. Every time she had convinced herself that he was insane, he tempted her to take one step further down his road. Every time, often against her better judgment, she did. Every time, she became lost in the gray murkiness between right and wrong. It was a land she thought that she had spent her entire life in, but her brief time with Servius revealed horrors she never wanted to face in herself. Dark truths that ought to be wrong, but seemed so horribly right. It was as though her very mind and soul were being consumed by a swarm of ravenous ants, each small realization tearing at her like a pincer. Perhaps she, too, had gone mad.

But even if that indeed was the case, it didn't make what Servius was doing now any less insane. He stood with crossed arms, watching as cowled witches walked to and fro, beginning preparations for the ritual. Servius himself was leaning against a pole seemingly at ease, but Habasi was well enough acquainted with him to tell that the look in his eye betrayed his ever-turning mind. She scowled at him. "At first Habasi thought you couldn't become more insane after plotting to sack the City. She was clearly wrong."

"Every step of my plan is possible," Servius responded, "And thus I shall enact it."

"Impossible!" Habasi insisted.

"To an uncreative mind, perhaps. I will admit, no one has ever quite tried what I'm about to do, but then again, no one has ever really had the resources to do so. When I'm done, the Altmer will slap their heads in frustration that they never attempt this. Yesterday's exceptional feat becomes tomorrow's routine, after all."

"Do you truly believe that the little rock can save you?"

Servius reached to his hip and brought forth an uncut gemstone. It seemed as mundane as any other stone she had seen. Servius, however, looked upon it as though it were an artifact. "The Eye of Argonia," he stated. "The hidden, undiscoverable treasure. The progenitor of the Hist. Don't let its humble appearance fool you: future historians will write of it as they do Septim's Totem."

Habasi sneered at the general. "No single item can protect you for what you are about to do. It is impossible."

"Have you learned nothing?" Servius retorted. "Nothing, Habasi, is impossible. Nothing. Inside every man there is unlimited potential. A worthy man knows this and taps into it. That is why I, a man of only above average intellect and physical prowess, am about to make history. I already know that I can, and will, succeed."

"Fool. Daedra are different from you, especially a Prince. He is invincible."

Servius gave the Khajiit a nearly bemused smile. "Daedra, invincible? Don't make me laugh. That myth has been spread for generations, and people have accepted it with a sheep-like idiocy. Just because some scholar or mage claims that a Daedric Prince is undefeatable does not make it so."

Habasi gave him a curious look. "You attempt to fight a god: a being that could destroy you with a thought. How can you possibly have hope?"

Servius gave a dispassionate shrug. "Can a well-trained Bosmer best an Orc in combat? And can that same Orc, after years of practice, become a better thief than the Bosmer? Of course. This is the potential I was telling you about. For some reason, when I replace the example with one involving me and a Daedric Lord, people become incredulous."

"You have told Habasi that with cunning and a rock you intend to best the Prince of Plots. She has reason to distrust you."

The Imperial gave a thin smile. "I suppose you have a point. Perhaps I'll tell you my greatest advantage, then. It is a simple one, which has no obscure, metaphysical gambits. I will beat him because I fear him."

Habasi gave him a dry look. "That is your advantage?"

"Of course. Fear is one of the greatest advantages that we mortals have. Fear reminds us to always measure up our foe, and to never let down our guard. Because I know that my death is life's sole inevitability, I am constantly improving myself. Daedra? They have no fear. They reassured themselves since time immemorial that they are inherently superior to us mere mortals, and that we are nothing greater than insects to them. Perhaps so, but insects can carry powerful poison. I have every reason to believe that this Prince thinks that I am a worm, and so he will underestimate me. He thinks that I can do nothing. And by the time he realizes my own plot himself, it will be far too late to stop me. His lack of fear makes him weak."

Habasi shook her head. "That cannot possibly be enough to best him."

"And why not? It only takes a single drop of some poisons to kill, and I can assure you even those pale in comparison to my methods."

"Have you ever considered that your arrogance is a greater flaw than his lack of fear?"

Servius gave her a dark grin. "Not once."

One of the shalled women stepped forth. "Lord Servius," her voice cracked, "The preparations are complete."

Servius turned from Habasi and looked towards the witch. "Then I see no point in wasting time. Let's begin."

He began walking towards the room the witches had been frequenting. Before he could enter, Habasi stepped forward, almost defiantly. "If you fail, he will annihilate your soul."

Erasmus Servius stopped for a moment. He slowly turned his head towards Habasi. She could see him more clearly now, it seemed, than ever before. The deep scars carved into his face, making him look both horrible and somehow darkly handsome. The flecks on gray in his hair, betraying the decades holding him down. Perhaps most striking: his single, steel eye, shining like a blade: keen, unbreakable, and deadly. He gave her one, final grin. Unlike his standard one, it had a layer of sincerity she didn't expect to see. "All the more reason to succeed."

Without wasting any more time, he entered the room.

The die was cast.

With the belabored creak of an old, iron door, Hieronymus Lex entered the Bastion. To both sides were jail cells, filled with the scum of the Imperial City, from pickpockets to cutthroats. No longer clad in the armor of an Imperial Captain, he wore a flowing robe that looked almost unfitting draped over his body. He slowly began to walk down the way, scrutinizing the inhabitants of each small, cold room. Keeping pace with him at his side was General Sigrdríf. While Lex's face was driven and brooding, she had a bounce to her step which betrayed a hidden happiness.

The stale air smelled like a combination of dried sweat and crushed dreams. Most prisoners didn't bother to look at the man who was to become emperor. Other glanced at him with empty, vacant expressions, too defeated by life to really care. Eventually, though, he arrived before a cell that looked on the outside like any other. Lex knew better. He looked at its inhabitant, who was curled up on a stained cot. At last he had found the real her.

"Prisoner," he said firmly, looking down upon the thief.

She didn't verbally respond. She did, however, slowly raise her head to look up at Lex. Her eyes had a curious quality to them, perhaps defiant, perhaps regretful. When she saw the woman to Lex's side, though, they were filled with little other than unadulterated hatred. Sigrdríf sensed this, and slowly let her hip glide over to brush against the Imperator's. Lex didn't notice. For him, the world consisted only of himself, the prisoner, and the cold iron bars that separated them. "Prisoner," he repeated, his voice a chilly as the metal, "What is your name?"

The two held eye contact for almost a minute. There was a powerful energy radiating from them with an almost tangible intensity. The foul air, the low groans, the dreary dim—all were burned away between the two's gaze. Sigrdríf was nothing more than a shade as the long, dense silence weighed heavier and heavier upon their shoulders. Lex was the first to be able to cast the burden off his chest and speak. "What is your name," he insisted again, this time angrily, "Confess!"

"Methredhel," the thief replied, almost reflexively.

"Methredhel," Lex repeated, with a quiet, disgusted voice.

He closed his eyes and shook his head with a weary sigh. The eye contact was sundered, and Methredhel felt as though she had just surfaced from being trapped underwater. Lex took several more deep breaths, his hand clenching and loosening, before opening his eyes again and looking back to the thief. His eyes were merciless; Hieronymus no longer, Captain Lex had returned. "How long?" he stated, swiftly and decisively.

"The entire time." There was no more reason to delay anymore.

"So everything was an act?" Lex said, his voice sharp as a knife, "A lie?"

Methredhel didn't reply, and looked at the ground, her face more defiant than ashamed. Lex's face darkened even more. "I trusted you," he said, disgust evident in his voice, "Perhaps more than anyone else. And this is what you have to say for yourself? Nothing?"

Still no response. Lex made a sound resembling a snort, and started off, Sigrdríf at his side, but as he drew away from the cell, he could hear the sound of someone standing quite suddenly. He looked back to see Methredhel scowling at him, gripping the bars so hard that her knuckles grew white. "You'll change, you know," she insisted at him. The words came quickly, as though she had prepared them time and time again in her head, and each one carried an accusatory weight. "You might not believe me, but you'll change. That crown will warp you. It'll take all your ideals and justice and grind them into the dust. Maybe it'll come slowly, as you make little compromises on your beliefs to maintain order. But no matter how it arrives, it will come. In a few years, you'll be an angry, cynical shell of a man because you threw everything you held sacred aside because of the necessity of your station. You'll be Emperor Hieronymus, and the Lex I knew will be dead and gone," she concluded, now almost yelling, "This throne won't simply ruin your life, it will exterminate your very identity, Lex!"

A tense moment passed, so delicate that it threatened to explode at the drop of a pin. Lex's face was angrier than she had ever seen it, making her simultaneously vindictively pleased and unfathomably depressed. His glare was also more powerful than she had ever seen before, transcending the rage he would cast on criminals and entering another level entirely: it was so focused, so powerful that she could feel a physical presence pushing against her chest. Perhaps he had truly donned the robe of the Emperor—but she felt that couldn't be the case. He could never make this stare to anyone except for herself. "Is that all?" he repeated, his voice absolute.

Methredhel glared at him in return. Her eyes were also cold, but it was a very different look than Lex's. Her eyes remained an unseperateable mixture of self-assured righteousness, heartbreaking regret, and deep-seated, unshakable pride. She might've been a small elf, dressed in filthy rags and shoved into a bleak cell, but at this moment there was no one in the entire world who was more of a match for the future emperor of Tamriel than this single woman. "Yeah," she replied, "It is."

Their eyes and minds linked for a moment longer, and then Lex had turned, his cape billowing behind him. He moved swiftly down the hall, oblivious to the world around him, his dour face lost in thought. When he reached the exit to the outside, however, he did do one last thing before he left. In midstride as he passed the jailor's table, he reached to his side and took out a small pouch, jingling with coins, then slammed it against the wooden desk without a word as he threw open the door, illuminating the corridor with sunlight.

The room was, once again, dark. Too deep for the eye to penetrate, the blackness consumed all but the most luminous. Visible on the ground were a large, elaborate series of faintly glowing glyphs, too complicated to discern a use for. They glew with a faint but sharp red light, which lit the only other figure in the room. Erasmus Servius stood to one side of the circles. His arms were crossed, and his eye closed. He seemed somber, but at peace. His slate-gray eye opened, staring off into the darkness. It was time. "Lord Bal," he said in a low, respectful tone, "I have offered you your sacrifice. Come."

At that, a faint hissing sound broke the still. It began slowly as small pinpricks of light, so small that they seemed almost a trick of the eye, blinked into existence. One by one they multiplied, orbiting around some center mass, so dark that is actually resisted the little light they emitted. More and more appeared, coming into the world faster and faster, until soon the room was actually bright with their alien light. Servius' face was as calm as ever as the points came to a stop. There was a sudden, great sound, the cross between parchment shredding and the crack to lightning, and the lights shot off in all directions. In the absolute middle of the glyphs reality shimmered and began to tear as space itself was rend. Servius braced himself to prevent being blown off his feet by a sudden burst of wind, shooting out from the nuclear chaos. The folds of time peeled back to reveal a sight like none other—before Servius' eyes shone Oblivion itself. It was mostly black like the night sky, but of a richer variety of that color; just as a painting seems when compared to an engraving of it. Limitless stars, the worlds of Oblivion, shone in front of Servius: one was very close, looking like a massive moon, a wayward sibling of Masser or Secunda, but on such a cosmic scale that strained Servius' extraordinary mind to view. In front of all of it, though, was the giant, perfect form of a god. From his massive horned green head, resembling a mockery of the Dragon, to the cloven hooves which floated in infinity, it was clear that Lord Molag Bal had filled this pathetic, mortal tent with his supernatural presence. Such a sight would have made most men cry or fall to their knees. Servius stood with his face neutral: a mere man standing before a king of immortals. The lord opened his mouth and began to speak, his superhuman voice resounding across the dimensions. "You have summoned me," he began, looking down on Servius as though he were some disgusting vermin, "For what purpose?"

Servius slowly crossed his arms, looking Molag Bal in the eye. His gaze was confidant and bold, despite the fact he was staring at a creature that existed on a higher plane than he did. "I need a powerful magical item," he began, his voice urgent, but still in control, "Something as powerful as the Mantella was. Furthermore, I need it tonight."

The Prince's visage warped into something that a mortal would dare to call a smile. "You ask for much. For such a prize, you must be willing to perform a great service indeed."

Servius raised an eyebrow. "Service?" he repeated, "Whatever gave you the impression I was going to do you a service? What gave you the impression that this was a request? I am making this as a demand."

The universe stopped in a stunned silence. Molag Bal himself was for a millisecond speechless, completely blindsided by the unfathomable impudence of the insect before him. A moment later, his reptilian face spread into an eager smile. "Because you are so bold," he began, his controlled voice far more terrifying than any roar, "I have decided to allow you to explain your actions before I flay your soul from your body."

"Of course," Servius said, reaching to a small, brown pouch at his waist. He slipped his hand in and drew out the fist-sized, poorly cut gem that had been at his side ever since he left the Black Marsh, months ago. He extended the stone with a powerful, fluid confidence towards Molag Bal. Suddenly, the infinity behind the Prince slammed shut like a book being snapped closed, returning Mundus to its normal state. The Prince, however, did not vanish, and remained in Servius' tent with a look of pure shock on his paralyzed face. Servius looked over his shoulder. "Come," he barked.

Immediately a procession of witches filed in, each taking a position to surround the fallen lord. They begun what seemed to be a standard ritual: one to bind a Daedroth to this plane, but on a scale unheard of. After they begun, Habasi entered as well, her gaze stupefied, her gait hesitant. She stopped at Servius' side. The general had his arm still outstretched and the rock in his hands was giving out a faint glow. His face was as it always was, glazed with a thin, easy self-assurance no matter what the task at hand was. Habasi could hardly believe it. "But how…?"

"The Eye of Argonia," Servius responded, as though he were discussing the weather, "An artifact so powerful that it had only been mentioned in legends. The effect is perhaps less dramatic than one would think: what it does is sever a portal, any portal, no matter from where it originated. It's how the Hist were able to grow without any sort of interference from the Daedra or the Divines. Had we found it last year, the Crisis would've been a joke. As I demonstrate here, not even the Prince of Plots is able to break free."

"But how? He is a god…"

"True, but he still must operate under a few basic principles that govern the world. When I summoned him, he opened a small rift from Oblivion to Mundus. He can't actually set foot in our world, what with Martin's sacrifice, so he projected a fragment of his power into this plane. I suppose you could imagine someone putting his finger through a door as comparison. What I did was sever the portal behind him; I slammed the door. Now he is stuck—he cannot move, be it forward, backward, or in retaliation. So long as the Eye is near him, he cannot open a portal. He is absolutely paralyzed."

Habasi shook her head, still not believing her eyes. "Then what are you doing now?"

"What one does to Daedra: bind them. We'll slowly coax out more and more of his essence over the day, and shackle him under my control. To be able to actually command him would take months of ritual, so I'm merely going to put him into a divine coma. Unable to move, unable to act: he'll be twice the Mantella I need to rule this land."

The Khajiit suddenly turned her gaze from the fall of the Prince and looked to Servius. "You're going to use him for that!? Impossible! This is entirely against the natural order…!"

"So?" Servius countered, "Such concepts are just another way the universe tries to stifle ambition. This has never been accomplished before not because of taboo, but because no one had my resources, guile, and bravery. The Daedra insist that they are greater than we are, that they are by definition superior creatures. Molag Bal looked down on me, presumed me no threat, and so he is now my slave. I told you, Habasi, I set out to make the Daedra fear mortals, and fear they now do. "

"How can you say that!" Habasi shouted, "He cannot remain leashed forever! Do you feel that controlling this god suits you?"

"No," Servius conceded, "The God of Rape is too distasteful to me. I have different plans in mind. I will have my servant, but it shall be the Walking God, not this pathetic creature."

Habasi couldn't think of a response. Servius didn't need one. The two stood alone, silent, with only the sound of the witches' chanting to break the transcendental stillness of the chaining of Molag Bal.

Remember.

That is what one usually did in a graveyard, after all. The purpose of graves is so that the honored dead may never be forgotten. It is an odd purpose, though, as for someone who cares, it is impossible to forget a death in the first place.

A hand slowly reached out to the small headstone. The words GIOVANNI CIVELLO stood out clearly under the cold winter sun. The fingertips lightly touched the words.

"I was supposed to kill you."

Sigrdríf's face was deep in thought. She looked neither joyous nor unhappy, merely contemplative. She moved her fingers across the wording, as though feeling the stone made the man's death more real. A wind blew by, chilling the general. Normally she was fine with the cold, but it bothered her today. It was evocative of a different place and time, so many years ago...

Her father, once so proud, withered like a husk. He had grown mad in those final days. Sigrdríf always assumed that heroes died with dignity. Instead, his mind had left him, causing him to cackle madly often before breaking into tears. It disgusted her. But on that last day, right before he finally died, she saw one last flash of reason in his eyes. He said one, ultimate word.

Remember.

Blood is the purest form of relations. Stronger than companionship, yet more innocent than love. The man who lay dead was the one who had sired her. How could she not remember? How could she forget Giovanni Civello? The man whose actions murdered her father's wife and denied Sigrdríf a mother. That worm who wrapped his fat, greasy fingers around people's lives, treating them like pawns in a game, totally blithe regarding any suffering they felt: if she didn't know any better, she would've sworn that he were a Sload.

She tightened her grip. "I was supposed to kill you," she repeated, this time more forcefully.

A noise from behind her. She stood up quickly and turned about to see a very unexpected visitor. Standing across from her was the Redguard who owned the shop that Lex had used to stage his campaign. He looked at Sigrdríf with a raised brow, looking her over once. The general scowled. "Citizen," she said with a curt nod.

Varnado frowned. "Pretty odd words to say at a grave, General."

Sigrdríf groaned and ran a hand through her hair. "What do you need?"

"Nothing," Varnado replied, "I was just passing through."

"I find that hard to believe," she said, placing a hand on her hip, "That you just happened to be wandering through graveyards."

Varnado laughed. "I guess you caught me," he said, walking past her towards the grave, "I had actually meant to talk to you for a little while now, and hadn't had the chance before now. With the Imperator's coronation a mere two weeks away, I figured that this was one of the last times to go about doing it."

He kneeled before the grave and looked it over. Sigrdríf looked at him from over her shoulder. Her eye shone with suspicion as several long seconds passed while Varnado reflected upon the stone. "You hated Civello, didn't you?"

"How would you know?" Sigrdríf replied, her voice a little cold.

"The Lady Flyte told Maro. And Maro, naturally, told me," he said, standing upright, "And your words just now confirmed it."

Sigrdríf turned around fully and looked Varnado in the eye. She was a good head taller than him, and Varnado's keen eye realized that her seemingly feminine build hid a great deal of muscle. Regardless, he wasn't so easily intimidated, even when she began to speak. "Is there a reason you're going over this?" she asked.

"Yes," Varnado conceded with a nod, "There is. I want to know why you backed Lex and not Servius."

She tilted her head slightly. "That's it? I think I made it clear during the course of the recommendations."

"But those were lies," Varnado replied, "I could tell. You definitely chose to support Lex, but I can't fathom for the life of me why. I know that Servius had a more appealing philosophy to you, his rule of the strongest opposed to Lex's rule by duty. Clearly, you can tell that Servius is a man of a new era while Lex is one who will always be stuck in this one. Whether or not Servius' era would've been a good one notwithstanding, a woman as passionate and driven as you would've had to found Servius appealing."

"Maybe I disliked his policies," Sigrdríf replied, trying to shake Varnado off the subject.

"No. You're like me: you couldn't care less about what he claimed he was going to do. We're not political people."

"Fine," Sigrdríf said with a sarcastic sigh, "You caught me. I fell deeply in love with him. I'm leaving now."

"That's not it, either," Varnado cut in, "You're too strong of a woman to have such silly notions."

Sigrdríf rolled her eyes in exasperation. "What is it that you want to hear? What is it?"

"The reason why, but the real one."

She stopped and turned her body around, to look at Varnado with a curious look. "Why do you want to know so badly?"

Varnado give a thoughtful sigh, as though he himself wasn't certain. "Why…? Well, I suppose it's because I really thought you were going to betray Lex up on the podium after Kirania did, and it surprised me that you didn't," Varnado explained in an even voice.

Sigrdríf blinked. "… That's it?"

"I suppose so," Varnado replied with a shrug.

A small smile found its way onto Sigrdríf's face. "Knowing for its own sake, huh? Yeah, I know your type, and let me tell you, you're dead wrong, Redguard. You think that I had some sort of master plan worked out with Servius, that I was weighing my options carefully during the whole ordeal. Let me tell you," she insisted, looking down on him, "I wasn't. People aren't rational. They don't really think critically and plan ahead: that's why we have generals and statesmen to do such work for us. During the entire month, I was just going with my gut--no analysis, no chilly logic. What my heart told me, I did. That's the only way I can live."

She turned around and started to leave. Just before she was gone, though, she stopped. "You're sharp, though. The morning of the event, I was leaning towards betraying Lex, true. But when push came to shove, I didn't feel like it. I did what I felt like, nothing more."

With her piece said, Sigrdríf vanished beyond a hedge without waiting for a response. Varnado thought for a moment, and then smiled in return. He looked up towards the winter sun, coldly burning in the heavens. 'You did what you felt like, huh?' he thought, 'Who would've thought that the Battle-Singer... Maro, I think I understand you a little better every day.'

There was no more time to be wasted, however, and so Varnado left, leaving Civello's grave to sit alone under its tree, now reflecting the daylight off its brilliant alabaster face.

Armand Christophe opened the door to a rather seedy tavern and looked it over once. His face looked less than ecstatic: it seemed as though this wasn't the first time he had done this today, and most likely wouldn't be his last. This time, though, his eyes caught sight of something, and a curious look found its way onto his face, something in between relief and pity. He walked into the building. The floor here was somehow more soiled than the dirt path outside, and the room stank of cheap liquor, among other, less savory things. He sat down at a stool next to a hunched over elven woman who was staring intently at the counter. The rough looking bartender looked Armand over critically. The doyen looked up and waved his hand. "Get me anything," he said quickly, "A beer."

Christophe glanced to his side. The woman had a hollow, soulless look in her eyes. Surprisingly, the drink she had in front of her was hardly touched, and her gaze had a deep emptiness rare in a drunk. Christophe gave her a sad smile. "You look like hell."

The elf slowly turned her head to look at Christophe. After glancing at him for a moment, she looked back at the counter. "Why're you here?" she asked, in a voice so small it was barely detectable.

"Two reasons, really," Christophe responded, "The first being guild related. I take it you spoke to Carwen?"

The elf didn't respond. Christophe frowned. "If you did, you know that I assigned you to pick out her punishment. Have you determined one?"

"I don't care," she said, still not looking to Christophe.

"You don't care?" the doyen repeated, taken by surprise, "Really?"

"Fine her five drakes," the elf added, her tone unchanging, "Or kick her off duty for a day. I don't care."

Christophe looked at her for a moment before nodding slowly. "You do realize what she attempted to do to your reputation, right?"

"Yeah."

"... Fine. I'll make the punishment light then," Christophe said with an air of finality. The bartender returned and set down a dirty glass in front of Christophe, but he no longer really seemed to care about anything but the elf to his side. "I came for another reason, of course."

The elf didn't reply. The doyen gave her a sad smile. "It hurts, doesn't it? Being the traitor. It's funny, you know, everyone wants to have sympathy for the person at the receiving end, but often it's the traitor himself who feels the deepest pain. The traitor feels unending guilt that the betrayed will never know."

To Chrstophe's surprise, the elf turned her head towards him, her eyes angry. "Is there a reason you're saying this?" she said, her voice aggressive.

The doyen kept the same expression on his face, which was almost nostalgic. "I've been where you are now. To play with someone's trust only to shatter them with a single action... And above all, I know the pain that you're going through, and will go through."

The elf looked away, towards her glass. Her face was still irritated. "What do you know?"

Christophe looked to his glass in turn. "What it feels like to betray someone you love, of course."

The elf looked over to him in shock, but Christophe didn't return a glance. "For me, the pain never really went away, but I learned how to deal with it. I never really loved again. I traded in my ability to have such warm emotions for the doyenship. Maybe it was for the best--when you get to the very top, personal relationships hold you down. I think that the sacrifice that I made by forsaking love allowed me to lead the Guild without any distractions and have one of the greatest tenures in history."

He looked upwards, a yearning smile on his lips. "Or maybe those are the regretful justifications of an old, lonely man. I suppose I'll never know."

The elf opened her mouth, but couldn't immediately respond. "Why are you...?"

"Because you feel the same way. I don't know how you loved him, but it was quite obvious that whatever was between you two was more intense than mere friendship or camaraderie. Know this," he said, his voice becoming momentarily serious, "You will never truly be with him again. Don't tie your hopes to dreams as I did; they'll only make your final realization more difficult to bear. It's like entering cold water--just jump in and get it all over with."

The mournful smile reappeared. "Know also that you are now a very different woman than you were yesterday. The pain that you feel is proof of that. It's an emotion so powerful it's nearly sublime. Maybe we should even feel grateful that we're allowed to experience emotions on the scale that normal people never even dream of. Regardless, you know what it means to betray someone. Because of that, you'll never do it again. I know that I'm leaving the Guild in good hands with you."

The elf's eyes widened in shock. "You mean...?"

Christophe nodded. "I do. From this day on, Methredhel, you are the new doyen. Remember this pain, and never subjugate yourself to it again by stabbing the Guild in the back. That is my sole order."

At that, Christophe stood and walked out of the tavern. The elf watched him leave. When he had left sight, she looked back at her drink. Her trembling brown eyes had a look to them that was difficult to determine, both haunted and moved. She cradled her head in her hands and said no more.

Eight men had gathered in Servius' camp, right near the large tent which dominated the area. They were all clad in Imperial armor, each a battle hardened veteran, casting suspicious glances among themselves. Tensions were high as they waited, all for the one man who had yet to arrive. When they heard his voice, it was unmistakable. "Gentlemen," Servius called out, leaving the colossal tent, "So good of you to come, especially on such short notice."

One of the generals, with a beard so large it resembled a white mane, snorted. "You kept us out here for an hour already! Is this some sort of joke?"

"Not at all," Servius responded casually, "I've just come to make a little business arrangement with you all. I'll cut straight to the point, gentlemen. Civello brought all of us here so that we would self-regulate our ambitions, and keep it from any one legion to be able to seize the throne. I'm sure that you're all very well aware of that. This little policy, however, is flawed. Tamriel needs a strong leader, and I believe that it should be me."

The generals gave Servius skeptical looks. "You?" one said with a laugh.

"Yes, me, and to succeed, your help would indeed be useful. Because you are such influential people, I did not expect to receive this as charity. The way I see it, all of us will benefit from my proposal. You," he said, pointing to the leader at one end of the group, "Shall have Anvil. You," he said, pointing to another, "Kvatch. You, Skingrad. You, Chorrol. You, Bruma. You, Cheydinhal. You, Bravil. And finally you," he concluded, gesturing to the man at the opposite end, "Leyawiin."

"And you?" One of the soldiers, a man with one eye and half a nose, asked.

Servius raised a brow, as though he thought the question's answer to be self-evident. "The Imperial City, naturally."

The eight muttered to themselves quietly, each giving even more suspicious looks Servius' way. He didn't return their looks, maintaining a calm, professional expression at all times. His debonair got to one hotheaded general, who flared his nose at the Man from Argonia. "So tell me, 'great leader', what gives you the right to rule Cyrodiil? Why should we let some filthy lizard lover who went native in the swamps have ultimate rule over the Empire?"

Servius gave the man a pleased smile. "I'm really happy you asked that question," he said amicably. He then lifted his hand into the air and snapped once.

Suddenly, from the tent, there was a massive, groaning noise. It sounded like metal grinding against metal, which produced a moaning sound like none other that had rung over the world. A huge burst of steam shot out from the tent, so powerful that it nearly knocked the soldiers off their feet. Servius turned around to watch this moment he had waited for during all these years. The roof of the tent was torn off as a colossal bronze hand tore through it, reaching towards the sky: the legendary fist easily as large as a house. The generals all took a frightened step back in unison as a second titanic metal arm broke out from the tent, blistering steam pouring out from its joints. Slowly, amid the screeching of bronze, the great construct pushed itself up off the earth. Larger than imagination could create, it was something beyond human: the second Walking God had finally begun to stand. It produced so much steam that even Servius, who was standing a good deal away from it, had begun to sweat. To the accompaniment of the hissing of pipes and the grinding screams of metal, the god stood upright, looking over the land. It was clear that it was still very much damaged, but it was still kept together by some superhuman power: and at that thought the generals realized that floating within the Walking God's exposed ribcage was the defeated, subservient form of Molag Bal himself. The divine construct slowly fell to one knee and extended an open palm towards Servius, who deftly leapt into the god's hand. He looked over the generals with a triumphant, infinitely confidant smile. One of them, the very one who had just insulted him, broke out of his fear and threw a fist into the air. "Long live Erasmus I!" he cheered.

The other generals were roused from their own terror. "Long live Erasmus I!" they called out in response.

"The time is now!" Servius called out as the great Bronze God stood back upright, raising him to the heavens, "It is time to show the Elder Council who really controls this land! It is time to give this troubled time the leader it deserves! Rally your men, come to the shore, and meet me there, where destiny is made!" he yelled, drawing his sword and pointing it towards the Imperial City, "For today we siege the Imperial City! This is our hour!"

The generals cheered once more. From his vantage point, Servius could make out his entire legion celebrating as well, calling out his name over and over again, ready to fight and die in his name. In the distance, he could see the spire of the White-Gold Tower, now seeming so vulnerable. From so high up, it no longer seemed like a great obstacle. After so many years, he would finally grasp what was rightfully his. Servius grinned darkly. "This," he said forcefully to himself, "Is my hour!"

20thof Evening Star, 3e 434: The Siege of the Imperial City had begun.