Mryfwiil, who was unaccustomed to riding in such a crowded band, shuddered nervously from time to time as Jarl Hrongar's hunting party followed the western road at the leisurely pace dictated by its slowest riders. Vilkas leaned down to scratch his steed's side and murmur soothing words into its ear. I don't relish the company myself, girl. Just hold steady.

Though he could not attribute his unease purely to the hateful souls surrounding him. No, the phantom dagger stabbing cold into his gut told him only this, over and over again in a screaming chant: he did not belong in this new world where nothing was safe and anyone could be taken. He should still be in the world that was born when a stern man named Jergen pulled two skeleton-thin little boys from a cave reeking of ancient death. Thirty years later Vilkas could still smell that foul decay when he closed his eyes and cast his mind towards the past. How was it right that the scent remained but Farkas did not? Vilkas used to mutter bitter prayers to absent Jergen for deserting them to go die in the Great War; it taught them an essential lesson about the dangers of relying on anyone but themselves. Losing Jergen had made losing Kodlak easier, or so Vilkas told himself. Nothing could have prepared him for the absence of the thick-headed child who'd held his small hand when their world had been darkness and death and nothing else.

I've followed the path you left us, master. Your last wish, that the beast blood should remain...did you see what waited for us on the horizon? One last trial for the twins of Jorrvaskr? At least Farkas had Kodlak, now. Vilkas stood alone, and all he was certain of was that the gods had chosen very poorly by any measure.

"Talking to your beast now, Harbinger?" Hrongar glanced back from atop the monstrous destrier gifted to him by Farkas' killers. The elk carcass draped across its hindquarters had been speared with stunning precision. Whatever else the Jarl may have been, he was a masterful hunter. "Ha. Been out in the frost too long, I think. Though Kyne has smiled on Whiterun with this stretch of cool days. I imagine the Pale was not so fortunate if you are only now returning from your grim journey."

"Aye. I'd wager the winter bites harder there than in any other part of Skyrim."

The rider beside Hrongar let his steed drift back to match pace with Mryfwiil. Commander Montrose studied Vilkas with undisguised interest. "You're a brave soul to undertake such a trek alone. Especially after what befell poor Farkas."

The sound of his twin's name in the knight's mouth set Vilkas' wolf gnashing its teeth and howling for bloody satisfaction. For nearly ten years the beast had not been so bold as to suggest slaughter in the light of day, but much had changed since the Guardian Stones. It was too warm for his shaking hands to be explained away by the weather, so Vilkas squeezed the reins of his horse until his fingers went numb.

"I can't very well let fear guide my life." He could not fake a smile for Montrose, so he turned his head and studied the passing trees. This intersection of Whiterun and Eastmarch had always been one of his favorite spots to roam, and he took comfort from the familiar vista. "Though you're a newcomer here, Francois, I'm sure you already know Skyrim to be a perilous land. Any one of us could be stricken down at any moment by any number of dangers. Only a child would believe the walls of Whiterun to be a shield against even a fraction of them."

"Wisely spoken, my good man. We lost one of our own fellows around the same time your brother fell in battle. My heart weeps, truly. Valgeir was dearly looking forward to showing me his favored hunting spots in this lovely hold. Silly of me to ask, I know, but did you happen to see our lost knight during your quest to Helgen?"

If the gods are good, that murderer's bones are scattered in the waters of Lake Ilinalta, his flesh consumed by scavengers and vermin. But Vilkas responded, "No. Only the rat we'd been sent to take from Helgen...and Farkas' masked attacker."

"Ah yes, the mysterious traveling murderer. Could you perchance describe him to us, once more? Our purifiers travel many roads in their endless hunt for abominations. We might be able to help you track down this foul figure."

"As I said before," Vilkas replied with a scowl, "He wore a full suit of dwarven armor. No rust that I could see, so likely the genuine article, or else a very well maintained facsimile. He's dead, in any case. My brother was avenged." They'd not had much time to come up with a better lie, in the hours after Farkas' ceremony. The world had turned to chaos with the awful scent of burned flesh still lingering in the air and everyone asking after Sofie; all he'd wanted to do was leave Whiterun with Farkas for the last time, and he'd paid little mind to Aela's half-baked intrigues.

The lithe Imperial riding just behind Montrose and Vilkas, Calpius Quarkus, offered an irritating interjection: "Hold on, you're saying a dwarf killed your brother? A member of the long-lost race of scholars returned to Tamriel just to lay waste to the Harbinger of the glorious Companions and his twin? My my, Vilkas. I didn't want to believe the rumors I've been hearing that the warriors of Jorrvaskr were hardly worth their fine steel nowadays. It took two of you to kill a dwarf?"

"He wore dwarven armor, fool. Never said he was one of them." Vilkas glared over his shoulder at the puffed-up little milk drinker. "Don't twist my meaning."

But the damage had been done. Montrose stifled a small chuckle, but Hrongar guffawed and slapped his thick thigh. "The man's words were in jest. Come, Harbinger. Do not let your foul mood ruin such a fine day." The Jarl slowed his horse until he was abreast with Montrose. "I was unsure at first about these outsiders coming to my city. I always say, give me a band of hardened and filthy Nord warriors over any order of shining knights. But they have proven to be fine hunting companions, and swell company to boot."

Montrose grinned. His perfect teeth gleamed like the bones of a carcass picked clean of flesh. "A hunting party is nothing without its leader, my Jarl. As Vilkas so astutely observed, I am a stranger to this land, as are many in our company. However, I've already come to treasure and adore many of the fair places and persons of Skyrim, and Whiterun especially. I hope we haven't presented too much of an imposition on your court."

"I'm sure if you asked Proventus, he'd tell you your presence is a dire strain on the city or some such drivel. You ask me, life was growing mighty dull. The winter has not been merciful to Whiterun, no. And according to certain priestesses of Kynareth, I should invite every beggar in the city to sit at my feasting table and share my warm bed. Ha! All a true Nord needs is a sharp axe in his hand and the stars above his head. If you can't make a living out of that, well…" Hrongar spat to express his regard for his so-called kinsmen.

Vilkas muttered, "Some would say a Jarl should provide for his people in times of suffering."

Hrongar's steed halted and the rest of the party stopped with him. The Jarl's broad face turned towards Vilkas. His brow furrowed like a giant's knuckle. "Care to repeat that? I don't care much for a man who spits vitriol at my back."

Much time had passed since Vilkas let his tongue so outpace his thinking mind. Damn fool. He bit the inside of his cheek and scrambled for a suitable response.

Montrose spoke, "I'm sure dear Vilkas is only worried about the weak and needy souls who undoubtedly come to the doors of Jorrvaskr in search of salvation. Anyone would find it difficult to turn so many desperate people away, especially knowing that sending them back into the frost amounts to a sentence of death. That brings to mind something I wished to discuss with you, Jarl Hrongar."

They resumed their trek at a slower pace, though Hrongar took a long minute to tear his gaze from Vilkas. "Do not ask me to send more gold to that temple. 'Tis no concern of mine if they spent the septims unwisely. I'll not take funds from the guard's allotment to pay for oatcakes and firewood. The elves will not catch us defenseless again. I'll die before I let that happen."

Long shadows fell on the party as they passed through a thicket of naked trees that ran beside a stream. The skeletal branches seemed to reach down beckoningly, and Vilkas' stomach rolled like a stone bobbing downriver. This was just the moment that Farkas would offer some ridiculous comment in a clumsy attempt to lift his spirits. His twin's absence burned like a festering wound. Where am I, brother? What's happened to us?

"Oh, no, nothing of the sort." Montrose cleared his throat. "I was going to humbly request permission to-"

"Pa!" One of the horses from the rear of the procession galloped up to Hrongar: the Jarl's wife and son. "Pa, it's me!"

Hrongar laughed. "Aye, it is, and what a sight you are!"

Uthgerd the Unbroken greeted her husband with a punch in the shoulder that might have sent a weaker man to the ground, but Hrongar just laughed again and grabbed his son from her horse. Bear crawled to the rear of Hrongar's steed and studied the dead elk with small round eyes like pearls of the Pale's northern shore.

"Little warrior wanted to ride in front," Uthgerd said proudly. Even as the Jarl's woman, she still wore the steel plate armor of her mercenary days. Vilkas suspected there was no one in Whiterun bold enough to suggest she dress otherwise. This same hypothetical person of courage might also have wondered at the wisdom of naming the Jarl's child after a stinking predator of the wilds or questioned the reasoning behind a match between the Jarl of one of Skyrim's most powerful Holds and a hired sword who spent as much time drinking and fighting as she did attending to her duties in Dragonsreach.

They might have asked why Hrongar passed over an alliance with House Gray-Mane, who'd been responsible for many charitable works in the city before their downfall and subsequent exodus to Rorikstead. If such a daring soul existed, they had not shown their face in five long cold years.

"How goes the hunt, brave one?" Montrose reached out to tussle the boy's wild brown hair. "I heard a rumor that you were setting up some fearsome traps."

"I did," Bear replied, his little dirt-stained face lighting up like a Saturalia lantern. He almost slipped from Hrongar's steed as he attempted to reach back across to his mother's horse, but Hrongar reached back and grabbed the collar of Bear's tunic. "Lemme go, Pa, I can't reach!"

"Be wary of your surroundings," Hrongar said as he placed Bear in front of himself in the saddle. "Do you think Tsun welcomes little cubs who fall from horses? There is danger enough in battle and the hunt, without creating new risks for yourself by acting foolishly."

Uthgerd grunted. "Your pa's right. If something can be done simple, ain't no sense in making it hard. You want to show everyone your catch, right? Well, figure out a way to do it without jumping from horse to horse like some Breton acrobat."

Montrose, who was observing the exchange with interest, appeared to take the slight against his race in stride.

Bear scratched his head. "Okay…um. Ma, can you hand me my rabbit?"

She yawned and looked off into the distance. Bear made an exasperated sound and clenched his little fists. "Pa, she ain't listening to me!"

Hrongar hummed. "Does a warrior request what he deserves as if he were some Imperial milk drinker asking his elven master to pass the salt? Or does he demand what is rightly owed him?"

The boy bit his lip, his eyes darting to his mother. "M-ma, gimme my rabbit right now!"

"But of course," Uthgerd replied at once. She reached into her saddlebag to retrieve a snow rabbit whose pelt was dappled with spots of brown. "Who could refuse the order of such a fierce warrior?"

Bear accepted the shivering creature with a gentleness that surprised Vilkas. He'd half-expected the boy to wring the rabbit's neck at once, like a spoiled noble child playing with a new toy. His brief encounters with Balgruuf's three children, years ago, had not inspired much confidence about the future leadership of Whiterun. But as he watched Bear stroke the rabbit with his clumsy child hands until the terror left its body, Vilkas thought he may have misjudged the spawn of Hrongar and Uthgerd. Not that it matters. The boy is of no consequence to me.

Calpius made an appreciative sound from behind the front riders. "Looks like a delicious treasure, for a small warrior. Some garlic and herbs, and that little rabbit would fill your belly just fine."

Uthgerd observed Bear closely. "Will you kill your catch for tonight's feast?"

"Do I havta?"

She shook her head. "The creature's life is in your hands now. A gift from Kyne, eh? Save or slaughter, the choice is yours."

Hrongar stroked his braided beard with one hand as the party passed a road marker and rays of light fell on them through a break in the clouds. "Had a pet myself when I was your age. Little sabre cat that I found suckling at the teats of its dead mother. Raised it on kitchen scraps. A fierce little monster."

The noon sunlight gleamed off of Commander Montrose's bald head. He spoke, "We often say about werewolves that you can take the beast out of the wild, but never the wild out of the beast. I assume your relationship with this cat did not end peacefully?"

"No," Hrongar replied, his eyes somewhere else. "Matters came to a head when we both laid claim to the same elk. 'Twas my arrow that felled it, so the meat belonged to me. I had no interest in sharing, but neither did my cat. We fought tooth and blade over the carcass until my dagger won the day. I wept until the sun fell and then prayed thanks to Kyne. Never since have I tasted such fine venison."

"Wow," Bear breathed out, his face glowing in wonder.

Montrose smiled. "I don't expect you'll run into the same conflict with your rabbit, Bear, unless you're willing to spill blood over the table's last carrot."

Hrongar and Uthgerd roared laughter at that and Vilkas let Mryfwiil drift even further from the other riders. He glanced back to see the other knights arranged around Calpius: firstly the two Nord sisters, Eysa and Hyfild, twins who were as fiercely devoted to Talos as any person Vilkas had met outside of the Wind District. Observing the sisters' familiar banter and obvious friendship tightened Vilkas' chest, so he moved on to the other two riders: a quiet Orc named Shuzra whose eyes seemed to watch everything with disquieting attentiveness, and a small Bosmer woman who smiled even more than Montrose. She had not spoken at all in the hours Vilkas had spent with the party. Her teeth were as sharp as boar tusks, and Vilkas did not know her name.

"Your mention of werewolves brings to mind a question I'd been meaning to ask, commander." Hrongar regarded Montrose seriously. "I want the warriors of Whiterun to be ready for attacks by the foul creatures. Could you tell us how to slay the cursed spawn of Hircine?"

Calpius spoke, "The commander's favorite subject. Go on, sir. Tell them the best way to kill an abomination."

Bear looked up from his now-sleeping rabbit. "Tell us, tell us!"

Montrose grinned slyly as they reached a curve in the road. "The best way, eh? Well, chums, that's a topic that's been argued over for generations in our order. Maybe someday I'll let you know my opinion on the matter. In the meantime, I can regale you with a method that'll put the monsters down quick as you like. Set a pot boiling beforehand, and you'll be back home just in time for tea."

The man talks well enough, but that's all there is to him. Vilkas thought it unlikely the commander had ever even faced a werewolf in battle. When Hrongar looked at Montrose, he saw Pelinal Whitestrake, or Tiber Septim, or some other legendary warrior from history, but Vilkas knew better. He'd read of the so-called knights of High Rock. In that land of petty intrigue and dishonorable subterfuge, knighthood was an occupation of distraction for the third or fourth sons of noblemen. An honor given, but not earned. Either that or a meaningless token of merit awarded absently to fishermen and palace maids alike. Just look at Montrose's gleaming armor and scrubbed skin. The man had been out hunting for days, but he appeared fresh from a bath. Vilkas was no stranger to hygiene, but Montrose knew nothing of the darkness of the world. Nothing of blood, nothing of killing. His servant at the Guardian Stones had only slain Farkas with an underhanded trick; a trick that would never work again, now that the Circle was aware of the threat. Entertain them with your gilded lies, fool. Hrongar's regard for you will wither when he realizes you are all words and no action.

He brought Mryfwiil to a stop right next to the river and let her drink while the rest of the hunting party passed. There were some tracks in the dirt so if anyone asked his business, he could claim to be tracking some wild beast. Most of the other riders were listening to Montrose's words and ignored Vilkas. Two noblemen of Whiterun rounded out the rear of the party. Nazeem presented a picture of ridiculousness with his colorful hunting garb and horse-mounted crossbow that made so much noise when he moved that Hrongar had gruffly ordered him to the back of the procession. The Redguard noble looked out of place without the bulky shape of Stenvar haunting his shadow; the mercenary had been a constant presence since Balgruuf's death, as Nazeem believed he remained in some form of danger. Hrongar had ordered Stenvar and housecarl Irilith to escort Alfhild Battle-Born home a few days ago after she'd complained of fatigue. Vilkas regretted the latter's absence. She'd always been an ally of the Companions, and he doubted she'd look fondly on the Silver Dawn.

Idolaf Battle-Born, riding behind Nazeem, was geared much more sensibly, but he spat on the ground when he passed by Vilkas.

"It's been ten years, Idolaf." Vilkas was too weary to summon his anger. "Your Empire won the war. Vignar the Revered drinks with Olfrid in Sovngarde. It's time to let old wounds heal."

Idolaf paused while Nazeem joined the others. His richly attired horse snorted like a bellows. "Vignar the Traitor, I name him. Where were the Companions when Ulfric's men poured into Whiterun? Where were you when they pulled my father from his horse and put an axe in his chest? No doubt Kodlak was resting comfortably in your mead hall as the city bled."

"We all lost good people that day. It was not our place to fight for one side over the other."

"Craven fool. You hide behind neutrality, when Vignar Gray-Mane, the man you revered, was skulking in the shadows ready to seize Dragonsreach with the other traitors. Don't think we've forgotten the absence of his family on the walls. Don't you dare tell me it wasn't Skyforge steel in Vignar's hand."

"Vignar is dead. So is your father, Eorland, Kodlak, Ulfric Stormcloak, and Tullius with him. I never cared much about their foolish war, but it's in the past where it belongs. Your blood feud with the Gray-Manes is done with, though the Companions never had any part in it."

"We'll see, Harbinger." Idolaf spat the title like a curse and dug his heels into his horse's flank to catch up to the other riders. Soon Vilkas was alone with the quiet river and the tall, still trees. He slid off Mryfwiil and patted her side.

"Good girl. You did well." Vilkas let her chew some shore grass while he knelt to examine the prints in the dirt that had first caught his eye. He was glad now that no one had stopped to ask his business because the shape of the print seemed unmistakable. A werewolf was following the same path as the hunting party.

"Not one of us, surely," he murmured to Mryfwiil. "None of the Circle would dare leave Whiterun with most of the Dawn out riding." Though much could have changed in his absence. Might Skjor or Aela be brave or foolish enough to go out hunting in broad daylight, even knowing the dangers? The sudden warm weather no doubt presented a grand temptation. And by Shor, Njada was more impulsive than both of them combined. Were these her tracks in the dirt, just waiting to be discovered by one of those silver-armored bastards?

"Only one way to know for certain." Vilkas glanced up at the mountain path. He knew these lands like the back of his hand, far better than Montrose or even Hrongar. And he had the advantage of riding alone, without a certain Cloud District sycophant slowing him down. "We've got to get ahead of them, girl. Warn this sorry soul, whoever they are, what's coming down the road." No innocent werewolf, Companion or not, deserved to be slain for sport by warriors such as these. He mounted Mryfwiil and made for the nearest ridge.

They reached the long shadow of Valtheim before things fell apart. It seemed he was afforded not an hour of peace before his mind was assaulted anew with fresh doubts and confusions. Miraak, the man, was now a killer. Had he ever previously killed mortals, as a man? Did one have to kill to be a Companion? And how much killing could one do before losing that precious badge of sentient mortality? These seemed like important questions, but the answers slid through his mind's sieve like grains of sand.

He thought nothing could be worse than the dragon's relentless disdain, but the petty satisfaction he now felt rolling off the creature made Miraak want to vomit. He imagined it licking its talons clean of blood. The dragon enjoyed causing pain, but what it loved most in this world was killing, and today Miraak had fed it a fine meal for the first time in many years. And though he no longer so greatly feared the wretched thing, it had by no measure become a more pleasant bedfellow.

"Stop looking at your hands," Sofie snapped at her two followers. "We need to watch for archers."

Looking up at the awesome shape of Valtheim stretching across the river, Miraak could understand her fear. Countless breaks in the tower's wall offered an advantage to well-armed defenders, and down here on the road they were utterly exposed.

Lucia did not raise her head, but she stopped in place so suddenly that Miraak almost walked into her.

Sofie groaned. "We're vulnerable just standing here. I don't understand what your problem is, Lucia. I know you've seen plenty of dead bodies before."

"Never killed them before." Lucia glanced up at the empty blue sky.

"Miraak and Ikilled them, not you."

"Not that simple, lady. We're not children. Let's not pretend things ain't what they are."

"Those robbers weren't going to let us walk away. You understand that, don't you? It's kill or be killed. Our will to survive was stronger than their desire to destroy us."

Miraak wandered to a roadside boulder and leaned against it while the women spoke. He was sure he could be no help to them, considering the state of his fragile psyche.

Lucia regarded Sofie as if seeing her for the first time. "So ya never take prisoners? I've watched ya leave through the Whiterun gates dozens of times. How many people have ya killed?"

Sofie shook her head. "We're not always asked to merely kill. Sometimes I go settle petty disputes before they can turn into blood feuds. Sometimes I rescue lost townsfolk. Sometimes I slay beasts."

"How many people? Did all of them deserve it? Said last night that out here in the wilds was the only true Skyrim. So all that awful stabbin' and blood...that's what you're dreamin' about escapin' to when we spend time together in the square?"

"Now you're the one being a child. Lucia, our fathers were soldiers. Killers fighting for a banner. When you pray for your pa's soul in Sovngarde, I'm sure you don't ask him how many Stormcloaks he cut down before the end. By the Nine, for all we know our fathers might have killed each other."

Lucia, stone-faced, refused to take the bait. "Soldiers fightin' other soldiers, that's one thing. They all knew what they were joinin' up to do. We just slaughtered five hungry men for a mule. And we don't even have the mule. Why? Tell me, why do ya have to kill?"

Sofie turned her back on the tower to give Lucia her full attention. For the first time, Miraak recognized something sickeningly familiar in the young woman's eyes. "To prove I exist."

"But I know you exist. You never had to prove anything to me." Lucia took a step closer, her expression softening. She spoke very clearly and carefully. "I see you, Sofie."

Sofie's grip slackened on her axe hilts, and for a moment Miraak saw her as Lucia did: a young woman lost and confused, retreating into the only action that had ever dared to promise relief from the agonies of her life. No honor, here, no glory; only fear, smothered by bloody triumph. Then a quick whistle of air: a crossbow bolt sprouted from Sofie's shoulder.

Miraak rubbed his eyes, certain he must be imagining things. Lucia watched, her fist at her mouth, as blood ran down the front of Sofie's armor. Sofie took a step back and fell to her knees.

"Y'ffre's pardon!" A reedy voice called down from one of the tower's loopholes. "I didn't mean to hit anyone!"

Miraak peered up, shielding his eyes from the sun. The Bosmer that had stolen their mule observed them. He clutched a crossbow in his trembling hands. Somehow, Miraak hadn't noticed the elf's magnificent pair of antlers during his first appearance.

"Hey," Lucia bellowed. "Get down here right now!"

"Be wary," Miraak warned. "I've read that large antlers may indicate significant authority among the Wood Elves. This is likely a mer of great power or influence."

"I know that ass. He has about as much influence as my right foot. I know you can hear me! Sassafras, take off those stupid antlers and come down!"

The Bosmer jerked his head back out of view so fast that one of his antlers caught on the stone and came rattling down the side of the tower. A few seconds later, their missing mule poked his head out of the loophole. He looked entirely too pleased with himself.

Just as Lucia was taking a deep breath to yell again, the air split with the roar of a blowing horn from the top of the tower. The sound reached down to echo off the mountain and crash against the countryside like towering waves against a shore. That will be audible for many leagues. The bandit calls for reinforcements.

During a break in the blowing, Miraak managed to get some sort of hold on himself and ran to Lucia. Together, they lifted Sofie from the ground and brought her into the tower. Thankfully the western door was unsecured and no vagabonds waited for them in the dusty chamber. Only cobwebbed bookshelves and neat piles of old barrels. Blood covered their hands after they set Sofie down, but not as much as he'd feared. Certainly far less than Farkas or the lamplighter had given up.

Miraak looked down at the wounded woman, bit his lip, and turned to the stairway to watch for assault from above. "Cast your healing spells. I'll stand guard."

"No spells, fool. That'd just seal the end of that bolt in tight and it'd do all kinds of damage to her."

"Then we take it out, then?"

"Just...help me get this armor off."

He swallowed and froze for a second, but knelt to assist. Sofie looked much smaller after they managed to unbuckle and pull off her leather cuirass. Underneath she wore a simple tunic that had probably been white a few minutes before.

If the sight of her friend's blood upset her, Lucia showed no sign of it on her face. "Roll her on her side. Hand me that dagger, I'm gonna cut some bandages from my cloak."

Sofie murmured, "Stupid of me. Let my guard down. Never should have turned my back on the tower." She stared at nothing in particular. Her dull eyes upset Miraak for reasons he could not fathom.

"Shut up, will ya?" Lucia pulled the shoulder of Sofie's tunic down below the bolt and went to work. He looked away; he'd seen enough blood for one day. Enough blood for ten lifetimes, all put together. But this is the life of a warrior who sells his sword to honor.

He noted too late that the horn stopped blowing minutes ago. Miraak stood just as Sassafras, sans antlers, appeared at the top of the steps with his crossbow already pointed towards them.

"Don't move," he called down, to the three motionless figures. "That first one was meant to be a warning shot. Imagine what I could do on purpose."

"Is that supposed to be a threat?" Miraak asked, genuinely curious. Lucia paid no mind to the descending Bosmer. Her sole focus seemed to be treating Sofie's wound. "You do not seem well suited to such a weapon."

"Shows how little you know. We Bosmer are born with bows in our hands, old man. I cored my first apple when I was three. Shortbows, longbows, crossbows…"

"Recurve bows?" Miraak suggested.

"Yes, those too." Sassafras reached the middle of the stairs. He wore clothes that Miraak supposed must have been traditional to his race: feathers of various birds poked out of the scaled leather mail, and small animal bones were scattered here and there across the gaudy outfit. "I'll fill you with arrows, sir, but that will be the least of your concerns. Two words, elder: Green Pact. Don't s'pose you know what that means, do you?"

As he spoke, Miraak inched closer to his spear discarded on the ground. "Dinycthus Precis: Green Pact Bosmer, Observations. Members of your race whose fierce devotion to the natural world leads them to consume the flesh-"

"I know, I know! So you'd better do what I say, or I'll kill you...and then I'll cook you up with juniper berries and lavender, oh yeah. Though you'll not make much of a meal, you old draugr. Just skin and bones, you."

Lucia looked up to pin the Bosmer with a glare that would have withered Miraak in seconds. "This is your latest scheme, huh? Frightenin' travellers into thinkin' you're some mad cannibal bandit. And you tricked some poor starvin' fellas into helpin' ya."

"It was a swell plan until a certain bloodthirsty trio came along." Sassafras sighed in what seemed to be genuine remorse. "Don't know why you had to start killing folk. We weren't hurting anyone."

Sofie sat up, her face running with sweat. "Liar. In a winter like this...every trader you robbed cost us lives in the city. Tell me I'm wrong, Lucia."

"Hush, you." Lucia pushed Sofie back down and then looked back up at Sassafras. "She's right, though. Put down the crossbow, fool, before ya hurt someone."

Their tentative captor ignored her. "So they're all dead, then. Jarlun and the rest. They weren't such bad eggs as to deserve what you people did to them. Hunger doesn't cease to exist past the walls of Whiterun. We sorry souls out in the wilderness have to eat, too."

Lucia huffed. "Your family's in bed with the Thalmor, ain't they? Send a letter to Valenwood askin' for some of that Summerset gold, and I'll start believin' you give a damn about folk. Ya just want to steal things, Sassafras."

"Well...seeing as I've already taken ownership of your fine mule and its possessions, I s'pose there's no harm in admitting it." He grinned and took another step down. "I should thank you. A two-way split suits me far better."

Miraak raised his brow. "I only see one bandit left. You ought to thank whatever gods you truly believe in that you wounded Sofie before her axes found you, and be on your way with your life."

"On your knees, old man," Sassafras ordered cheerfully. "And stay away from that spear you've been so plainly coveting. Go on, now. I was telling the truth about not wanting to kill anyone."

Lucia rolled her eyes but muttered: "Do as he says. One mule ain't worth catchin' a bolt over."

A minute later, Sassafras cleared his throat. "Hello? Your ears working, Nord? It's me, the fellow brandishing a loaded crossbow towards you. Kneel."

Most of Miraak would have liked nothing more than to comply with the Wood Elf's request, but for some reason, his knees refused to bend. He poured all his willpower into kneeling. Sweat dripped from his chin, and his body vibrated like a taut bowstring, but he remained upright. The dragon's teeth dripped with the fresh blood of that poor Argonian. It refused to be cowed. You enjoy death so much, you pathetic creature? We are about to die for your precious pride.

"I...do not seem to be able to."

Now Lucia looked confused. "You were kneelin' next to us just a couple minutes ago. This some stupid honor thing? Sofie, tell him he can give up."

Sofie lifted her head to regard him. "You've done well, Miraak. But we've been outplayed. Our lives are in this bandit's hands, now. There's no dishonor in preserving your life."

"I do agree with you. Believe me, I want nothing more than to kneel." Miraak beat his fists against his thighs, his frustration mounting.

A horn blew from the direction of the churning river outside, and Sassafras turned his head for only a moment. It was enough time for Miraak to scoop up his spear and throw it blindly towards the stairs. Owing to his lack of skill and strength, it ended up being more like a toss that landed nowhere near the bandit, but Sassafras flinched away and dropped his crossbow so it broke into several pieces.

"Where are ya going?" Lucia demanded to know as Miraak scrambled after the fleeing figure. He couldn't have answered her even if he cared to.

The altitude was dizzying. Strong winds pulled at his hair and the folds of his cloak.

"What is your aim here, grandfather?" Sassafras glanced over the side of the bridge but did not turn his back on Miraak. "You going to kill me like you did the others? And with your bare fists, to boot? I'm no pugilist, mate, but by the look of you I'd still win."

Miraak turned his face into the wind and grimaced. "I have had enough of killing today, vagabond. Come with me in peace…" What was it that Vilkas had said, outside Embershard? "To face the Jarl's justice."

"Hrongar's particular brand doesn't agree with me. Never has done, to tell you the truth." Sassafras looked over the side of the bridge again, and what he saw seemed to please him. He tossed off his ridiculous feathered coat and cracked his knuckles before turning his smirking face towards Miraak. "It's been a pleasure, old man, truly. Please save any remarks about carving and headstones - I have a boat to catch."

And then Sassafras leapt over the edge. Miraak scrambled to watch the Bosmer land with a splash amidst the rapids next to a small rowboat piloted by a long-haired young Imperial. It became immediately clear that Sassafras hurt his leg in the fall, and his frantic attempts to pull himself onto the boat quickly upended the craft and sent both men and their capsized vessel rushing down the river. Miraak glanced up, squinting against the sunlight. The white foam churning in the distant waters could mean only one thing: a waterfall. Sassafras and his inept rescuer were heading for their deaths.

You so relish wanton bloodshed, he taunted the dragon. But I wonder how you like the taste of - but no time for thinking. Miraak threw off his cloak and took a deep breath before backing up a few steps. Curiously, he felt no fear, and the wind had never tasted so much like freedom.

"Wait!" Lucia stood at the other end of the bridge, at the opening to the tower. Her eyes widened. "Do ya even know how to swim?"

"I am uncertain," he called back. "But they certainly do not."

When Miraak threw himself off the bridge, some secluded part of his mind relished the yellow terror screaming from the dragon.