Finding Alduin, by all accounts, was a challenging task. But finding a bunch of (possibly) thieving armored dicks holed up in some part of the wilderness? Easy as finding a Forsworn in Markarth.

Irina looked back as Redcliffe was reduced to a fading visage as they wandered down the beaten trail. They had left the place when the sun began to peek its big head above the water's horizon. Irina had hidden the staff underneath a rubble pile, taking great care to make it look as inconspicuous as possible. After that, they'd left, which was easy when the guards were half asleep from a long night shift.

Judging from where that group of templars had fled earlier, and that deserter had scampered off, Irina made the safe bet that their base of operations was holed up somewhere in the west. Now where exactly in the west was still up for debate.

She sneezed again, her eyes watered as they passed a bush of flowers. Bees buzzed around them pleasantly.

"Where do bandits usually hide out?" asked Sakn'vunen as they passed a dilapidated hut. This one looking to have been weathered by time rather than destroyed.

"These aren't bandits," said Irina. "They're soldiers."

"But they take stuff and don't give back."

Irina shrugged. "Such is the way of war, Sakn'vunen."

On both sides of them were mountains and hills. Irina took out her map and looked for just where they were. Judging from the scenery, they were slowly creeping up on the river in the west.

"You hear anything?"

"Nothing yet."

Irina continued to walk. The landscape was eerily calm. Not a single bird chirped, not an animal's cry to be heard, not a crick of a grasshopper. Her feet slowed, and her steps became more deliberate. Her hand itched for her bow.

Snap.

Her feet had made contact with something hard yet brittle. She stepped back. Underneath her boot were the remains of a fallen branch. A grimace came to her.

"Well, Y'ffre isn't happy." She sighed. "Just my luck."

"Who's Y'ffre?"

"My patron god. Very much attuned with nature, y'know. Considering he is a giant tree."

"I know Wisdom looked like that once," said Sakn'vunen. "I liked playing in his branches. He always swung me around."

"That's great, Sakn'vunen," said Irina. "But I've got a feeling today isn't a 'swinging in branches' type of day."

She bent down to pick up the broken branch, but as soon as her fingertips brushed across its surface, she pulled back. Surprise showed clear as day on her face.

The mouse skittered in worry. "Is something wrong?"

Irina didn't answer. She carefully leaned in to touch the branch again.

Cold as ice, her body tensed. Magic.

"Sakn'vunen, you don't happen to sense anybody around here?"

"Nope," replied the spirit. "I only hear you and birds."

That meant they were either dead or gone. "The magic is still fresh. Would you be okay with looking around on your own for a bit, Sakn'vunen?"

Before she got a proper response, there was a small shriek from the mouse as she lept off Irina's shoulder. In midair, Irina saw as her furry body swirled into a ball. It gained form as she drew nearer to the ground until out leaped Sakn'vunen in her true appearance.

Irina huffed. "I suppose that's a yes."

The spirit danced in the air. "What do you need me to look for?"

"Bodies, blood, traces of a fight, or footprints. Any is good— we're just looking for a lead. Remember to stay close."

Sakn'vunen nodded as enthusiastic as ever. She sped off somewhere behind a boulder. Irina lingered in the place they'd found the branch. She put her hand on the ground. It was as cold as the glaciers in Skyrim.

"Impact area?" She muttered. That didn't make much sense. There should've been frost. Besides the branch and the cold, there was nothing more to point toward this being the place of impact.

Unless it was the place, they were firing from.

She looked around, and sure enough, off in the distance, she could make out the distinct form of a large icicle jutting out a tree; there was something impaled. Something that looked distinctly like a man.

Bingo.

She walked over and couldn't help the grimace on her face. It was a gruesome sight. Judging from the sword in his scabbard, it looked like the poor bastard didn't even know what was coming to him. The sword insignia on his chest looked more like a bullseye— the ice had pierced him right in the middle of it.

She summoned a flame spell in her right hand and gently melted away the frost. After a minute or so, the man fell to the ground with a loud thud. She patted him down until her hands came upon a small leather pouch underneath the man's belt. Gingerly, she removed it from the corpse. The inside was surprisingly dry. There laid an assortment of items. Some dried flowers, silver—which she happily took—, and finally a folded note.

She unfolded it carefully and read.

There have been sightings of apostates close to camp. They've been scouting near the old fortress. Find them and be rid of them. Maker's blessing to you.

"Old fortress, huh," Irina muttered. She took out the map and looked at it once more. The fortress in question lay near the river, between the mountains. Considering that the note mentioned the mages were close to the Templar camp, then that meant—

"They're holed up somewhere in the mountains," Irina said. A smirk came to her face.

"Irina!"

The Mer jumped before she found her bearings and ran towards the Sakn'vunen's voice. She came upon the spirits hovering near the dead bodies of two more men. These were frozen solid, their bodies facing the sun.

"Arkay, bless," Irina murmured.

The spirit didn't seem to see the morbidity of the situation. She looked at Irina expectantly. "Did I do good?"

"Yes, Sakn'vunen." She couldn't help but roll her eyes. "You did well."

The spirit beamed at the comment. "It wasn't hard to find them. They're loud. Very, very loud."

"Saying what?"

"Prayers," Sakn'vunen said. "They think I'm a demon, and now they think you're a mage."

"Wait, think?" Irina said, incredulous. "They're still alive?"

Sakn'vunen nodded. "The mage was weak. They froze the outside, but not the inside."

She looked at their faces, suddenly feeling their horrified gazes and, in turn, feeling her own guilty conscience weigh down on her. She bit the inside of her cheek before taking out her dagger in her right and welling up a flame spell in her left. She melted a hole in the ice until the skin of their throat was revealed. She steeled her heart.

And then used both hands to stab through the metal and into the body of the templar.

She felt some resistance in the blade, the body instinctively pushing against the intrusion no matter how frozen. And then there was none.

Sakn'vunen stood as still as a rock before she fretted. Her voice was the quietest Irina had ever heard it. "That's not right."

The dagger was taken out of the body and wiped on the grass. "And who told you that?"

"Justice did. He said it's wrong to kill someone who can't fight back."

"And what would you have done, Sakn'vunen?"

"I would've helped him!" said the spirit. "He was scared and tired and—"

"And what would you have done when he got out of that ice?" Her tone was mild. "You said it yourself; he thought you were a demon. Do you think he wouldn't have tried to kill you as soon as he got up?"

That made Sakn'vunen stop. The spirit looked at the body on the ground. "I would've stopped him."

"How?"

"I would've turned into a speck of dust and flew away."

"I suppose that's an option. But suppose he chases you, still intent on killing you." She sheathed the dagger. "What then?"

"I— I would've—"

"If I'd let him go, he would've tried to kill us. It's as simple as that," Irina said. "I didn't have much of a use for him alive, so I'd rather him dead. Before he could try to do the same thing I did to him, to me."

"That's not right." Sakn'vunen insisted. Irina shrugged.

"But it's life. It doesn't have to be. I don't take pleasure in it, but it has to be done."

"I—" The spirit started, but Irina cut her off.

"Let's not talk about this anymore, 'kay?"

Sakn'vunen hesitated. She bounced a bit before flittering and looking up at Irina. "Okay."

She gave the spirit a lopsided smile. "Good. Now, wait for me to melt this ice."

"I thought you said you didn't have much use for him?"

"Alive, not dead." The palms of her hands heated up once more. "I've got a plot stirring 'round in my head. One that needs a templar's armor."

"Irina—"

"Don't give me that Sakn'vunen. I've looted men for less." She placed one hand on the ice. "Now, let's get to work."

If there is one good thing that Irina learned from the late and dearly beloved Mercer Frey, it's that if you bullshit with confidence and assurance, even the smartest of men won't dare suspect you. That and how to pick a lock on dragon-claw doors in nordic ruins without the claw.

They had found the templars near the fortress, holed up just under the waterfall. Irina wondered how they hadn't seen it before, considering all the giant, pointy wooden stakes in the ground were so obviously a camp that you'd have to be blinder than old Ulf to not see it. She ducked low near a pile of rubble and watched as a guard -a man who had to be related to Tsun- leaned at the opening in the fence.

"You ready, Sakn'vunen?" Irina whispered. The spirit, who'd turned back into a mouse, nodded. "Good, Then all that's left is to get dressed."

"Are you sure this is going to work, Irina?"

"You can never be sure, Sakn'vunen. But you can hope," she said. "Be ready for a fight if it comes down to one."

"Yes."

A few minutes later, the gate guard was awakened from his half-rest when a short elf with armor much too big for her walked up.

She strode up to the opening of the spiked fence as though she owned the place, with her back straight and her steps quick. Her eyes never wavered from the path in front of her, mouth pressed into a tight seam. The man at the entrance took a look at her, and a crooked smile began to form on his face. Irina didn't show any outward reaction. She stopped right before him and stood waiting.

Finally, the templar addressed her.

"I haven't seen you before," said the man. "State your business."

"Coming to report, sir." She tried to mimic that slightly haughty tone that the Thalmor had when they 'chatted' with the citizens of Skyrim. "Something happened to my group up north."

"Odd," she could practically taste the mocking on his tongue. "I never thought they let small knife-ears into the templars."

"And most of us never thought that the apostates would get off their leash," she said. At the man's scowl, she repressed a smile. "Or a giant hole in the sky, sir."

He ignored what she said and pressed on. "Who are you reporting to?"

"Captain Doyle," said Sakn'vunen.

"Sir Captain Doyle, sir."

"From what group?"

"The one headed by Sir Dirge."

"I've never heard of him."

"And yet, I am sure the captain has," she said. "Sir."

"You've got a problem with me, recruit?"

"No, sir," said Irina. "I apologize for any offense, but I do feel that my report is of the utmost importance."

"What? You found out where those apostates have been holding up?" asked the man. "Got the Herald to support the order?"

"Well, no, but—"

He waved her away. "Then off with you. The Order has no place for your kind."

Y'ffre's roots, this was a test from the eight, wasn't it?

Well, if simple lies weren't going to cut, she'd just have to get more extreme.

She swallowed her emotions and continued on. "Sir, surely you have heard the tale of the… 'Demon.'"

"You talking about that wild elf bitch?" said the man. "The tall-tale poor Jacob spun because he got his ass kicked by an apostate?"

"You don't believe him?"

"I'll believe it when I see it. And so far, I ain't seen nothing yet."

"Well, I have, sir."

"Are you bringing your own lie in now?"

"Sir, with all due respect," she spat the last word. "I don't think you have the right to call such a story a lie unless you've seen it with your own eyes."

"If the damn elf is so strong, how did you make it out?"

"She let me leave," said Irina. "She… she told me that she felt a sort of kinship between us, with what little sanity she had left in her. Her hands were a pale green like they emerged from the Fade itself. And her voice…." Her body shook with such a fever. The man at the gate's smile twitched. "Oh, sweet Maker." Y'ffre, forgive me.

"What did she do, exactly?"

"It had to have been in the dead of night. The other had laid to rest, and Captain Dirge and I took a night shift," said Irina. "There were signs. Signs we should not have ignored. A spark in the air, hair rising on our arms, the warmth of the fire slowly fading as though it was being sucked out. We both chalked it off to the cold night— we were stationed somewhere on the base of the mountains, you see. And then we heard it."

"Heard what?"

Irina lowered her head into her hands. "Oh, please, sir. Please do not make me recall it!" But of course, if you wish me to—

"If you've any intentions on reporting to Doyle, then you'll have to at least spit it out, elf," said the man. Irina nodded. She sniffled a bit as though she were tearful behind that helmet.

Thank the eight for sinuses.

"It was a shrill screech. I can only compare it to a failed mimicry of a wolf's cry. Maker, you should've heard it. How it was void of anything holy and full of demonic essence. I am only a trainee, I do admit, but even a common man could hear the evil in that cry! As soon as we heard it, Captain Dirge— the brave soul that he was—immediately drew his sword and told me to guard the camp while he looked around in the forest. Why did I listen? Minutes passed, and they soon drew into an hour, and I still had heard no word from the Captain. I picked up my resolve and drew my sword. I inched closer to the woods, turning my back for only a second, and that is when I heard a cry come from the tent.

She wiped at her face with her glove, preventing a falling tear from making its full route across her red cheeks. Her nose felt puffy from all the pollen around them. The hulking man's face was now absent of all its previous mockery and disdain. What occupied it now was quiet awe and subtle horror. Irina bit her inner cheek to force down a smile.

She continued.

"I turned, and it was then that I laid eyes upon the "Demon." She was gangly, with long limbs as thick as a stave's, connected to long black talons. Her clothes were all but tatters that clung to her sick skin as she hunched over. And her eyes…." Irina looked at the grass, eyes wide. "How they burned with hellfire! The ferocity of a rabid dog! A demon! Just one look, and I was scared stiff. She— her hands were already covered in my companion's blood by the time I'd looked. I looked in one of her taloned hands, and I'd seen the scarf that Sir Dirge wore, and I knew he'd met his end as well."

The man hung his head. "Maker, watch over him."

"That was when she chose to spare me," Irina said. "She bade me a smile and whisked away back into the woods. And so I built up my courage and decided to come here to seek aid," she looked up at the hulking man and stood up even straighter than before. "I don't ask for soldiers or revenge. I merely come to recant a tale and provide a warning. So please, sir," she looked him square in the face. "I beg you."

From what she could make from inside his metal head, Irina could see the cogs of his brain turn like a dwarven machine. There was reluctance, which turned suspicion, suspicion triggered guilt, and guilt, finally, with the slight slump of his shoulders and the grunt from his throat, triggered acceptance. He moved out the way and pointed a big finger down a dirt pathway.

"Walk down there, and in a minute or so, you'll be at Doyle's tent. Can't miss it. It's behind the gate, and it's the biggest one there."

Irina nodded graciously. With a hand over her heart, she said. "I thank you, sir." She went to walk down the path, but before she could, a large hand clasped her shoulder. It took everything in her to not drop the act and shout the man into the mountain. Sakn'vunen moved uncomfortably in her bag, sensing the tension in Irina.

He came right up to her ear. She could smell the potent stench of meat and ale mixed in with stale breath. Finally, she could make out the eyes underneath the helmet. She couldn't help the uncomfortable shift of her feet as gray bore into green.

"If I see anything funny from you, on Andraste's good name, I'll gut you like a fish. So will the men inside the camp. Do I make myself clear?"

"Yes, sir," she bit out.

He straightened himself out and gave Irina a rough pat on her back. "Now off with you, knife-ear."

The templar camp was nestled right in the small crook of the waterfall and the mountain, hidden from the unknowing world with shadow and the loud water clash. Irina had to admit that the place was much more well-kempt than she expected. It was certainly better looking than most bandit nests she'd come across in Skyrim. Not that that was a hard bar to pass— but it was at least above the bar.

She glanced around quickly, her eyes never lingering too long on one place. There were crates everywhere, but from what she could observe, there wasn't even a smidgen of that blue rock stuff inside them. Instead, food and weapons were haphazardly escaping the confines of wooden boxes. As it was closing in on the evening, a group of templars had begun to empty some of the food crates and light a fire under a big metal pot. Steam and smoke rose into the orange sky as the loud sound of chopping began to sound along with the clatter and chatter of the encampment. Mara's warmth seemed to spread and reach every corner that was encapsulated by the large, jagged walls.

Underneath the smell of onion and searing meat came another scent. It was small, a secret almost, yet its iron highlight reminded Irina of why these people weren't her friends.

She continued onward.

Quietly, she whispered to her spirit companion. "You hearin' anything about lyrium?"

"Nope. There is a lot of fear, though."

Irina couldn't help the soft snort that escaped from her mouth. "That's rich."

"They're not scared of the war," said Sakn'vunen. "Some are. Scared for friends and families. But most are scared of a seeker's thoughts and demons."

"Seeker?"

"I dunno. An old man. Really old. And mean. And strong."

"Isn't that swell. Let's hope he's not lurking around these parts then."

"I don't think so. They say he's far. Far and protected."

She walked deeper into the camp, mindful of where she was headed and who she was seeing. Most people inside were human men, with a couple of women scattered between them. An elf or two hanging around on the walls, but they seemed almost out of place as the humans around them seemed to radiate rowdiness.

She looked around some more, ignoring some passing curious glances she got from some templars. No doubt, with her build and size, they were wondering about the new elf who arrived in the camp. Something, it seemed to her, to be a rarity among the templars.

Focus, she told herself. Keep going, and they'll never know what hit 'em.

All the crates of supplies she'd seen so far were cracked open with trinkets, weapons, and food stored safely inside. If the templars really did have the lyrium, it was either not here or hidden deeper inside the camp.

She paused. In front of her was a gate that barred entry into a certain section of the camp. Just peeking over it, she could make out the top of a tent.

"You can't miss it," she said. She put her armored hand on the wood, took a breath, and then pushed it open.

Behind it, there were three neat tents set up. Some barrels that smelled distinctly of oil and tar were placed near the fence. There was only one man that sat at a pyre alone. He caught Irina's eye almost instantly. Heavy bags hung under his eyes. Obviously, he wasn't one for sleep. That detail shined even more in how his hand jittered the cup, sloshing water. He tried to play it off by taking frequent sips out of his mug.

But his lack of sleep wasn't what caught Irina's eye. Instead, it was a feeling. Familiarity.

Before she could ask Sakn'vunen about it, a man, this one tall and lordly, sauntered over. He looked at Irina as though she'd kicked his dog.

"Why have you come here?"

"To report, sir," she said. "I came to speak with Captain Doyle."

"Well, here he is." his hand fell to his hips. "What have you to report?"

"I've had a run-in with… with the 'Demon,' sir."

He perked up at that. Anger mixed in with apprehension and something more. Hope. "You tell the truth?"

"I've no reason to lie."

He bit his lip, a quiet deliberation going through his head before he patted Irina on the shoulder. "Follow me," he shouted at the familiar-looking man near the pyre. "Jacob!" The man jumped. "I want you to come too. I want a full report."

Irina bowed slightly. "As you wish, captain."

The inside of the tent was far from lavish, but it was the most comfortable-looking room Irina had seen in this world thus far. A red rug lay on the floor, just inches away from a nice-looking straw bed that held pillows and a heavy blanket. All around the room lay boxes that had yet to be opened. Irina looked down at the floor, looking for any little hint of the blue stuff she'd been sent to find.

None, not even a speck.

Doyle had brought her and Jacob to the table at the center of the room. The only light was a few dim candles scattered around the room. They harshly illuminated the planes of the templars' faces. Jacob messed with the gloves on his hands while Doyle studied Irina as she straightened out her back.

Finally, the Captain spoke.

"Before you start your report, I will ask a few questions. I expect you to answer all of them."

"I will do it to the best of my ability."

Doyle peeked at Jacob, and then he began.

"What is your name?"

"Pholeri," she replied almost instantly.

"What day did the incident occur, Pholeri?"

"Had to have been the fourth day, sir. I remember because my mother's birthday had just passed."

"And what were you doing?"

"Doing Nightwatch along with my Captain. Dirge was his name."

Doyle frowned. "I'm not aware of such a name."

"That was what he told me. He was the one who trained me and brought me into the Order."

"How many of you were there?"

"Five, including me."

"What did this 'Demon' look like?"

"Black hair, green eyes. She was—"

Sakn'vunen piped up in her head. "She looked like any other person."

"Like any other elf, but she was a bit beaten up. Dirge must've thought she was a refugee. He approached her, saying he wanted to help."

"And then?"

And then Irina began to recount the whole sordid tale of noble Sir Dirge and his fight with a wild demon. She lessened the dramatics and changed some of the details, but from the clenching of Doyle's jaw, she could tell it hit all the same.

Jacob was still silent.

"And why did she spare you?"

"'Kinship,' she called it," said Irina. "She claimed that us elves should have no part in such a war, and she left."

"I see that the apostate has some morals," muttered Doyle.

"I wouldn't call it morals, sir, but rather a mistaken bond between two people who happen to be of the same race."

"Whatever it was, it seems to have saved you," said Doyle. "I thank you for your report and will send more troops to the south immediately. You may go rest."

Irina nodded, and she turned quickly. The atmosphere in the tent almost suffocated her, and she was eager to breathe in the fresh air of outside. Her hand came upon the tent flap, one silver boot reflecting the light of the evening—

"Wait."

Jacob had finally spoken.

Doyle looked at him curiously. "Do you've something to add, Jacob?"

Their eyes met, and if looks could kill, Irina would be dead. She saw anger masked underneath the facade of determination. It boiled just beneath the mask, waiting for the slightest crack to set it free.

Sakn'vunen piped up once more. Her voice was filled with worry.

"Do not take off your helmet."

"Take off your helmet," said Jacob.

Irina's hand left the tent flap to rest at her side. "Excuse me?"

"Take it off."

"Jacob, what is the matter?" Doyle asked.

Jacob ignored him. "You crazy bitch. Did you think I wouldn't know?"

"I have absolutely no clue what you're talking about," Irina said. "I only take orders from my Captain. Not a jittering mess of a man."

"Are you having fun?" asked Jacob. "Captain Dirge? Order? Do you even know what you speak of?"

"It is not polite to speak ill of dead men."

"You should've at least changed your voice, Demon."

"Demon?" asked Doyle. He looked at Irina once more. He backed farther into the tent, his hand mindlessly resting against the hilt of his sword. "What are you on about Jacob?"

"Look at her, Captain! Take a good look at this one! Since when have you seen a female elf running around the camp."

"Are you daft?" Irina asked, though her feet were inching closer and closer towards the tent's flap. "I said Sir Dirge took me in after the war started."

"A female elf? You expect me to believe that?"

"Then what are you trying to say, then?" Her throat became hot as she welled up her thu'um.

"Take off the helmet, Demon."

"I told you, I don't take orders from—"

"You heard him," said Doyle. By now, his blade was wholly unsheathed. "Remove your helmet."

Irina bit her inner cheek. "I will not—"

And suddenly, she felt weightless. Pain tore through her skin, making her claw and grasp at her throat, a shrill screech escaping her lungs. She felt the cool breeze of the evening seep onto the heated flesh of her cheeks. She immediately backed up, feeling for anything, something, before rough hands took her. Another high cry, this one not her own, sounded around her, and then a crash.

"The rat! The rat has—"

"Go get the others, Jacob! Go!"

As the world came into focus around her, she found herself shielded behind a green haze. Sakn'vunen looked at her with deep worry. Doyle was struggling to lift the table off of himself.

Well, fuck the lyrium.

"We've got to go," she said. She grasped desperately at the tent flaps as her right mind returned.

"There's a lot, Irina," Sakn'vunen said. She bounced on the balls of her feet, the energy around her filled with her nerves.

Irina got her bearings and marched over to Doyle, who was still struggling on the floor. Seeing her, the man's face shriveled up in anger. He spat at her feet.

"You come to finish your underling's job?"

Irina huffed. "No, that would be a waste of my time."

She channeled every bit of her fury into a punch that landed directly on the man's face, and immediately all of his struggles and grunting stopped. She picked up his sword and weighed it in her hands. Her lip pursed unconsciously.

I suppose this will have to do.

"Sakn'vunen, you remember how you helped me earlier?"

The spirit nodded. "You need my magic?"

Irina smiled wearily. The thunderous sound of feet and hurried shouts sounded not so far off. She could feel the ache in her muscles already. "Every bit of it."

She and Sakn'vunen walked out to the gate and latched the thing close. It was only a temporary barrier. The thing looked sturdy, but she had no doubt that a dozen or so of these men could take it out no problem. Her eyes scanned the area for some sort of advantage, some kind of leverage.

And that's when her eyes fell upon the cliffs above.

There were a couple of rocks up there. Loose by the looks of it, and that meant movable.

She clicked her tongue. She looked back at the gate, to her spirit friend, and then to the mountain again. There was another damned thing she learned from Mercer; it was that risks were worth taking when you're dancing on a blade.

Y'ffre guide me.

"Sakn'vunen, you moved that table earlier. Didn't you?"

Sakn'vunen beamed with pride. "Yep. I learned it from watching you. I wanted to protect you and—"

"Thank you, Sakn'vunen, but I need your help with something else." She pointed to the rocks. "You see those there?"

"Yes."

"Can you put a bit more force into your push?"

The spirit bounced a bit but then nodded. "You need me to push it off the edge?"

"Exactly that."

"But won't you get hurt?"

"Trust me, I'm a lot more resilient than you think," she said. There came the first bang at the gate. "I'll stand here and act as bait. You get as close as you need. When I give the signal, send them tumbling."

"But—"

Another bang. This one came with some splintered wood. "Trust me," Irina said.

Sakn'vunen hesitated, but she soon shook her head and flew up into the air. Irina quickly ran over to the barrels and began to push them over, kicking them all around the camp area. Getting their black on the tents and on the wooden walls and almost every little speck of the dirt. If they wanted a demon, then she would show them a fucking demon. This one straight from the depths of the Deadlands.

Another bang sounded at the door. She pretended not to hear it. She was careful to not get any of the oil on herself. She shoved the empty barrels to the side.

Then another. And another. Angry shouts and screams.

Irina breathed deep. She silently prayed to Auri-el and took her stance near the middle of the area. Her hands began to feel hot. She kept her sights on the gate. The perfect shout in mind.

The wooden door finally fell down.

In charge, a group of men and women armored to the teeth. Archers took their stance in the back, arrows ready and lined on her body.

Their arrows flew, and so did Irina.

"Wuld Nah Kest!"

There was a sound of surprise that echoed from the templars. Shouts of "the Demon!" echoed in Irina's ears. That's one mystery solved, at least.

She landed right in front of the river of oil that lay before her.

Draw from that well.

A flame had burst to life in her palm, and she slapped it down. In one foul move, the dim eve had become brighter than any sun. Screams came from the men and women in the middle, gut-wrenching and ear-splitting.

"What happened, Irina?" Elle had asked her from the other side of cold metal. "What happened?"

She tasted smoke and blood like bile. Her stomach twisted. The heat of the fire enveloped her brain.

"Not now. Oh, eight, please not now."

She stumbled for the gate, but she could hardly make it past the threshold when she felt something hard hit the back of her head. Her legs gave out from under her, and she hit the dirt. She hardly had time to adjust when she felt fingers twist into her hair and wrench her up. What she stared at was the broken shell of a man, who was wrapped in a fury hotter than the heat around them. A fury she knew well.

Jacob.

She tried to shout once more, but that familiar body-eating pain from earlier popped back up. It took the Magicka right out of her body. She felt almost empty.

"Look at you," he spat. "Weak. As weak as all your lot are. Are you having fun, 'demon?'" When she neglected to answer, he tugged harder. "Answer me!"

With all she could muster, Irina smiled. "I told you, I only answer to my Captain."

That earned her a hard kick to the stomach. She stifled a groan.

"Crazy, fucking knife-eared bitch!" He gritted. "You remember me?"

She stared into his eyes. She'd definitely seen him somewhere. Mousey, nervous, hiding behind other rambunctious men like they were a shield.

And then it dawned on her.

Despite herself, she let out a low laugh. It hurt her gut more than anything in the world, but she couldn't help it.

"Of course, yes," she said. "I remember you."

"Then you know—"

"I remember I had killed the others of your lot before I had passed out. I wondered, 'where did the last one go?' Then my friend told me you ran off to the west. To here." The horror that dawned on his face at the realization was almost as intoxicating as skooma. "You've got not a drop of honor, but I thank you for the directions."

He threw her to the ground hard. She struggled to pick herself up. Her nose hurt like hell, and her limbs were in much better condition. She felt a trickle of blood slide out her nostrils to her top lip. Her right fist balled up the loosened dirt on the ground. Arkay inched ever closer.

There was still one more trick up her sleeve.

She heard the unsheathing of metal. "May the Maker have mercy on your soul."

"And I hope the same for yours."

Before she finished her sentence, she took her right hand and blew the stray dust into the man's face. He lost his footing instantly, the sword clattering uselessly to the ground.

Irina didn't wait for him to get up. She used her remaining strength to push past him and rush past the gate. She summoned all the will in her body. With one scream, she yelled.

"Sakn'vunen, now!"

There was a low rumble. And then, from the heavens came rocks tumbling down onto the earth. Jacob stared dumbly at her before looking up at his impending doom from above. His hand moved to reach out to her— to yank her down into Oblivion with him, perhaps— but before he could even extend it-

Squelch.

Soon the fire died out in the rubble, and so did the screams. The only one left standing was a 'Demon' covered in her own blood, staring dumbly at the graveyard before her.

Irina smiled once. It was gingerly and soft.

Before she fell to the ground.

Sakn'vunen was at her side in an instant. Her form flickered with each unsteady breath Irina took. "Are you okay?"

She turned over despite the searing pain in her waist. Her face fell into her hands. A certain bout of mania overtook her soul. She didn't know how in Y'ffre's name to feel. Horrified? Delighted? Both?

Instead, another breathless laugh came from her.

"I guess the templars didn't have the lyrium," she said. "At least I hope so."

Sakn'vunen pouted. "Irina! That's not what you should be focusing on!"

"Do you happen to know any healing spells?"

"No."

"And neither do I." She pushed herself up into a sitting position on her forearms. "I can't spare too much worry about what's broken on me until I know I can fix it. So for now, I'll just worry about the mission."

"Irina—"

"I told you, I'm resilient."

"Wisdom said that mortals who say that are dumb."

"You'll have to lie better than that, Sakn'vunen."

"I'm not lying."

"Of course, you aren't. You're just not telling the truth." The Mer picked herself up on her forearms. "Come on, Sakn'vunen, let's find those apostates."