Isabeau was a girl of many talents, Belrand reflected, sipping his mead as she played a traditional song from High Rock on her wooden flute. The clear, pure notes drifted up with the smoke, filling the common room of the inn, as the residents nodded their heads or swayed in time to the music. It was a different kind of spell, he thought, cast not with magic, but with the shine of her odd, bright white hair, the twinkle in her hazel eyes, the sway of her hips in the firelight. Did she know she was casting it? Belrand couldn't tell. She was so young, young enough to be his daughter, but wiser than she let on. t

Not for the first time, he wondered about her past. When she'd arrived in Solitude, fresh from the High Rock border, she'd been green around the ears and flighty. She'd only known a few simple illusion spells, enough to distract and divert; but she'd managed to bully several higher-level spells out of the court wizard in Solitude, and then again in Whiterun. Despite her limited magical training, she'd devoured the spell tomes and managed to cast the new spells with great success. Even though Belrand and Meeko still carried most of their battles, Isabeau could now hold her own, despite her lack of destruction magic.

And now, too, she possessed the ancient Nordic power of the Shout.

Belrand hadn't thought much of it when she'd hired him in the Winking Skeever, but now, he realized, he might be in far over his head. A month ago, he would have laughed if someone told him he'd be on his way up the Throat of the World!

Ah, well, he thought good-naturedly. I've survived this long. Perhaps it's time to undertake a new kind of adventure.

Isabeau concluded her final song with a flourish and bowed amidst the scattered applause from the town's residents. Lynly, the resident bard, clapped her on the back. "Where'd you learn to play that thing?" she said, gesturing to Isabeau's carved wooden flute.

She smiled. "I used to play the miners home for dinner," she said. "My grandparents and I were just about the only ones in town who didn't work in the mine. So I tried to help them out as best I could."

"Impressive. Maybe you could teach me one or two of those songs?" Lynly suggested.

Isabeau's smile faded. "I would," she said hesitantly. "But we're leaving early tomorrow morning for High Hrothgar, and I'm not sure when we'll be back, or how long we'll be able to stay."

"Ah, well. Maybe another time then." Lynly took up her lute and began to strum a gentle tune. "Have a bowl of stew. You've earned it."

Isabeau scooped herself some of the hearty venison stew that bubbled over the fire and settled beside Belrand, pulling one of her new spellbooks out of her pack. The golden phoenix floated on the cover, denoting a restoration spell, and above it were the words Leech Seed.

"New spell?"

"I got it from Farengar," she said absently, flipping open the book. It was an interesting spell; once cast, any damage done to the caster would be transferred onto the target, and the caster would be healed. Isabeau liked the idea of a restoration spell that could still be offensive in a battle, so while Lynly sang and Belrand chatted with the burly woman who ran the sawmill, she practiced summoning the foggy green light to her hands that would leech energy from a target.

Isabeau had always been fascinated by magic; back home, she'd tease the other children with her illusions and conjured creatures, until Nana would catch her and send her home to do extra chores. She wondered how much more she could learn with real training, a real teacher. Maybe the Greybeards would know some magic. Besides Shouting, of course. That didn't really seem like real magic. Or maybe it was. Isabeau didn't know anything about Shouting, or the Greybeards, or really any Nordic history. That might be worth reading up on, she thought, resigned.

She went to bed a while later, though the sounds of the tavern kept her awake for another hour, until finally, annoyed, she cast muffle on her doorway and the sounds finally faded. Peaceful now, she drifted off into sleep.

They set off bright and early the next morning, almost before the sun had crested the horizon. Einrie and Hjella, Belrand's mare, stayed behind, stabled at the inn; Belrand had given the town residents permission to borrow Hjella as a work horse in exchange for hay and a stall to board in while they were gone. The winding path up and down the mountain was too narrow for two large and sturdy Skyrim pack horses, despite how much Isabeau would have welcomed their broad backs to ride on. Instead, they each carried a light pack with enough supplies to last a few days, though Isabeau doubted they'd need that much.

The air grew chill as they hiked up the steps, but the warmth of the rising sun and the heat of exertion as they trekked up and down the steep path kept them warm. Just as he had the day before, Meeko bounded ahead, stopping frequently to examine new smells and then taking off again after a rabbit. Belrand hummed one of Isabeau's songs under his breath.

Isabeau nearly jumped out of her skin when Meeko let out a raucous bark and charged forward, around a bend in the mountain path.

"Seems like we have company," Belrand stated, drawing his sword in one hand and readying a spell in the other.

"Perfect," Isabeau announced, and summoned her new spell, leech seed, to her hand. "Let me try something." She took off down the path, following the growls and snaps of combat, and rounded the corner to see Meeko fending off two massive gray wolves.

"Hey, horker-brain," she yelled, and fired a cloud of green fog at the nearest of the wolves.

The shout had its intended effect, and the wolf turned, snarling, toward Isabeau. She braced herself as it barreled toward her and leapt forward, jaws snapping. Isabeau threw up her arm and the wolf caught it in its vicious teeth, grasping and tearing at her delicate flesh. Blood splattered to the ground, but almost instantly, the wolf let out a whimper and released her, falling to the path. Isabeau could see vicious bite marks marring the wolf's front leg.

Something whistled past her, and the wolf collapsed, an ice shard embedded in its throat. A moment later, Meeko finished off his opponent and returned to Isabeau's side, tongue lolling happily.

Belrand reached her side as Isabeau pulled back her sleeve to examine her arm. It was spattered with a few drops of blood, but otherwise looked good as new. Except, looking closer, she could see shiny white marks where the deepest wounds had been. But they were shrinking, and a moment later even those disappeared.

"I don't like that spell, lass," Belrand said dubiously, staring at Isabeau's arm. "Seems like it only works if you throw yourself into danger."

Isabeau nodded her head in agreement. "I'll keep learning," she said, and shivered, pulling her sleeve back down. Some spells, even those that weren't destruction magic, were too violent for her. This one, she knew, Nana wouldn't approve of.

The air grew colder and colder as they hiked further up the mountain, and Isabeau tugged her bear-head hood tighter around her face. She'd taken it from a dead Stormcloak officer, one of many battlefield prizes, another being the heavy cloak made of snow bear pelt that she wore over her shoulders. They encountered only a few more wolves along the way, which Meeko and Belrand took care of easily. It was almost noon when they rounded a last snowy bend and saw their destination, a stone fortress rising from the snow, looking as though it was hewn from the mountain itself. Isabeau couldn't hold in an astonished gasp at the regal, quiet beauty.

"Here we are, lass," Belrand breathed, and Isabeau knew he was feeling the same awe as she.

She took a deep breath, then another. "Belrand?" she said, voice small.

"Aye?"

"Are we absolutely sure that I'm the one they were summoning?"

Belrand let out a chuckle, though it lacked his usual good humor. "Fairly sure, lass. You are the one who absorbed that dragon's soul, after all, and you did Shout once or twice. Although it's always possible they were just telling the world they were hungry or something. But you know there's only one way to find out."

Isabeau sighed, then squared her shoulders. "I suppose so." She swallowed, mouth dry. Meeko circled around to walk beside her, tail wagging and tongue lolling, and it gave Isabeau the courage to walk the last few steps to the monastery, climb the stairs, and push open the heavy metal door.

The stone room was dimly lit, only a few candles and braziers providing scattered, bouncing firelight. Isabeau wanted to stop there, to turn around, but Belrand nudged her forward and she took a few cautious steps into the light. At first, she thought the room was empty, but then realized that three or four men stood around the room, their gray robes causing them to melt into the stone walls.

"Dragonborn," came a booming voice, and Isabeau jumped. One of the men—Graybeards—approached her, his hands open in welcome. "You have come at last. Welcome to High Hrothgar, home of the Greybeards. And—who have you brought with you?"

"Oh, um, this is my companion and protector, Belrand," she said, and Belrand bowed his head. "And my dog, Meeko."

"Only you were summoned to High Hrothgar, Dragonborn," the Graybeard rumbled, and Isabeau frowned.

"I wouldn't have made it up the mountain without them," she insisted. "I'm not a fighter, and I only know a few spells. Belrand does most of the fighting."

"Very well, very well," the old man acquiesced. "They can stay. But they cannot be present for your training, Dragonborn. We will discuss secrets of the Voice that only you should be privy to. Master Wulfgar, will you show our guests to a room? There you may stay for the duration of the Dragonborn's training."

Belrand reached out and squeezed Isabeau's shoulder, an encouraging twinkle in her eye. Then, whistling for Meeko, he trotted after the Greybeard and disappeared down the hallway.

"Now, Dragonborn. I am Master Arngeir. This is Master Borri, and Master Einarth; Master Wulfgar will return shortly. Before we begin, please, can you show us that you truly are the Dovahkiin—Dragonborn?"

"Um…"

"Demonstrate your Shout," he urged.

"Oh. Right." Isabeau took a deep breath and closed her eyes. She felt around inside her soul, searching for that little piece that had entered her and stuck when she and the Whiterun guards had slain that dragon at the watchtower. It was small, hard to find, but—there it was. A strange feeling bubbled up in her throat. Isabeau opened her eyes, and opened her mouth—

A wave of concussive force leapt out of her, and it was all she could do to form the power into a shape—a word—"FUS," she cried, and the Graybeards stumbled as the room shuddered against her power.

"Dragonborn," Arngeir said again, but this time, a note of reverence had entered his voice. "So it is true. As the dragons return, so, too, does the mortal with a dragon soul."

Isabeau swallowed, her throat dry and aching from the force of the Shout. "What happens now?" she croaked.

Arngeir smiled. "Now, Dovahkiin, you learn."