Jarl Balgruuf is an intelligent man, usually not one prone to gambling. As a Jarl charged with protecting an entire hold, he's worked hard to ensure that he can provide his people safety and security. His ability to sniff out any trouble before it begins has proven useful on many occasions. Since he came to power, there have been no serious mishaps. He prides himself in it, just as he prides himself in his ability to read people and their intentions. It has served him well. Yet, while he senses no ill-will from this Krosa woman, he's unable to come up with any sort of intent from her at all.

Caution is usually a must when dealing with the unknown. But in this case, his curiosity is paramount. Balgruuf finds that he pities the girl just as much as he is intrigued by her. Her clear reluctance to trust is astounding. Especially when paired with the fact that she wholly ignores it. It wouldn't be the first time he's seen someone so distrustful and reclusive, but it is definitely a first to see that type of person risk it all for the betterment of people she has no association with. He can see the effects that her inner battle has on her... well the effects of what he assumes to be a battle. He'd be lying if he claimed to know for sure, even if no one else bears witness to his claim.

She shows remarkable restraint, he adds to himself, also remembering the tell-tale signs of someone ready to run at the first sign of danger. A level head on her shoulders is sure to be the reason behind it. But it does not explain why she is helping those whom she has no obligation to help, all while she, as far as he can tell, despises every second of it.

He is ashamed to admit that her compliance with Irileth was a surprise. As well as when she accepted the job he offered… and her quiet grace at being so verbally manhandled by Farengar. Not many people's dignity survives such an encounter with the man. And he knows all warriors protect their dignity with unhealthy fervor. Maybe the fact she's not a Nord has something to do with it.

Balgruuf mulls over all this information, letting it run circles in his mind. There are so many contradictions, so many signs of something. And the timing of it all, oh the timing. He doesn't know yet what this is all leading to, but he has his suspicions. After all, if prophecy is to be believed, then it won't be long until the hero meant to save them all will make their appearance. Unless they already have. He eyes the recluse woman standing in Irileth's shadow; her face set like a flint as Irileth speaks for her. So stoic and— Krosa's gaze cuts over to him, her golden eyes lack any sort of feeling.

Balgruuf barely has a moment to process the look in them. Despite the emptiness, there's almost a feralness to them, a hunger. There's also something... familiar. As if he's seen them somewhere before. Then it hits him. She has eyes like a dragon's. He's only seen illustrations of them in books, but he knows for sure that's what it is. Then she looks away and it's gone. Balgruuf's skin tingles, as if he's reached some sort of enlightenment. And maybe I have.

He's never actually seen a prophecy unfolding before, but he imagines it would look something like this: pieces that normally wouldn't fit suddenly coming together, people finding themselves in impossible situations beyond their control; the one it all seems to revolve around. If his suspicions are true, then this woman has no idea what's coming for her.

But, back to the more pressing matter at hand, to what he does know for a surety. A dragon is attacking the western watchtower. And it's up to him to make the decisions that could save or doom them all.

"If all that is true, how are we supposed to win against that?" Helvor exclaims, gesturing wildly. "Fiery rocks falling from the sky? A beast as big as a keep? We may be better off leaving it alone! How do we even know it'll attack?"

That was the wrong thing to say. Balgruuf watches the room erupt into chaos. His men are at each other's throats. He has never seen them this animated, this full of fear and animosity. The closest they'd get would be whenever Ulfric was the subject, that arrogant bastard.

"Enough!" Irileth shouts, glaring at the lot of them. The room dies down instantly as she shoves Knud into the fray. Balgruuf sighs. He's supposed to be recuperating. "Let him speak."

"It was circling like a predator closing in on its prey as I ran. And I just now overheard other guards report seeing smoke on the horizon."

The room goes quiet as they process the information, grave looks on all their faces. The dragon has already started its attack. As they speak their brothers are facing it right now. Balgruuf sends a prayer up to the Divines. If the dragon's plan is to come to Whiterun next— He will not see his people burn.

"How do we know it will still be there when we get there? What are we supposed to do? Hunt it down?"

"We will do whatever we have to," Irileth states, pinching the bridge of her nose. "Let's not waste anymore time. We'll plan our attack on the way."

"No," Balgruuf states, and they all turn to look at him as if they forgot he was there. "We wait until sunrise."

"What!?"

"Sire, I've already gathered—"

"If what she says is true, we can not afford any disadvantages. Can you or any of those you gathered even see in the dark?" His men shift awkwardly, grumbling. Even Irileth averts her gaze. Krosa's the only one to look him dead in the eye. Interesting. He pushes his flood of thoughts away, saving them for later. "Then we wait, and we use this time to better prepare ourselves."

"How do we know it'll still be there by then?"

"If it's not, then it isn't our problem. Unless it decides to come to Whiterun next, in which case we'll be more prepared to fight it."

"I see your logic, my Jarl, but what of the men at the tower?" Arne asks, his face betraying him. Balgruuf stands, making his way down to the somber guard. He knows who he stationed at the tower and he knows their relation.

Balgruuf places a hand on the man's shoulder, looking him in the eyes as he says, "I am sorry, truly." Balgruuf doesn't acknowledge the man's tears. There is no shame in grieving for a father. "But there is nothing that can be done for them."

The man nods, and Balgruuf releases his shoulder to look around. Should I give a rousing speech? he wonders and just barely opens his mouth before a voice from across the room speaks up.

"We'll need a way to ground it. If it's in the air, only the archers will be of use."

"Our first goal should be to shred its wings then."

All those assembled start planning, and Balgruuf watches as fear and hopelessness turns into determination. He can't help but smile a small, sad smile. He is proud of these men. Men who he may not see again come morning.

"Cut off his hand."

"What!? Why?" the man exclaims, sagging when the others grab his arms. She can see his legs trembling. She always thought he seemed like a coward.

"Raysha," Xariel whispers, his hand falling on her shoulder. But she pretends not to hear him. She can't deal with his bullshit. Not right now. Not when she needs to remind them again she's the one in charge. Not him.

Raysha shrugs off Xariel and approaches the trembling man. She doesn't even remember his name. Raysha can feel Xariel's critical eyes on her back. She can feel all of them watching her. She does her best not to crack under their gaze.

"You stole my family's fortune." She says, voice and gaze as hard as steel.

"No! No, I didn't!" None of the men speak up for him.

"Then where is it?"

"I— I did as you asked! I—"

"Then where is she?" He whimpers. "Where. Is. My. Money?"

"I didn't steal it! I gave it to the woman who—"

"It is the same."

"No, it isn't! Please!" The men look to her for approval. They won't do it if she doesn't tell them to. She doesn't look to Xariel. She knows what she'll see there. He doesn't want her to do this. In all the months she's known him, he's never shut up about mastering her temper. Maybe she was too quick to judgement. But she sees no other way. How else is she supposed to get their respect? She can't turn back now. The Da'vam clan doesn't tolerate weakness. None of them would have begged like this. Not even for their own lives. She can smell his urine. It's pitiful, really. "Please! Don't do this."

"Do it."

"No! Nonono—" The scimitar falls. His screams pierce the night. Raysha forces herself to watch. She must. He clutches his wrist, looking at the place his hand used to be and cries out one last time before fainting.

Pathetic. Raysha thinks, steeling herself against her rolling stomach.She sees the look one of his friends is giving her. She knows that look. She's worn it more times that she can count. But he doesn't get to wear it. Some friend he is. He just watched. Not that it would have mattered to her, but it has shown his true colors. They are both cowards, and she knows not to test loyalties. Not when their band is still as fresh and new as the fallen snow.

"Bandage his hand," she orders the others. "See to it that he and his friend are on their way back to Hammerfell by morning. They don't deserve to be here."

They do as she says without hesitation. Raysha almost smiles. She's never ordered people around before, but she seems to be good at it. Despite her younger age, these grown men practically bow before her. Treat her as an equal— No. As if she was their master. Her, a farm girl. It makes her feel powerful. Capable. Unstoppable. And she revels in it. Someone clears their throat. Raysha turns to see Xariel standing in the same spot as before. She had forgotten he was there.

"How are we going to go on?" he asks casually, and she finds she's jealous of how good he can look just standing there. It's not fair. "How are we going to pay these men? Get supplies? All our money is gone."

"Not all of it." He gives her a look. "We'll get more. It's money. It's not like it's hard to find."

Xariel shoots her a look of disapproval. She ignores it. He can shove his criticism up his ass. The stick he keeps there would love the company. She knows what he's thinking. It's not hard to tell. Why care so much about the fortune when it'd be easy to replace? But he doesn't understand. He comes from somewhere else. He doesn't know their ways. It's the principle.

When he opens his mouth to argue, she starts for the trees. If they're going to argue, she doesn't want the others to witness it. Their boots crunch in the snow.

"We don't know where she would have gone," he says after they stop behind a particularly large tree, shrugging his shoulders in a pitiful attempt at seeming unconcerned. "She could be anywhere."

"Then we'll look everywhere. She'll pay for what she did." Her hand goes to her armband. She made it from her brother's sword. Melted it down herself. It's the only thing she has left of him. That and the last words he spoke to her all those years ago. Words she has never let go of since.

"Are you really going to travel the world just to find someone to kill?"

"No. Not just kill. And not just anyone. She killed my brother. My family. She needs to suffer first. And it will be by my hands."

He studies her, his silver eyes searching her soul. How poetic, she muses, staring back at him, not afraid to meet his eyes. She had never met a Dunmer with silver eyes before. She liked them since the first time she saw them. They were odd. Unsettling. But right now they were pissing her off.

"Don't act like you don't want the same thing," she says. Their common goal is what started their partnership. Though, she still doesn't know why he's so keen on finding her. Vengeance. Loyalty. Principle. Whatever the reason, and despite his harping, he's been an invaluable asset. None of the others would be willing to train her like he does. And if she's going to go after a trained killer, she needs to train to kill her.

"That doesn't mean I want to dedicate my whole life to it," he says, gaze unflinching. "Then she'll just be robbing us of that as well."

"Then she will pay for that too. For however long it takes."

He chuckles, breaking his gaze and shaking his head. "I do not believe I have met anyone quite like you before." Raysha doesn't think he means it in a good way. She finds she doesn't care. All that matters is finding the monster who took her brother away.

"What do you expect me to do with these?" Farengar sneers, looking at the pile of offending weapons and shields that Irileth and her entourage of guards drop unceremoniously at his feet. They could at least be more dignified about it. The guards pay him no mind and rush out the door. Farengar hates that they get to see the dragon while he has to stay behind. Farengar can't seem to help the string of curses he mentally hurls at everyone involved.

"How many can you enchant by morning?" Irileth asks, interrupting his mental rampage.

"The most I can give you is eight."

"Only eight?"

"I cannot enchant anything to my heart's content. I need soul gems, and that is as many as I have. And I cannot even promise that number. With my speed, I believe I can only do four. Five, if the enchantment is not too—"

"What if you went faster?" Farengar sighs. "I've seen you work. Pick up your pace." For a Dunmer, she thinks like a damned Nord.

"It does not work like that," he says, unable to leave the venom out of his tone. Sometimes he wonders if he's the only one in this city with a brain. "Rushing is a sure way to make mistakes. And I do not make mistakes."

"I can help," a voice from next to Irileth states. Farengar didn't even notice the other person in the room. The same woman the Jarl brought to him hours earlier. "I've enchanted stuff before."

He scoffs, "You are a mage?"

"Yes."

"Do you possess any sort of actual talent?" He highly doubts it.

The woman shrugs. "I've never had any problems."

Farengar frowns. First he had to deal with Delphine's abrasiveness, and now he has to deal with this— this brute? Preposterous! He'll kill himself before having to suffer the indignity.

"Let her help, Farengar. We need all we can get and we're running out of time. I'll send someone to see about getting you more soul gems." Irileth's tone leaves no room for argument, and he's already angered the Jarl enough already. Due to the same woman. He sighs, massaging his temple. This is not how I wanted my day to go.

"Fine. But if she—"

Irileth leaves before he can finish, and he grumbles the last part to himself. He picks up a sword, eyeing it with purpose. Which enchantment would be most useful?

"We should only enchant shields for now."

"Oh?"

"Enchanted weapons are useless if we can't land a hit. Fire resistant shields will keep us from being burned alive."

Farengar loathes that she's right. How humiliating. Especially since he did not think of it first. And to think that such a brute thought would come from a woman who looks like she's done nothing but fight and roll in the dirt. It's shocking, to say the least.

"Do you even know that enchantment?"

"Yes."

"Hmm. Maybe you are not as incompetent as you seem. Very well. And we should be sure to go for the larger shields then, for more coverage," he adds, feeling the need to salvage some dignity. "Let us not waste anymore time."

Krosa assumes that the old mage found her skill adequate at best. After hovering over her work for the first shield and giving a pointer or two, he left her alone. Mostly. He thoroughly checks the enchantment when she completes one and mutters something to himself each time. She was only able to hear the words 'sloppy' and 'it will do' for one of them. Krosa can only imagine what the other comments would have been.

"Where did you learn to do magic?" he asks when they each start on their third shield.

"I taught myself the basics. I visited the College a while back and the Archmage taught me a few more advanced spells."

"Savos taught you himself? Now that is interesting. He only does that when he deems a student worthy." At his face, she guesses that he does not picture her as the type Savos would think of as worthy of such an honor. These Nords and their 'honor.' It's ridiculous.

"You knew him?" she asks in an attempt to get him to stop scrutinizing her every breath. His antagonizing glare softens.

"He was a teacher when I went there. I was also a student he took an interest in. He saved me from mediocrity." He smiles, just a small sliver, then shakes it away with a curt chuckle. "That man lived longer than any man had the right, but I was sorry to hear he had passed. I wish I knew what happened."

Krosa tries not to think about it. It was so long ago… but how long has it really been? The lessons. The magic. The destruction and death. It hasn't even been a year since then. Everything's been happening so fast. Krosa's heart lodges into her throat. Nothing good ever stays. Disaster follows her everywhere. And nothing will ever change.

She was finally starting to live a little. Maybe even starting to make friends. Her mind turns to all the people who had shown her a little kindness, a little understanding. She didn't even know what she had till she lost it all. Savos, the lessons, the amulet. It was the first place she enjoyed being in— the first time she did something for her enjoyment and not just survival. It was the second time someone gave her something to hold on to. The third where she could have made friends if she stopped being so damn paranoid. And Brynjolf— Then Brynjolf showed his true colors. How could I have been so stupid?

She considers going back for her stuff after all this dragon-slaying is done with. If she survives. Her journal, the doll, the amulet, her sword and shield. The sum of everything she's ever had. But the thought twists in her gut. To do so would risk winding up back to where she came from. Or worse. She doesn't even know who's chasing her. If somebody did survive— It isn't worth the risk. She'd rather die. Tears threaten to sting her eyes, but she doesn't let them fall, not in front of this crotchety old man.

"What have you heard?" Krosa asks, voice quiet enough to not betray her.

"Are you implying you know more than the rumors?"

Krosa didn't think she was implying anything. She struggles to reply, wondering if it's worth it to see what he knows. To trust him with the information, and if she could trust what he tells her. Savos always leaves behind more questions than answers, and she never really had the time to think about what he said to her in that cavern. To figure out what he wants her to know.

A guard saves her from replying. He comes in with a pouch of what could only be more soul gems, dropping them on the table without a word before rushing back out of the room. Farengar suggests they get back to work. He gives her the remaining shields as he reaches for a sheath of arrows. Krosa sighs in relief. And I thought Ulfric was unpleasant.

There's a bounce to her steps despite the weight of the gold. A warmth in her heart, alleviating her from the harsh chill of the wind and snow. The darkness of the world around her seems just a little lighter and more bearable. She can't help the smile on her face. Everything is falling into place.

After all these years. Of hiding. Running. Planning. I will finally be able to prove my innocence. She will no longer have to constantly look over her shoulder.

"My little Nightingale," Gallus whispers, fingers caressing her face as he pushes back a stray lock of hair. "What would I do without you?"

"Nothing. You would be lost without me." He chuckles. Karliah grins, standing on the balls of her feet to kiss him. He answers readily, his mouth soft against her own. He tastes like snowberries. She sags against him, dropping the necklace he was sure they had failed in getting. He hums into her mouth, pulling her closer for a moment before stepping away.

"I hate to stop so soon, but we should run before they catch us," he says, looking behind them. The sound of the guards' shouting gets clearer, and Karliah can see the light from their torches. Karliah stoops down to pocket the necklace.

"I'm right beside you."

"Karliah, my love, come look at what I found!"

Karliah groans, rolling over to see Gallus sitting at his desk, an open book in front of him. She pulls the covers up and over her face. "Come back to bed."

"Come look at this first."

She harrumphs, giving in. With the covers swaddled around her like a cape, she walks over to his desk and peers over his shoulder. Diagrams and charts fill the pages, the margins covered in Gallus's notes. One image in particular catches her eye. She points to it, tracing the lines with her finger. "What is that?"

"That is what I wanted to show you. It's one of the Eyes of the Falmer."

"This again? You've been after them for years with nothing to show for it."

"Until now."

Karliah wants to tell him they can continue this conversation in the morning, but the excitement in his eyes draws her in. So she sits, only paying half-attention to what he's saying as he animatedly tells her all about what he's discovered. This is the man I love, she thinks, smiling.

"What? Why are you smiling?"

"Oh, nothing," Karliah says, smiling wider. "By all means, keep talking."

Karliah smiles at the memories, and her smile widens when she sees the crumbling gates of Winterhold. She runs, forgetting the snow in her shoes and the wind in her face. And she doesn't stop running. Not until she enters the Inn. She barely contains herself as she makes her way to Enthir's room. She shoves the door open, and it slams against the wall.

He jumps and lets out a cry of alarm. He looks over his shoulder, ready to yell. He stops and stands at the sight of her. "How'd it go?"

Karliah smiles, laughs and lunges herself at him, engulfing him in a crushing embrace.

"You did it? You actually did it?" Enthir asks, excitement and disbelief laced into his voice. He's been wanting this as much as she has. Karliah only hugs him tighter as she nods, tears stinging her eyes. "Gallus would be proud."

"Gallus will be avenged," Karliah says, stepping away and wiping her tears. "And I— I will finally be free."

Morning comes and their party is joined by the Companions. Krosa had heard about them many times— mostly when someone thought that she was one of them. Apparently, they're a group of revered warriors who go across Skyrim performing heroic deeds like saving towns from bandits, slaying monsters, and rescuing children. For the right amount of coin. Krosa doesn't see how that's any different than what any other mercenaries do. But, somehow they're better. Their honor is absolute— their glory inevitable— or so they claim. Krosa has to wonder how their endless confidence in themselves hasn't gotten them killed. People like them have never lasted long in the Arena. But, Krosa reminds herself, this isn't an arena.

As she watches them laugh and chat, she has to wonder if they'll really be all that helpful against the dragon. If nothing else, they can probably cause a distraction. And there's the fact that it's bound to still be recovering from Helgen. There's no way it got out of there without some damage. Though, even if it did suffer injuries, it is possible they can heal quickly. Krosa's only as well off as she is due to magic; she hopes that dragons don't have similar resources.

"I can't believe it! An actual dragon! We get to fight an actual dragon!" an excited young woman with the companions whispers to another. Krosa wonders if she'll be as excited when she or one of her friends is burned to a crisp.

The oldest companion sighs, shaking his head, "It will be a sight to behold, but don't let your excitement—"

"I'm sure that it has no chance against us!" another one boasts. "Farkas will die when he learns what he missed!"

Krosa grinds her teeth, fighting her urge to snap at them. Even if they do win, she knows it won't be as easy as they seem to think it will be.

"Careful. You may just eat those words," Irileth states, looking to Krosa, before eyeing the others disapprovingly. It seems she's not a fan of the Companions either. "This beast has massacred an entire town anda platoon of Imperial and Stormcloak soldiers.."

"But they were taken by surprise."

"And, our ancestors have fought and killed them before, so we know it's not an impossible feat."

Irileth only grunts, and continues to lead the way to the slaughter. Krosa's grimaces at the morbid thought, and at the twisting of her stomach. Flashes of Helgen pierce her mind, and it's all she can do to—

A shadow falls over them, and Krosa knows without a doubt what caused it. The deafening roar rattles their arrogance. They haven't even made it to the tower yet. There's nowhere to go for adequate coverage. So much for not taking us by surprise.

"We're all going to die."

"Then our deaths will be glorious," the red-headed archer woman states.

The bald man adds, "And we will have a fine tale to tell in Sovngarde."

"Everyone, remember the plan," Irileth states, and the assigned groups scatter. Krosa is paired with a trembling guard who can barely steady his bow and the youngest of the Companions— a girl who wields two swords but not very well. Krosa finds herself agreeing with the trembling guard. They're all probably going to die.

Mirmulnir knew they would come. He's not stupid enough to attack Whiterun directly. Not after what happened to Numinex. If such a dovah could fall to the hands of men, then Mirmulnir would have no chance. And Mirmulnir would not let himself fail. He had waited for this moment, for the time the joor would pay for all those centuries he lie wasting away in Akaviir. For banishing Alduin. For what they did to his zeymah. We will soon be reunited.

Vulthuryol.

Nahagliiv.

Sahloknir.

Viinturuth.

Vuljotnaak.

Numinex.

Alduin.

Sahloknir.

"Thuri du hin sil ko Sovngarde!" he cries as he dives down to meet them. The men scatter like leaves in the wind. He bears down on them, reveling in the smell of their fear. He dodges arrows, hardly noticing when they hit.

After all these years.

Alone for all that time.

Living with no purpose.

No love.

No Sahloknir.

Oh, how he's missed this. The thrill of grah. The moro. The yol. His Thu'um. He had no use for it in his years of exile. No brii. No kah. How wonderful it is to feel its power once again. Mirmulnir blasts them with another bout of fire and watches them burn. Hears them scream.

A net entraps him, and he's forced to land. Foolish mortals, Mirmulnir laughs, Now they have to evade more than just yol. He tears through them, faster than ever before, and he's released. He wastes no time flying towards the sun. They don't deserve a quick death. He wants to toy with them, to make them suffer as he had.

Sahloknir will be risen from the dead. They will be together again. Alduin will reign triumphant. Mirmulniir can see it now. He can taste it, just as well as he can taste the blood of these mortals. Together, his brethren will restore what they lost and defeat the mortals for the last time. Dragons will rule over them. Dragons will be free. Everything will be as it should.

One of the mortals sends an ice bolt through his wing, and Mirmulniir comes crashing down to the earth once again. He feels his soul weaken. He knows what that means. For the first time in a long time, fear pierces his heart.

"Dovahkiin? No!"

There is only one mortal alive who can ruin everything and they're here. Mirmulniir fights harder. He doesn't hold back. He crushes the men like the vermin they are, but they're not the ones who matter. He needs to get to the Dovahkiin. He needs to—

A sword lodges itself in his throat, stealing his pride and glory. Stealing his voice. His soul. Leaving him without even a whisper. No. He can't even curse or call out in agony. Nonononono. Life was only just beginning again. He never even got to see any of their faces. And so he dies, not in a thunderous glory, but with a pitiful gasp.

Thuri du hin sil ko Sovngarde. Thuri du hin—

Author's Note:

Dragon Language Translations

"Thuri du hin ko Sovngarde" ="My overlord will devour your souls in Sovngarde"

The thrill of grah (battle). The moro (glory). The yol (fire). His Thu'um (voice). He had no use for it for his years in exile. No brii (beauty). No kah (pride).