Frost-Soaked Sands of Hegathe

by JFinne

An original story taking place in Hammerfell many years after the events of Skyrim. Sator, Warrior-Monk of Bergama, seeks to drive out the remaining Thalmors from Hammerfell but soon uncovers that he's not the only one. Will they join in a common goal, or is the depth of their motives too wide apart?

The Prisoner

"One more time…" My pen remained impatient with its tip pressed hard against white paper as I watched the prisoner—eyes that simply looked down; hollow; dead. Insultingly disregarding of my presence. "State your name." No response. "How did you find this place?... Who sent you?" Still, he remained disturbingly, and far too comfortable for my taste, indifferent.

The heavy iron door opened. I'd look over my shoulder but I already knew who'd enter; Meredrien. Hard black leather boots tapped in steady pace against the stone floor until his presence by my shoulder was less than appreciated.

"So?" A single word that clearly meant to either challenge my competence or insult it. Bitterly admittedly my defeat tasted sour; I had nothing.

I cleaned my throat and flattened out every wrinkle on my lap before I rose to face him: "Are you sure he spoke before he got here? I'm inclined to believe the man mute."

"Your inclinations are irrelevant, Terdrin," he spoke as rapidly and confidently as any other superior I've ever met, "he openly admitted to his crimes when he turned himself in here."

"Which are?"

First now did he look at me; a demeaning, derogatory look—I ignored it with a straight pose. "You've had your time with him. I assumed you'd know by now." The high-snot look he gave: a mule of a man—I bit down on my own resentment:

"As I said: he has yet to speak."

"Resistance?"

"None. He simply sits there in silence—hasn't even tested his restraints. To admit to truth, it is getting quite… frustrating."

"It is not proper of the interrogator to get frustrated by the subject of interrogation, Terdrin. I expect more of you."

At least that we had in common.

I drew a breath to hide my frustration; "Perhaps if I knew more, I'd be more proficient at my… profession." A correction that was hard to speak without fluster. "So I ask again: just what did he admit to when he arrived here?"

Judging by the discreet, most likely involuntary, sound he made, he clearly disagreed; his eyes held the same suspicion toward me as it held toward anyone else: "He claims he took out our north-eastern outpost. Killed all our agents." He raised a cynical eyebrow at the sentence.

Killed our agents? "That…" explains the mood, "is quite the confession. Does it hold any truth to it?"

"I have already given the order. We should know within a day?"

"If it is true–"

"If it's true! Then this man is clearly an enemy of the Dominion. Which begs the questions: How did he find this place; are there others; does he work in collaboration with the Redguard resistance; and, most importantly, why did he voluntarily turn himself in? The prisoner is either mad, or he has his reasons. Which is it?"

Why indeed? I glanced over at the man: a large framed Nord of a being. Black-haired and scared. A Nord above Nords some might say. But no matter his appearance, no single man would stand a chance against a Thalmor outpost alone. My jaw tightened: "I… do not know."

"Isn't that what you are supposed to find out? Or did the Dominion overexaggerate your capabilities when they had you transferred here?"

And there we have the real reason behind my frustration: "Oh, believe me, I am capable. But the man does not speak, and considering your orders in the matter… unless you loosen my 'chains', I won't be able to loosen his lips. If only I was allowed to–"

"We can not risk that."

"¨Risk?¨" a carefully chosen word on his part, I assume, "You make it sound as if you know more than you let on–"

"Let me save you the time and simply state that I always know more than I let on, Terdrin," he said with a straight yet warning look, "It is, after all, my job. Now, you do yours and learn how and why this man came to be here."

"You continue to insult my capabilities yet refuse me to utilize them? What's really going on here, Meredrien?" He gave no response: he only tightened the gloves over his hands before he crossed his arms and looked at the prisoner. Perhaps that suspicious look of his should be turned inwards: "Do you know who he is?"

"No," he answered instantly, instantly to the point of questionable, "But his armor…"

"I've yet to see his armor, what of it?"

"It's not the armor of a commoner. This might be political, he might be of noble blood."

"Political?" There's only one explanation to that train of thought: "You think he has ties to the Dominion?" Made sense, most families worth mentioning across Tamriel were either under the Dominions payroll, cooperated due to shared interest, or simply blackmailed into submission… most were blackmailed.

"Why else would he turn himself in, voluntarily? Walk up to this place—find it nonetheless—unless he already knew of us?" he mumbled, "I have the feeling we need to tread carefully with this one."

"Why?"

He looked at me, "That's your job to find out. Start with his armor, ask about the family emblem, the engravings on it—whatever ties he has, find them." He turned sharply, Justicar cloak flowing with his motion, and headed for the door.

"I already told you he doesn't respond to questioning!" He stopped in his tracks, tilted his head over his shoulder. "If only you would allow me some freedom."

"Very well," he begrudged and gave a high look over his shoulder, "But nothing permanent. If he does have noble blood that ties to the Dominion? Well, we don't need anything we can't conceal. Or excuse."

Hm, a surprise, but ultimately I welcomed his approval. At last, my chains have been loosened: "I'll find out who he is." I turned my attention back to the prisoner, raised my hand and filled my palm with the tingling sensation and visual crackling electricity: the perfect tool not to leave marks.

"My expectations were that you already had." Another twist of the dagger. Another insult to bitterly ignore.

"And his belongings?"

"I'll have them brought over shortly. As I said, start with his armor, it's the crest that has me curious."

¨Curious,¨ a fine substitute for the word I suspected he had in mind: worried.

---

"Sator! We need to stop!" Nacim shouted from behind.

"The storm's not that bad! We can still make it, it shouldn't be that far now!" I yelled back through the cloth.

"We don't know that! We might be walking in circles here!"

Ah, my stubborn friend, right as always: the sandstorm only seemed to grow worse by the minute, it practically grinded the skin off of my cheeks—the part of my face that wasn't covered by hood, scarf, or sand-goggles. Even the camels complained out loud as they struggled to slowly climb the everchanging dune, unable to see even the top of it. People have ended up lost and missing for less.

"Allright!" I admitted, lifting my hand to signal the others as I looked back and counted the obscure and sand-hazed heads through the storm, "Get the tents! We're stopping!"

---

I stepped back from the smoking prisoner—other than involuntary grunts from between clenched teeth for the muscle spasms, he continued the silent treatment, though, still, showing no sign or attempt to resist. Again, my frustration only grew as the door opened; I still have nothing to show.

"Is that all?" I asked as I noted the heavy, lidless box they dragged into the room.

"Yes, Sir."

"No bags?" I had expected more gear than what they brought: nothing more than a set of armor at the top layer of the chest, clothing, a dark cape."How peculiar. No traveling equipment? Provision?"

"Only half a bottle of water," one of them answered, briefly shaking a metal canteen.

"Hm…" Surprisingly light for someone who came through the desert. "Place it over there and leave us."

I gestured for the heavy bench by the furthermost wall and waited with patience for them to complete their work. It took all three of them to heave the heavy chest up and onto the bench.

So…" I started once again as they had left the room and I headed for the chest, "let us see if there's something to be learned here." I glanced over at the prisoner to see his reaction, but he showed neither reaction nor expression. As 'hollow' as ever behind the dark hair hanging in his eyes. If anything, he looked bored. I snarked: his attitude had been testing my patience, but now, after all the torture I made him go through, it was truly pissing me off.

I grabbed the chest plate by the armpits and jerked it out of the box, making no effort to hide my frustration as I slammed it down on the table in front of him, "What's your family name?" I asked, knowing fully well he wouldn't answer. He didn't even look at the damn thing. I turned it around to face me, to get a better look at it, and realized what Meredrien had meant:

The quality of it was superb. Clearly expensive, perhaps even invaluable—one of a kind. I've only ever seen royalty done armor of such high standing. But, unlike the armor of royalty, it seemed practical in nature, not decorative or ceremonial as they usually were. No, this armor was clearly meant to be worn into battle, yet it carried no signs that it had been; no dents, scratches, chippings in the metal. Except for the fabric and leather that held it together, the thing looked brand new, albeit dull gray in color. Speaking of the leather straps holding it together, it used buttons in place of buckles. Horribly impractical—perhaps it was ceremonial after all?

"Interesting insignia…" Not one I've seen before: clearly Nordic in nature, but not modern, no, Old Nordic. Traditional runes and patterns. "A dragon and a wolf facing one another? Are they fighting, or are they united?" It took up most of the front of the chest plate, clearly visible, made from a lighter, silver hued, steel against the mate gray of the armor itself. If he came from an old lineage, we definitely should have his name in our records. "Perhaps two families united?" I asked, that's usually the case when an insignia has two focuses. I searched my memory for any current Nord names carrying either the insignia of a wolf or a dragon, but came out empty handed. Perhaps further research is needed to shed some light on the matter.

I rose and turned my back on him as I headed back for the box to further study its content, plucking out a pair of black furred gloves and a similar pair of black furred boots. These, too, More black fur covered the rest of the gear in the box, the under layer of his armor.

"You're from Skyrim, aren't you?" No answer. "I'm not asking because you're Nord, I'm asking because of your clothes: They're not suited for the climate of Hammerfell. Hm? And if you haven't had the time for a fashion change…" I looked at the prisoner over my shoulder—unresponsive as ever, "…then you must have recently gotten here. You can't have traveled through the mainland, not dressed like this. So… by sea then? I'm guessing Solitude to Sentinel? Hm? I'm right, aren't I?" I said even though he gave no response. But I had to be right. Rich family, Solitude, warm clothing, to travel the sea of ghosts, and the north-eastern outpost oversaw Sentinel.

Still, it was all speculation on my part: Meredrien would not be satisfied. And francly, neither was I.

"You're making things very difficult for me," I said and lowered the boots back on the table before I faced him, "Does it amuse you? Does your rebellious silence give you the illusion of control?" I said and approached him, looking down on his low hanging head. "Do you speak at all!" I snapped and grabbed him by his hair, upped his face, and backhanded him.

His head merely tilted aside for the impact but quickly returned to the casual hang as I let go of his hair. I tucked my hand behind my back and clenched it for the pounding sting; damn Nord had a jaw like an anvil. Even through my glove. Made me wonder who had really hurt who.

"I'm sure you're smiling behind that dead expression of yours," I said, biting down, and lifted my hand once more, a clenched fist this time. "I'll take that smirk off your face–"

The door opened behind me, stopping me as I quickly lowered my fist and bit down my resentment.

"Anything new?" Meredriens cold voice came abruptly.

"Perhaps," I answered, breathing heavily. I calmed myself and turned to face him.

"And?"

"He's from Skyrim, Solitude to be precise. Traveled here by sea and docked in Sentinel before he came here."

"And he told you this?"

"–Yes," I said, hoping he wouldn't notice my hesitation, but I was not about to openly admit to offering mere speculations as results. Besides, I'm right.

He gave a suspicious look but seemed to dismiss the thought as he crossed his arms and lifted a gloved hand to his lips in thought. "Solitude, you say. Skyrim? If true, that complicates things."

"You think he's a Stormcloak agent?" I looked over at the prisoner, but noted no reaction to the mentioning of the Stormcloaks.

"Ulfric Stormcloak has no interest in Hammerfell."

"But he does have an interest in us."

"Now that he has claimed the position of High King of Skyrim, Cyrodill is his only interest. And the throne of the Empire. He has only proven difficult upon direct confrontation, as long as we continue overseeing him from distance he will continue to further our goal in weakening the Empire. And whether he succeeds or not, neither the Empire nor the Stormcloaks will have the strength left to withstand the Dominio. No, Ulfric is no threat to the Dominion."

"So, this one then?" I nodded at the prisoner, "If the Stormcloaks didn't send him, then who?"

He lowered his hand from his lips and gave an eyebrow raising look that instantly told the gravity of my error: "Are you telling me how to do your job?"

"What of the Skyrim Embassy then?" I change the subject.

"Hm," he grunted sharply, taking the bait, "I suspect our embassy there would've had the information we need, but, alas, since the incident… That's a shame."

"A shame indeed," I agreed. That whole ordeal was quite a delicate matter, rarely does one get to witness such failure. From such a high-ranking member of the Thalmor nonetheless. "But only the records from before the incident were destroyed, post-incident?"

"Our hold in Skyrim only deteriorated after the incident. And with the return of the dragons, Ulfric's sudden increase in aggression and military strength. I doubt any remain, and if…" he looked to ponder his next words for a moment, "After the Empire lost their grip on Skyrim, Elenwen was… instructed to relocate her agents. If any records survived the retre– relocation they should be archived at headquarters."

"At Summerset Isles?"

"Perhaps…" he mumbled, "Most likely. But we don't have the time to send a messenger across the continent, I would have to get in touch with our main outpost to get portal permission."

"A portal would be more convenient. If we cross reference the insignia on his armor with our history documents, family lines, we should be able to get a name."

Again, he turned his head to give me that judgemental look, "He told you that much but has yet to give his name?"

And here we go. "I've only just gotten started. He'll talk."

"He better! More importantly, you better find out just who sent him, and how. If records survived in Skyrim, our enemies may have more information on us than allowed. We can't have that."

"Don't worry," I said reassuringly, "He may be keeping his composure right now, but by the end of the week, I doubt he'll be able to keep his tongue."

"Hm," Meredrien scowled and looked at the prisoner, studied him for a moment as the room grew silent. "Is it just me, or does it look like he's waiting for something?"

¨Waiting?¨ the thought struck my mind, I hastily made my way over to the box, "There's another thing."

I grabbed the canteen and tossed it over to Meredrien who caught it to study. "A canteen? what of it?"

"It's half full." Meredrien's expression showed no sign of realization. "When's the last time someone walked through the desert all the way here with his canteen still holding water? In warm clothing nonetheless."

"He can't have walked far," he said as my point landed.

"Couple of hours at most. And we're a full day away from civilization."

"An encampment? Then there must be others, and he's waiting for reinforcements. They sent him here to distract us."

"Unless he fell out of the sky," I said, raising an eyebrow.

"Your humor is not appreciated, Terdrin," he lectured, tossing the canteen back for me, turning sharply to head for the door. "I'll have the outer guards doubled right away, prepare wards, as well as send out scouts to search a two hour radius. We'll find them before they can act."

The door shut behind him and muffled commands were shouted. The sound of agents getting to work. I looked back at the prisoner: the thorn in my side.

"So…" I started and headed for my work bench, "Let's talk about your friends, shall we?"

I removed my tight fitting gloves and folded them on the table. drew my hand over knives and pliers as I made up my mind. "Ah. This will do," I said as I settled on a certain specific contraption—one of my personal favorites, one perfectly suited for the situation.

"Do you know what this is?" I asked as I turned for the prisoner, holding the contraption in front of me for him to see. But he didn't look. He didn't… even… look. A frustrated breath left my nose and I walked over, pulling the table away from him to make room, "It's a nail-ripper," I said as I kneeled down and attached the contraption on the handlebar of his chair, tightened the screws to hold it in place in front of his hand. "The beauty of this thing is that—except for the obvious fact that it is extremely painful—nails tend to grow back."

I looked up at his face. He didn't look at me. Like ever, my words seemed to have no effect on him: no sign of fear for pain; no sign of nervosity. Just the same expression of… nothing!

"In other words," I said with bite as my frustration for the man resurfaced, "this thing can hardly be referred to as ¨permanent.¨ So Meredrien should have no problem with me using it."

I grabbed his hand and the chain around his wrist rattled without resistance as I pushed his large index finger through the loop of the device. He didn't even attempt to clench his fist, no fighting back whatsoever—he simply let me do it—as I clipped down the plyers on his nail to hold his finger in place.

"There!" I said, holding back my anger. But the casual atmosphere of it all had me boiling inside. "Do you see that? All that's left for me is to push down on this part here…" I placed my finger on the pressurplate of the device and slowly pushed down, tugging at his nail to no effect, "And your nail will rip right out." I grabbed him by the hair, forced him to face me, "And I promise you, it'll hurt."

No reaction. Only the same tire-bored expression.

I could practically feel my teeth on the verge to shatter for my bite. I forcefully pushed his head down, let go of his hair. "Ten fingers, ten nails!" I spat, "But only one question: Who sent you here?!"

No reaction.

Anger made my face twitch; I clenched and lifted my fist. Slammed down on the contraption. Ripped the nail right out.

No reaction.

---

"Finally! Rest," Nacis exclaimed relieved as he entered the tent, pulled down his hood and scarf, removed his goggles, and brushed sand out of his hair.

"All the tents are up?" I asked, studying the map laid open before me as I sat on my knees on the carpet.

"Yes," he said, digging around in his trousers, "Damn sand gets everywhere. I'm pretty sure I don't have skin on my balls anymore from all the grinding one the camels."

"Sand guards?"

"Don't worry, it's all taken care of," he said, jumping up and down to shake out the sand, "We won't get buried as we wait."

"Good."

The lantern rattled as the wind tore at the walls of the tent, and Nacis went over to steady it before he took a seat on the carpet opposite me with the map between us.

"When's the last time we had a sandstorm like this?"

"They usually don't keep this long," I said, "It should be over soon."

"Let's hope." He took out his canteen and drank from it before pouring some in his palm to rub his eyes clean of what little sand had made it through the gap of his goggles.

"How are the others?" I asked while he rubbed his eyes.

"All accounted for. Still going strong."

"Good."

"Any idea where we are?" he asked and looked at the map as he had finished.

"We should be somewhere around here," I said, making a circle on the map with my finger. "And if our intell is correct, the Thalmor outpost shouldn't be more than a couple of hours away from us."

"Hm… that's a big area. You sure we're not lost?"

"Doesn't matter. As long as we keep heading south-east we'll shortly get the mountains in sight." I drew my finger on the map until it reached the center of the Alik'r desert. "We'll get a more precise location once we get some landmarks in view. Only problem is…" I bit down and sucked on my lip.

"Hm?"

I looked up at him and smiled, almost chuckling as I shook my head, "I have no idea which direction south-east is."

"Ha," he laughed. "I bet you're glad to have listened to me now, before you led us even further astray."

"Sure am," I admitted.

He laughed, "Sator, stoic Warrior-Monk of Bergama, upholder of our Yokudan spirit! Can't navigate the desert for shit." He continued, "Sometimes I wonder how you'd ever make it through a desert without me," he laughed.

"Ja-ja," I dismissed and waved my hand at him. It's not like I was that bad.

"So I guess we're spending the night then?"

"Don't have much of a choice. Once the storm settles, and we have nightfall, we'll take our bearings from the stars. Leave first thing in the morning. How's provision?"

"We've lost time because of the storm…" he answered and calculated, "we're good on water, but we'll have to ration food."

"As long as we have water—we can always slaughter a camel if things turn for the worse regarding food."

"I'll tell the men, then…" he said, brushed sand off his legs and stood up, "that we're spending the night."

"Do that."

"I'll get some food while I'm at it. Be back shortly."

I watched him pull up his hood and scarf and leave, straightened my back, closed my fists and placed them on my knees as I shut my eyes and filled my lungs with air.

I listened to the world, the storm outside, the men, and blocked out every sound I did not need as I cleared my innermost mind. Blocked it all out into silence. Until I heard nothing but the soft-flowing whistle.

---

I shut the door behind me, lifted my hand and snapped my finger and the candles and torches came alive to spread their light over the prisoner, chained to his chair.

"Good morning. Slept well?" I smacked my lips at his unresponsiveness. "I hope not."

I made my way across the room, pulled a chair to the table and placed the tray in front of me, well in his view, and made my seat across from him.

"How are your fingers?" I started and smoothened out the wrinkles on my lap, "I must admit, you had me quite flustered yesterday. But, new day, new possibilities. Perhaps, perhaps today we can keep it more… professional. Shall we?"

I looked up at him, noted that he hadn't looked up at me. In fact, he hadn't moved a single inch from how I left him yesterday. Like yesterday, he remained looking blankly at the table in front of him.

"So the silent treatment continues? Yesterday, that may have worked on me—I'm used to my subjects screaming at me, you see. Dealing with you has been… a new experience for me. But, before I went to bed, and got a good night's sleep, I thought it over and realized that there is no need for either of us to be uncivil. I realized that I had been going at this in the wrong way; you clearly don't care for pain. Yes. I realized that, maybe, I shouldn't punish you for your silence, but rather, reward you. Which is why…" I tapped my finger on the tray, "I brought breakfast."

He didn't even eye the tray. But I won't allow myself to be frustrated today. No, I need to remain systematic.

"Big guy like you, I'm sure you must be hungry? Wouldn't want that strong body of yours to grow weak, would you? If you tell me what I want to know, I'll let you have it." I studied him for a moment to no avail, the tray might as well not be there for him. "Ah," I let out, lifted my chin, "I forgot, you're a man of discipline—a warrior of the harsh Skyrim—a man like you has probably grown used to foregoing food every now and then. After all, any man can go weeks without food before it truly becomes a problem… weeks we sadly do not have. But…" I rose and headed for his box, grabbed the canteen and turned back, "But water, on the other hand, can be quite troublesome to forgo."

Still, no reaction as I walked back and sat back down, shook the canteen in my hand so he could hear the water within, and placed it next to the tray in front of me.

"Three days. Three days before people begin to die of thirst," I said and held a finger on the cork of the canteen, "You've been here for almost one… if you're not hungry, I am certain you're beginning to feel the need for thirst. So let's make a deal, shall we," again, I tapped my finger on the cork, "As soon as you talk, I'll give you this. The whole thing. I'll even be kind enough to fill it up for you should you wish. As I said, I'm open to working with rewards, all you have to do is answer my questions: Who sent you? And how did you find this place?"

Again, I waited for a response. But there was nothing. Not as much as a twitch in his eyes.

"We'll find them, you know. We have scouts out searching right now. It's just a matter of time. Time, you could save us." I pushed the canteen along the table and set it in front of him, lined it with his line of sight. "How many are there? Where are they? How far away? Who are they? One answer, and I'll let you sate your thirst."

Still, there was nothing.

"Are you that confident they'll come and save you? Are you that confident, you're willing to prolong the pleasure of your visit? That you're willing to risk succumbing to th–" It suddenly struck me. I withdrew the canteen, leaned forward on the table to get closer to him. "Does the threat of thirst not frighten you, because you know they'll be here before that happens? That could only mean they're close. Couple of hours? Half a day? A day? And, like you, they, too, know of this place." I leaned back in my seat, hoping to see a reaction but saw none. "Was Meredrien right? Did they send you here to distract us? It won't work, we'll see them coming long before this outpost comes into their view—we have wards for that, you know. They won't be a threat to us," unless–

The briefing prior to my transfer here held surprisingly little regarding the rebels numbers—the usual need-to-know basis for personnel like me—but could it be that the rebels numbers were intentionally withheld from me? It wouldn't surprise me. I'll have to inquire about their numbers from Meredrien later. Unless they do outnumber us greatly, they should be no threat.

Speaking of which; the door opened behind me.

A brief glance over my shoulder, "Meredrien," I greeted and turned my attention back to the prisoner, "Whenever you're ready," I told the prisoner and slowly pushed the canteen back in front of him before I rose.

"So?" Meredrien asked as I turned to face him, "Anything new?"

"I assume our scouts found nothing? Or you would have told me by now."

"Your assumption is correct. There's no one out there."

"Oh, they're out there," I corrected and glanced at the prisoner.

"Why? Did he speak?"

"No," I answered truthfully, "But I've made it clear to the prisoner that he'll be dead within three days of his arrival, unless he cooperates. He has already wasted one, yet he still refuses to cooperate. Which tells us he's expecting to be saved before that happens."

"But the canteen–"

"He must have had two, perhaps even three, and thrown them away once emptied before he got here. In order to make us believe they're closer than they actually are."

"The logic is sound," he mumbled, "I'll have the scouts widen their search radius. We must get eyes on them before they get too close."

"Speaking of 'them,'" I said to draw back his attention, "My briefing was rather short regarding the exact strength of the rebels. Care to explain?"

His look was withholding rather than hesitant; probably considering whether or not to share confidential information.

"I'm part of your team now," I said, "And I'm the one working in direct interrogation—the information should be open to me."

He smacked his tongue and admitted defeat, "All in all, they outnumber us greatly."

So, my earlier speculations were correct, they had withheld information. "Are you telling me they're a real threat to us?"

"Why do you believe we work in secrecy, hiding in the mountains?" he snapped, as if the conclusion should've been clear to me.

"We always work in secrecy," I stated.

"But rarely in hiding," he pointed out.

True, I internally agreed and glanced over at the prisoner.

I'm right, I must be. But to confidently assault this outpost they'd need to outnumber us five to one. Which would mean… but considering what Meredrien told me, that might just be.

"They're coming for him," I said and looked back at Meredrien, "A large force, most likely more than a hundred men."

"Ridiculous," he stated, "They couldn't have gathered a force that large without us knowing. We have agents in every city, it's simply not possible."

"But they did. Somehow. Under our noses. And they're coming here." I pointed at the prisoner, "That's why he–"

"Did he tell you this?" Meredrein interrupted.

I froze for a second, considered whether or not to fall on a lie. No, I must remain open minded to the idea of being wrong, and information of this degree should only be taken with utmost seriousness. Never presented unless confirmed.

"No," I admitted and lowered my hand, "These are only my personal speculations, supported by the facts you've pres–"

"I don't know what you did back at the Summerset Isles, but here we don't deal in ¨speculations,¨" he interrupted and I could practically feel the disapproving indignation he radiated, "Stick to the facts: unless we know for certain, we don't know. Do not present me anything beyond what the prisoner has specifically told you again. Do I make myself clear, Terdrin?"

"But what if I'm right?" The thought still lingered firmly in my mind; sometimes, information a prisoner withholds speaks volumes more than that which they share. I knew this fact very well. Certainly better than Meredrien.

"If you are right, and a force of a hundred men is making their way here, we will see them long before they get here, and we'll be gone longer still before they get here. As I said, the mere thought is ridiculous, and I must admit I'm beginning to question your credentials."

I bit back; I could tell from his eyes not to push him further. "What of the messenger to our main outpost?" I asked to change the subject, "How long should I expect to get word of portal allowance?"

"I never sent one," he answered sharply.

"What?" I hadn't meant to speak out loud, but his response came more as a surprise than his previous statement regarding the rebels. "Why not?!"

"The messenger alone will take days, and for our main outpost to process our request, days more. Even if they did agree for you to leave, how long would it take you to search the archives at Summerset Isle? You know the size of our libraries; weeks if you were lucky, months if not. And for nothing more than a name? You tell me, Terdrin, why should I send you away for months on the off chance of you possibly finding the identity of a prisoner we have for you to interrogate right here in this very room?"

I couldn't argue against his logic, frustrating as it was—that he wouldn't even consider my proposal?

"Or are you telling me you're more proficient as a librarian rather than the interrogator I was made to believe you are?"

My eye twitched. Suddenly I felt I had underrated the comfort of the prisoner's silence—Meredrien's tone and choice in wording had a far grander factor of frustration. But I remained calm. As calm as I could:

"We had this discussion yesterday. You continue to question my abilities yet you're the one holding me back! If you won't allow me to do my work, then at least have the decency and awareness that I'm not the one at fault here. You're asking me to fly after clipping my wings!"

"We can't risk the possibility of the prisoner being–"

"The prisoner doesn't speak!" I snapped. "He doesn't care for pain! He doesn't respond to threats! Since he got here, he hasn't spoken a single word or even moved! Not as much as looking at me! By Auri-El, Meredrien! I'm down to starvation tactics and sleep deprivation, both of which take days before showing results in even a normal man! And this man isn't nor!–"

"I thought you said he spoke yesterday?" he said calmly and folded his arms over his chest.

Screw it, "Well he didn't! But I had to give you something, didn't I?" I took a deep sharp breath; calm down, "My point is, I can't work like this. And regarding your concern, the man isn't an ally."

"How can you be certain?"

"Why would he expose himself to torture if he was? Why would he allow himself– allow me to pull out his every nail without resistance if his motives were friendly? If he was our ally he'd cooperate, and he isn't cooperating because he isn't our ally."

Meredrein remained in his stubborn composed self as he looked at me, and for a while, we stood in silence.

"Think about it," I said and he turned his head and sighed.

"Fine. But don't take it too far, I still want him alive."

"Don't insult me. I wouldn't be good at my job if my subjects ended up dead, would I?" The audacity of the man.

"We'll see," he said with a clear, judgemental tone.

I snarked at the man—but, at last, my hands were free.

"So…" I started and turned my attention back to the prisoner, "As I am sure you understand, there's been a change of plans." I told him. "Which means…" I headed over to the table, "That this is now literally off the table." I grabbed the canteen and took it away from him, placed it back by the tray. "You should've taken the chance while you had it," I said and leaned on the table as I closed in on the prisoner, "From now on, there will only be pain."

He remained silent, not even lifting his head to look at me. But that was to be expected by now, and, quite frankly, to my liking; it'd be a shame if he started talking now before the real fun began.

I took my hands off the table, straightened up, and turned only to find Meredrien still standing by the door: "Don't you have work to do?"

"Right now, my only work is to guarantee the adequacy of my subordinate," he said blankly on the spot.

So that's how it is then, "Fine," I said and walked over to grab my gloves before I headed for my workbench.

If anything, he'd at least get to witness the self-restraint of the prisoner. Then, he might understand my hardship in the matter, and the 'mystery' of my unsuccess might unravel him.

I slid my hand into the glove, tightened it to a perfect fit, and then the other and hovered it over the bench as I searched my tools. "Have you ever been flayed before?" I asked out loud as my hand stopped above the metal-thorn-knotted whip below it. "It's barely lethal, barely even bleeds—if done correctly. But…" I continued for the prisoner to hear. "it's quite painful, and, unlike your nails, the pounding pain will continue for days…" I grabbed the whip, turned around, and whipped and grabbed the ends with my free hand to make a whipping noise, "Pounding, burning, heating pain that radiates and remains."

I walked over, stationed myself behind him.

"If you didn't sleep well last night? Well…" I lifted the whip, took aim for his back—the large canvas before me, "you most certainly won't now."

---

The sand was heating my stomach from beneath and the sun burned on my scalp as we crawled for the top of the dune.

"Pass me the spyglass," I said in a low voice and Nacis searched his satchel to hand it over.

I buried my elbows into the sand, steadied myself and pressed the spyglass against my eye; there's the outpost.

"Anything?" he asked.

There were two low-going guard towers. Makeshift walls around the main building, Couldn't hold more than a couple of rooms. A small outpost. But as for movement:

"No guards that I can see," I said, "No horses, no movement. Sand's halfway up their door."

"Did they make us?"

"Probably." Wouldn't be the first time.

"You think the storm was their doing? To buy time?"

"Probably," I repeated and lowered the spyglass from my eye.

"They've never conjured storms before. And the Thalmors don't adapt."

"Sure they do," I said and handed him back the spyglass as I gave him a look, "They just take longer than us."

He took a deep breath, scratched the corner of his forehead, "Then, I doubt any of them remain inside." he looked over, met my eyes, "Forward? Or should I call for assault?"

I faced forward—faced the outpost—and pressed my palms against the burning sand as I pushed up, heaved up, and raised my legs beneath me to stand up atop the dune. I buried my feet into the sands of the Alik'r Desert and lifted my palm to face the outpost, tilted my head to hear… nothing.

"No need of assault," I said, lowering my open palm with my ear still facing the outpost. "There's no one there."

Nacim rose, brushed sand off his lap, and lifted his hand to signal the others—a closed fist turning into a palm facing down—and the riders quickly climbed the dune.

"You, you, and you, set up a perimeter," I ordered as one of the men handed me the rains of my camel, "The rest of you, on me."

The men spread out to take positions around the area as the rest of us rode down the dune and circled the outpost before we approached it. Scimitars drawn, we dismounted and approached the door.

I gave the gesture and men moved to dig away the sand so they could open the door, still, it took them effort to do so.

"Judging by the buildup, they must have left yesterday," Nacim said as he stood beside me, "Before the sandstorm."

"Or during," I said.

"Either way, anything we could use is probably burned."

"Probably," as agreed and we entered the sandstone building.

It was cold. That was the first sensation that hit me; the air was cold. And strangely clear to breath. No smell of burning.

"Thalmor magic." Nacim spat on the floor behind me as they followed, clearly they felt it too.

"Light," I commanded.

Men moved through their pockets, the sound and sparks of flint-stones getting to work—we had fire—to light the torches on the walls. I grabbed one, we all did, before we continued—lightening every candle and torch we came upon in the short hallway. Soon, the smell of smoke became dominant as we entered the main room.

Weak flame-light entered the room, revealing broken furniture and… bodies.

"By the Gods, by Puptga–"

"Light the torches," I said, "Get some light in here."

---

Another whip tore the skin off his back; gashing wounds that bleed through the torn fabric of his shredded tunic.

Sweat dripped down the side of my face as I lifted my arm once more, "Whenever you're willing to talk, just say the word."

Meredriens judgmental gaze in the corner of my eye.

Another loud whip.

No reaction.

The fabric of my robe was clinging to the sweat on my back, and my arm hurt as I lifted my arm to deliver the next lash.

I had expected him to lean forward by now, perhaps even lean his head onto the table for support, but, alas, I was flaying a rock. Not to mention, his skin was more resistant than anticipated—he didn't bleed as much as I had hoped.

"Does it usually take you this long to get results," Meredrien loomed.

"Oh, I'm just getting started," I said and slapped the whip into my hand and gripped it so hard my gloves gnarled, discreetly attempting to catch my breath—but I knew, just like him, that this was getting us nowhere. But I wasn't about to admit to that, was I? "So let's move on."

I circled the prisoner and stationed myself before him, kneeled down and wiped the sweat off my forehead before I took the handle of the whip to his chin, tilted his head up to face me.

"How are we doing?" I asked.

Still, he didn't meet my eyes. And I couldn't tell if he averted his sight or had simply never looked toward me to begin with. It felt unnatural.

Actually, everything about this man was beginning to feel unnatural. But; let's not sink to superstition, shall we:

"Has this yet to loosen your tongue?" I asked more to tease, "Perhaps my methods have yet to reach above the bar of your familiarity?" I placed my hand on his left cheek and brushed up that old scar of his, "Perhaps then, we should move into the familiar?" brushed it up against that healed over, waxy, leathery part of his face. "After all, you've clearly had some experience with fire before."

I let go, snapped the whipp away and watched his head go back down, and took a breath—I felt restored by now. "It's interesting, isn't it?" I continued as I turned around, headed for my workbench, "How traumas of one's past can resurface by the simplest of reminders,"

I placed the bloodied whip in the bucket of water, "I'll have to clean this later," and reached for the iron basin on the bench, filled it with coal, and carried it to the table before him. "You see, some individuals can easily relive old memories, especially the traumatic ones, if exposed to the origin of it. To some, mental agony can prove more effective than physical pain." I placed down the heavy basin on the table in front of him, placed my open hand above the coals and casted the spell.

The flames rose quickly, and fiercely. Didn't take long for the coal to turn red.

"Meredrien, would you be so kind as to prepare the iron for me?" I asked as I watched the colors from the flames spread over the prisoner.

He responded with a snark behind me but, to my surprise, actually began to move.

I circled around, moved behind the prisoner and briefly admired my work on his back before I grabbed him by the hair. "Look at the flames," I said and tilted his head up to see, "Do you see? Do you see your memories within them?"

Meredrien stepped up to the table, gave little more than a look, and shoved the iron into the coal to heat up before he turned to station himself back by the door.

"You've been burned before. Can you see it?" I held his head in place, held him to see, "When did it happen? Childhood trauma? No, your burn isn't old enough for that. House fire? Did you lose your family? Perhaps… did you burn yourself saving them? Did you burn yourself losing them?" No reaction, "Of course not… You're no family man. You're a warrior. A fighter! You simply battled a mage? Didn't you? Got your face burnt fighting a nobody, is that it? No trauma whatsoever? Just another battle-scar to join all the others? No memorable memories behind it? No defining defeat? No personal loss? No cause for personal growth? Or…" I spun around to face him, got down on my knee to look into his eyes, "Don't tell me, Warrior of Skyrim, you faced a dragon and lived to tell the tale?"

No reaction. No care. Not even a change in breathing pattern.

"Just a burn then?" I teased. "Nothing more? Nothing worth mentioning? Nothing… worth… remembering?" No reaction. "Very well…" I let go of his hair, turned to face the table, "Very well indeed…" I grabbed the handle of the iron, took it out of the coal and pointed the red-glowing edge up in front of me, "Ah, but first;" how foolish of me, that I forgot: "We need to rid you of those clothes, don't we?"

I glanced over, lowered the iron back into the smoldering basin: Seems even discreet treats have no effect. But, they won't be discreet much longer.

I headed for my workbench, grabbed the first pair of scissors I saw, and turned to head back. "I can't imagine I've made it more clear to you as to what is about to happen…" I stated as I positioned myself in front of him and looked down at his dark haired hangin head, "If you wish to speak, you should do so now. Because…" I grabbed him by the chin once more, tilted his head, and dug the sicor down the collar of his shirt, "Once I get started, I can't promise I'll be able to stop."

For the first time, I actually came to appreciate his never-ending silence; "Oh, how fun we'll come to have."

I scissors down, let the sharp pieces of metal bite through his shirt, sleeves, and ridded him of the bloodsoaked fabric clinging to his shredded back.

"There! Much better." I straightened up, tossed the scissor on the table behind me, and admired my work, but, I admit, once more I was surprised by the man:

Not only did the burn on his face extend down his shoulder, but halfway down his arm as well. But more than that, Nords usually have a good amount of fat on them, to keep out the cold—they are basically nothing more than evolved ogres—though this one had none. No fat at all: starved? No; if he was, his muscularity would have suffered before the lining of his waist did. If anything, this man was the prime example of Northern physic: broad shouldered, muscular, towering, standfast, and, clearly, disciplined with primitive stubbornness: a frozen mind.

"What's that?" Meredrien spoke out.

I didn't need to turn to see what he was pointing out: I saw it too. A small circular scar, no, mark in the center of his chest, right where his heart was. "A brand?" I stated.

"Former slave?" he asked behind me.

"Perhaps…" but slavers usually left their brand on the shoulder, or the cheek. Not in the center of the chest—too easily hidden should the slave escape—and the size of it was too small. It was the size of a simple ring you'd put on a finger.

"Continue," Meredrein spoke out impatiently

"Do not rush my work," I answered without taking my eyes off the prisoner, "Contrary to your beliefs, my work is one of delicacy. It is as much intellectual as it is practical." I straightened up, turned, "Would you?"

"What?"

"Behind him, hold his head up." I grabbed the handle of the iron once more and watched the air warp in front of my eyes for the heat, "We're beginning."

---

"By the gods of our ancestors," Nacim said as the room was lit.

I counted twelve corpses in the room. All of them, Thalmor. It's quiet; the hollow sound that follows an echo.

"Search the rooms," I commanded with a gesture, "Gather any intel you can find."

"Their skin," Nacim continued, staring blankly at the corpses.

I had noted the same thing—we all had, it was impossible not too—their skin held a sicklick black hue. Like charcoal, or black mold. But they weren't burned, the skin was still intact and they wouldn't have clothes and hair if they had been. But the golden hue of elven skin was long gone; replaced by that black-pale color. Some sort of magical rot? No, the stench of decay would be unbearable. And the corpses didn't smell.

"I've never seen–"

"Nacim," I interrupted to snap him out of it before he got all too lost in the sight, and pointed to the center table, "You search over there."

He gave a look of brief hesitation but quickly pushed it aside as he responded; "Aye-aye," and headed off with his torch held high.

That said, his reaction hadn't been without reason: By Yokuda, what happened here?

I scanned the room: Elven swords lay on the floor. Unsheathed. Broken furniture. Some of the corpses were missing limbs, and—as I looked around—there were even cuts in the stone walls around us. A fight had clearly taken place here.

But it was the sound that disturbed me the most: again, the silence following a long since past echo—as if my soul was holding its breath.

A cry rang out as one of the men toppled over, fell on his back, gagging and heaving as he pointed forward.

"What's wrong?" Nacim shouted out, stepping towards the alarmed man.

"Hi– his arm!" he shouted, gagging even more, turning over and away.

I headed over.

"By– What did you do?" Nacim asked him as I approached.

"I just grabbed his hand!" he defended as he struggled to get away with his mouth against the pit of his elbow.

Another corpse, a faced down Thalmor.

Nacim glanced at me as I stepped up next to him, "Their leader?" he asked, clearly rhetorical: this one wore the all too familiar black robes of a Justicar. Their leadership. "His arm," Nacim pointed out.

There was no need for it, I had already seen it:

His blackened skin had peeled off from his elbow all the way down to his wrist, revealing slimy, blackened muscles and a loose layer of skin holding a roll of parchment.

"I just grabbed the paper in his hand," the man said behind us, "His skin came off. Just like that."

"Sheech," Nacim let out, "I don't like this."

I kneeled down and ignored the disgusting feeling of loose, wet skin as I took the parchment out of the Justicar's dead hand, rolled it open and looked it over.

"We're lucky," I said, "It's a map with their outposts."

"Let me see," Nacim exclaimed with sudden exhilaration and I rose to share it with him. "We already know of these outposts," he said with a finger on the map, "they're no longer operational."

"No," I agreed, we've taken care of that. "But this one?" I pointed to a spot in the mountains—south-east from here. "This one's new."

"Sator!" a shout rang out, pulling heads, "Outside! Now!"

The man hurried off, I closed and pushed the rolled-up map into Nacims hands and took after him.

"There," he said and handed me a spyglass before I had gotten used to the brightness of the sun. I took it to my eye and aimed in his pointing direction: There; two riders atop the dune. They took off the second they took notice.

"What?" Nacim asked as he exited behind us.

"Thalmors," I said and handed the spyglass back, "Two of them."

"Survivors?"

"Scouts, more likely."

"We should take after them."

I took the map from Nacim and folded it open, "What direction are they heading?"

He lifted his hand to block out the sun, "North," he said, took but a second.

"Then no," I answered. "Thalmor precautions—they're leading us astray." I rolled down the map, handed it to him, "Get the camels. We're going south-east."

---

"Place it over there," I ordered the agent, pointing directions as we entered the room, and headed for my own station to plant my hands on the table and look over my plans. An unintended, heavy sigh left me as I glared off into the table, sunk into thoughts of defeat. How easy it should be. "I brought some new tools," I spoke out loud for the prisoner to hear, but even though I spoke it to another, I could feel the wail of desperation sinking before my eyes, "These new ones should prove more efficient." I hope, "They're from Summerset. Specially made and enchanted. They cause no injury whatsoever, only… excruciating pain."

I lifted my head with a deep reassuring breath, today, I'll make him talk. I gazed off into the stonewall in front of me and imagined better days: days when my subjects spoke from treats alone. Excruciating pain? What a joke. Given what I've done so far, I can't possibly expose him to more pain than he's already experienced. Can I?

The man's a stone—a wall—an unresponsive creature causing nothing but struggle, labor, and despair! My despair! No matter what I do! No matter how far I push him…

Is he even human?!

"I thought you burned him yesterday?" The agent spoke.

"Extensively," I muttered, still staring off into my internal dilemmas and imaginations. I won't lie, I'm struggling to find the faintest of pride in my own profession! What have I done with my life, hundreds of years, wasted! If I can't manage a single, stubborn, icicle of a Nord!? Then… who am I?

"So… why isn't he burned?"

"Hm?" I tilted my head over my shoulder and my inner demons left me as I couldn't believe what I saw: "Well…" my hands left the table as I turned, "how…" I remained in place, uncertain if what I saw was true, "peculiar."

The agent was right: there were no burns on him.

"Move," I told as I headed over, brushed the agent aside, and kneeled down in front of the prisoner in his seat.

I grabbed him by the chin and lifted his head—he was as unresponsive as ever, but I've long since come to ignore that, most certainly now—and studied his torso.

The skin on his torso was reddened, blushed, probably still sore. His chest hair was still burnt off, but as for the burns themselves? No open wounds, no scabs. Not at all what I'd expect of yesterday's work.

I rose, grabbed him by the shoulder and tipped him forward to study his back.

Again: "Fascinating…" the word left my lips on its own.

The red lines from my flailing were all there, but they had all closed. No bleeding or sign of scabs whatsoever. If I had to guess, which I was good at regarding these matters, he was well into weeks, perhaps even months into the healing process. And overnight?

I tilted him back up, pressed him far back into his seat as I turned my attention to his hands.

They were completely healed. Nails were still gone, but the wounds themself; completely healed. No redness. No swelling. No sign of irritation.

"Get Meredrien," I said," Tell him there's been a…" I had to choose my words carefully on this matter, "Tell him there's a matter of utmost priority."

"Yes, Sir."

"And do not speak of this to anyone else!" I reminded him before he left.

Curses were not in my vocal vocabulary, but, by Auri-El, I'd sure like to curse right now for the mystery alone.

Again, I looked at his chest: the small circular brand was still there. I grabbed him by the chin and tilted his head to the side, same thing, that old burn of his was still there as clear as the day he first came here. Same thing with the burn on his shoulder going down his arm. An older looking scar, the length of a palm, going over his right collarbone—probably broke it at some point.

I grabbed his left hand, noted the scar on it, turned it over, and noted the same scar inside his palm. A stab through his hand—I had noted the same scar when I pulled his nails, but paid it no heed, there's nothing uncommon about warriors and old scars. At least not back then, but now?

"If you heal…" I mumbled thoughtfully as I explored him furter—finding yet another scar as I lifted his arm, an old stab between his left side ribs, "Then why is it that your old wounds still remain?"

I let my hands go of him and straightened up, stepped away to study him from a distance as I leaned back on the table. Just what? My mind searched for words it did not have, answers it did not have, and my tongue searched for an equally uncomfortable place to sit.

"Let's…" I whispered out, barely taking my eyes off of him as I turned and headed for my workbench, grabbed the first sharp object in reach, and turned back. Grabbed him by the ear and leaned in close as I made a small incision on the lobe. Instantly, it started bleeding, dripping down onto his shoulder, and I moved away: "Let's try this out."

Usually, a small wound like that will stop bleeding within a couple of minutes—I should know. So, let's try it out indeed.

I placed my hand on the table, still watching over him, as I leaned onto it. Tapping my finger against the wood as I counted the seconds. 1… 2… 3… For some reason, furthermore with every tap of my finger, I could hardly feel my heartbeats anymore. Was I still breathing?

Forty… give or take. It took forty second until his ear stopped bleeding.

"Remarkable…" I hadn't even realized my mouth was open as I leaned forward to poke at his earlobe: the wound opened again, started bleeding again. But, still, forty seconds for his natural regeneration to close it? That would mean a healing factor of 4– no, closer to 500 percent.

"But… that's…"

That couldn't hold true—or could it? The skin is the quickest healing organ of the body. Which made me wonder; what would happen to muscle mass? If I broke one of his bones? Punctured an organ? A lung? The liver? Organs don't heal that well in mortals—Man or Mer—would it heal for him?

"I…" I leaned back on the table, barely feeling my own body—my mind was racing in dark nothingness—everything felt… fuck. "I no longer believe I care for who you are," I managed. "But, rather, what are you?"

Still, no reaction. Why was there no reaction? Was that part of it?

"A vampire?" I moved forward, tilted his head back to lift his lip and checked his teeth, "Of course not," the answer to that should've been apparent; no vampire could survive a single second under the desert sun of Hammerfell. I bit my lip in thought as I leaned back, "A lycanthrope then?" It's possible. But lycanthropus react remarkably poorly to starvation, though the man is disciplined… I'll need a full moon to confirm. "Or a lich?" No, what am I saying, the man is bleeding and very much alive.

I looked at the brand on his chest, the place of it; had the Nords been experimenting with regenerative magic? The Redguards? No, neither of the species have ever shown any true promise, much less potential, in magic. The Dunmers then—the Telvanni wizards? Again, hard to believe; the house of Telvanni has their expertise laid in enchanting objects, not persons, and this man has no such object on him—I would've felt it. Not to mention, the Telvanni has no magic that we don't have. Which is how I know:

The Dominion has no part in this.

The Psijik Order then? No, unlike us, they'd never recruit a Nord to do their bidding. Much less grant him regenerative enhancements.

Which leaves… Daedra?

I turned my head, looked over at his box, took my hands off the table, reminded myself to breathe, and walked over. As I stopped and gazed down into it, for some reason, I felt nervous:

I should've studied the damn thing when it first got here.

I pushed the emotion aside, reached down and took out the chestplate I had already studied and placed it on the table behind the box. Same thing with the gloves and boots. A satcheled belt—nothing worth mentioning in the small satchells. More armor pieces to go with the set. Simple-looking dagger. Nothing out of the ordinary so far—until I reached the vambraces:

If I had considered the chestplate a masterpiece, it was nothing compared to craftsmanship put into these; one was in the shape of a wolf's head, biting out toward the fingers, the other, the shape of a dragon's. The details were remarkable: there were no engravings, but rather, protruding details too fine for even a mold to have been used; the teeth on the wolf were pointy, and sharp enough to draw blood, and even the scales on the dragon-piece seemed separately crafted. The eyes. The fur. Ears. And Nordic? I knew of Elven Mastersmiths who wouldn't hesitate to toss their pride aside to apprentice beneath whoever made these.

No, neither a form nor mold could've done this. I am no metalworker, but it looked as if thousands of tiny, individual pieces had been crafted, assembled, and forged into the shapes before me. But metal crafted in such a fashion should be brittle? Easily disassembled. Perhaps, after all, it is ceremonial?

I reached for one of my skinning-knives, took it to the dull-gray metal and attempted to pry loose one of the scales on the dragon's forehead.

It did not budge. It didn't even receive a scratch. It did, however, dull my knife. Harder than Elven steel? How… intriguing.

"What metal is this?" I asked, hoping I'd receive a response but getting none. "Did you Nords make it?" Unlike their abilities and understanding of magic, some, throughout their history, have proven quite, dare I admit, famed in this particular area of expertise. But; "It's too dark to be steel… too light to be Ebony? Perhaps… a mixture of both?" No, Ebony and Steel aren't integretable. They can't melt together. What then?

I put them aside on the table; reminded myself to inquire further about the nature of the metal at a later date.

I hesitated to reach for the final item in the box, feeling strangely uncomfortable: a weapon wrapped up in multiple layers of cloth.

The bundle was surprisingly heavy, much heavier than its already large size implied as I needed both my hands to lift it. But the weight of it was not the first impression that halted my effort:

I stood with the weapon in my hands. Looked at the tan-brown fabric. Dumbstruck. Had my heart and lungs decided to halt? Was I imagining things, or was it cold? It was.

Even through the multiple layers of cloth—even through the leather of my gloves—I could feel that whatever the bundle held within, was cold.

I pushed objects aside, made room in front of the box, and placed it on the table. I took my knife and undid the knots of the ropes holding the wrappings. Folded it open.

It was a great axe. Entirely made from a dark metal, handle and all. Metal that reflected close to no light. Metal I most certainly knew; "This… is Ebony:" The metal made from the blood of a fallen God. The blood of Lorkhan.

The head of it was squared, not round—as axes usually are—and bladed on both sides. There was a face on the axe. A screaming, horrored, frightened face. Screaming in silent terror as it wept tears from desperation and panic. Why had the Nords forged such a horrifying thing? Had the Nords forged it?

And why did I suddenly share in it's emotion? It's only a weapon? The face, only a depiction.

So why did I hear its shrill cry in my mind? Why could I feel its long, cold howl against my skin?

"Where… did you get this?" I asked. Or did I? I couldn't hear my own voice.

I removed my glove, lifted my hand above the metal. Left it there to hower.

The thing practically radiated cold. An imposing, pressing cold you'd only find at the bottom of a sea. The kind of cold that had your lungs close up against your will.

But I felt no magic coming from it. None at all. It's not enchanted? But it must be?

I lowered my hand, reached for the axe–

"You do not want to touch that," a calm, telling, emotionless and surprisingly sober, yet heavy voice spoke out.

I froze. My hand, a mere inches above the weapon, froze. Had I imagined it? No… no superstition; there's only two living beings in this room.

Slowly, I glanced over my shoulder. The prisoner hadn't moved at all, yet I knew:

"Did you just?..."

The heavy door loudly opened.

"Best for you that your reasons for waking me at such an hour is of utmost importance," Meredrien called out before the sound of his feet entered the room, "You're truly beginning to test me, Terdrin."

My eyes remained on the prisoner. As I stood frozen by the table, lost in… everything that had just occurred. Or had it?

"Did the prisoner speak?" he asked sharply. Demanded.

"I…" Had he? I thought he had. But I'm no longer so certain. "…don't know."

"You don't know?" he asked, surprised, before repeating: "You don't know?! Do you mean to tell me– and why did you heal him?!"

Heal him? Right.

My mind raced back to reality, escaped imagined delusions of horror—a weak moment—and returned to what mattered: the real; he's healed.

"I didn't," I said to explain—shaking away emotions, withdrawing my hand, and straightening up as the respected member of the Dominion I am—should be.

He had a cynical and tested expression on his face as I looked over, clearly misstrusting, or, straight up not believing me as he stood in morning attire: nothing but loose, white, pants and a hanging, breezy, short-sleeved white shirt.

"I didn't…" I repeated with more confidence as he sighed and took his loose hair out of his eyes and worked a black ribbon behind his head, "he healed overnight."

His hands stopped behind his neck as he locked eye contact, "What?" Still not believing me.

"I said he healed on his own. Overnight."

"That's not possible," he stated and leaned his head back to finish setting his ribbon so his hair sat tight over his head.

"I'm telling you it is." I walked up to the prisoner, pulled the table in front of him to the side. "If you don't believe me, inspect him yourself."

He gave a lame look but, ultimately, folded as he sighed and stepped forward.

"Sir, Sir!" Shouts came from down the hall.

"Can my morning not proceed without interruptions?!" Meredrein stopped and exclaimed in frustration as he turned back for the door. "What!" he spat as the agent showed up in the door. "Aaah, you're back," he said as he recognised him.

The man was out of breath, covered in sand, leaning on the framework of the doorway to catch his breath, "The… the North-western outpost," he stuttered.

"Out with it! Is what the prisoner claims true?"

"We…" the man struggled to draw breath, "we don't know."

"¨Don't know?¨" Meredrien repeated, giving me a slim glance before he looked back, "¨Don't know.¨ Has the sun of this day caused incompetence in all of my subordinates?!" he took to yelling.

"The Rebels were already there… we couldn't get close enough."

"The rebels?" he tilted his head back, "How many?"

"Not too many, barely a dozen. We counted eight, but there were more inside."

"Ah," he exclaimed once more and gave me yet another high I-told-you-so look, "So not a hundred then," and turned back to head for the prisoner and leaned forward to study him. "Send out a fighter party of five. Eliminate them, and secure the intel of the outpost—we can't risk them getting their hands on it, should there be remains."

"But sir?" the agent insisted.

"What?" Meredrine straightened back up, away from the prisoner, and turned sharply.

"It's him."

Meredrien froze. His eyes set on the agent.

"Are you sure?" he asked, barely moving his face.

"Positive."

"Did you take precautions?"

"Of course."

"Did they follow you?"

"No."

"You fools!" he bursted, hair going wild as the silk ribbon came loose, "If they didn't follow you it means they already know where we are! And while you—you idiots!—have been making circles in the desert, they've been making their way straight here!"

"Sir, we–" he apologized in shame.

"How many times have I?!–" he took a quick inhale, tucked his hair back behind his ears and out of his face, and exhaled deeply to regain his composure. "If you're mistaken–"

"It's him," he confirmed.

Again, Meredrien turned still. Biting down hard.

Merely a second of silence passed, but it was an uncomfortable long one.

"Raise the barrier," he said, "Engage evacuation protocol. Gather all our intel, code blue and up, and burn everything else. Send a guard to the tower, have him ring the bell at first sight. And prepare the horses. We're leaving for Hegathe. Now!"

"Yes, Sir," he nodded and backed away and off.

I watched Meredrien from behind as he remained still, lifting and crossing his arms as he took a thumb to his lips—clearly sinking into thought. It was apparent the man was nervous. A disturbing trait in a superior of his standard.

"Who's Him?" I had to ask.

He merely tilted his head, faced me with his ear rather than his sight. Still biting down on his thumbnail.

"You too, Terdrin," he said, "Burn your notes regarding the prisoner. Gather your belongings—essentials only—we'll leave within the hour."

"I'm still new here, I should know," I insisted.

"He!…" he shot sharply, lowering his hand, "is one of the remaining warrior-monks of Bergama. The man's relentless. Brutal, even by our standards. He's been a thorn in our side for the last ten years."

"A monk?! Are you telling me you are threatened by a holy-man?"

He sharply looked up at the ceiling, bit down, and turned to face me with a stern look as he drew another breath to speak. He hid it well, but I could tell, the man was more than nervous—he was afraid, "Men like him are the reason we lost to their uprising in the first place. We thinned their numbers greatly back then, but at a massive cost, and a few still remain, He is one of them. Do not consider it an understatement when I say that that man alone could single handedly annihilate this entire outpost. And we'd be lucky to take him down with us. That is not a sacrifice the Dominion is yet ready to make!"

"Certainly? One man?" The Dominion—The Thalmor, much less—would not appreciate thought as these in their ranks. "If he's such a threat, why did you order our evacuation to Hegathe then? Why risk leading him to our main outpost?"

"It's the only one we have left!" he spat out, "There's nowhere else for us to flee!"

Flee? I shrugged back, again, reminded of how surprisingly little my briefing had held. Why had I been transferred here? Flee, my mind repeated, these were not the words of an esteemed Justicar, which only made me question his motives: "The Dominion…" I started, unable to ignore the look in his eyes, "or you?"

He didn't hesitate, he stepped into my personal space to grind in the fact that he stood above me as I had to tilt my head and look up to meet his eyes. He, in turn, looked down on me with threat in his eyes. He needed but to whisper: "Know your place, interrogator."

Realizing my mistake, I folded. Lowered my sight in surrender. I've had agents in my chambers who've done less than I've done now. And the thought of someone doing onto me that which I've done onto them? It was not an inviting thought.

"What of the prisoner?" I asked.

"Eliminate him," he stated. "We never intended for him to leave this place alive in the first place, he knows too much."

Eliminate?–

I looked back up to meet his eyes, "No?" I said; the word left my lips on its own accord: What am I doing? "I just made a breakthrough, the prisoner spoke!"

"We have no time for your delusions and neither do I! Do as told!"

"But, his armor, his healing, his weapon?! I have to–"

"It's out of discussion, Terdrin!" Blood-shot eyes. "Do as told or I'll have a report written to Summerset, and the only things you'll ever interrogate again are lost children in the town square searching for their parents!"

"But…" I lifted my hands in plead; there are bigger things going on here—I know it! "The prisoner is–"

"Do it!" he commanded, tunnel visioned and lost in fear for this… this Monk!

But I knew he would not change his mind. I saw it in his eyes. And so, I lowered my hands, sunk my shoulders, and folded once again. "Sir."

I turned around, faced the prisoner in his chair. My curiosity for him still remained: just what are you?

"We don't have time. Now!" Meredrien rushed.

I stepped in front of the prisoner with a sigh. Watched the calm over him. Still, no reaction. "Shame," I said, "I would've loved to take you back to Summerset. So many questions on my mind."

"Terdrin!"

"Fine," I gave a brief nod over my shoulder. Looked back at the prisoner.

I didn't even have the time to sulk. What now? What more fitting end is there, than for a warrior to fall to his own blade?

"Meredrien?" I asked lowly, "Would you kindly hand me his axe?"

I held out my right hand to my side, held it open, prepared it to receive the grip of his axe as Meredrein walked behind me.

There was no pity within me as I watched the prisoner, only a growing sorrow toward the fact that my curiosity for him would now never be sated. So many questions now to be lost. So many possibilities. Gone. All gone.

Meredrein let out a sudden, sharp grunt behind me. It pulled my head as I looked over my shoulder, but before I could see, a force struck into my side, tearing through my arm and ribs as balance left me. My feet left the ground, my vision tore, and I was thrown across the room. Tumbling, rolling across the stone floor, only stopping when I reached the wall—and only then—did the pain make itself apparent.

I could no longer breathe as I gasped for breath, struggling for air. The sand on the floor stuck to my face as I lay flat down, feeling wetness grow beside me. I knew the smell; blood.

"Such a pitiful display you've become…" The voice was Meredriens, yet not—it was darker, angrier, spitting, and far more… threatening. "You shame me with your presence."

I tried to move my arms, but could not. The sharp pain was growing fast, and, together with it, the warm, wet sensation clinging against my skin: I'm bleeding. I'm bleeding?!

"I shame you not. My display is intentional."

I knew that voice: it was the same voice I heard earlier; that calm, telling, emotionless and sober, yet surprisingly strong voice, the one I thought I had imagined. The prisoner?

"How's your body?"

I managed to move my arm, place my hand on the sand-rough floor, and push myself up against the wall—my chin fell onto my chest as I barely managed to sit straight.

I saw them now. Blurred, cloudy, and dark. My eyes were failing me. Adrenaline alone kept me conscious against my will. But I saw: it was Meredrien who stood above the prisoner. Holding his axe. An axe wearing a horrible face, soaked in blood. My blood.

"Starved…" the prisoner spoke plainly and, for the first time, moved as he straightened up and effortlessly tore his restraints out of the chair—chains rattled as they splintered through the woodwork, "and a bit sore, nothing you'll care for."

He rose, standing as tall and imposing as Meredrien himself, albeit far more muscular, as he removed the broken chains and rubbed his wrists and stretched his neck.

"If it can't fight?" Meredrien spoke to him with contempt.

I've enchanted those chains myself, and the chair with them. The strength needed to– could he have gotten out whenever he wanted to?!

The prisoner gave Meredrien an uncaring look before he headed for the table and reached for the plate I had offered the day before, hesitating not, as he began to casually eat. Drink from the canteen. Prioritizing the day old chicken before he moved on to the dried fruit, only to casually spit it onto the floor the second it touched his tongue.

Meredrien remained, glaring at him in open rage.

None were looking at me; it was my only chance to move.

I pressed my hand against my side to stop the flow, but felt nothing but a continuous bleed. I lifted my arm, my hand in front of my face; but there was no hand, and there was no arm. It was cleaved off, together with the growing gash in my side—I was bleeding into my lunge.

Wailing panic began to rise.

"Did you get what we came for?" Meredrien asked of him.

"I might've gotten more, had you not intervened," the prisoner answered, not even tilting his head as he gnawed the dried meat remaining on bones. "Well. It is what it is…" he continued and casually spat yet another piece of bone onto the floor. "Hegathe. It's a city. Their last outpost. The rest of them should be there. I doubt it's inside the city itself, but it's a start."

Hegathe?! The Main outpost? Had Meredrien?! Had he!

It all made sense now. His disregard for basic Thalmor protocol? His critique against my profession, holding me back, his uncooperation. Using his own status as leverage for control! The fact that he never shared any information that would be expected of me to know?!

I bit down, ignored the growing pain, ignored the fact that my arm was now missing and that I was a dying man: Meredrien!

"Me– Meredrien…" my mouth managed weakly—not at all as it had sounded in my mind—vision only growing more unfocused as simply breathing was a struggle for the blood filling my lung, "When… When did you betray us?!" Blood pooling in my mouth.

Meredrien looked over, the prisoner did not—he continued eating.

"Resilient as ever, you vermin are," Meredrien spoke darkly. His expression shocked me—it was unbefitting any and all elves. It was disturbingly human, and horridly enraged. Even his voice. His posture. And his eyes? They were blue. Not the golden hue of us Altmers, but Nordic blue.

He turned toward me fully, straightened, and stepped forward. A single step with such intent it stopped my heart, and opened my eyes: his eyes; his expression; his speech pattern; the intent within him: It's not Meredrien.

"Stop, Ysgramor," the prisoner stated calmly—eating on.

And he stopped mid step. Hulking before me.

"Why?!" he growled, turning his head for him.

"Because I have no intention of insulting you further."

Meredrien remained looking at the prisoner who ate. Less than a second of confusion and his free hand shot up to his face. "No..." he exclaimed as he saw it, his expression and breathing turned enraged.

"It was not my intention…" the prisoner said, studying a raisin between his fingers that he flicked away from scent alone before returning to the day-old plate, "It happened."

"I will break your every finger!" Meredrien exploded.

"If you must."

"Gah!" he roared, turned, and slammed his fist into the table, splitting it as my tools flew together with the plate of food—the prisoner merely lifted his hands to let it happen—and he roared once more in rage as he punched his fist, broke it, at the edge of the center pillar and turned the edge of it into gravel before he set his sight on my workbench.

"Don't–"

But it was already too late, Meredrien, or whoever it was—Ysgramor?—had already showed the armor pieces and clothing, along with the box, off the table in a single enraged sweep.

There's about twenty of them, they're distracted," the prisoner continued calmy, "But the air is dry here, I might be wrong. You've already taken care of their leader…"

Meredrien raised the axe above his head, held it by both the handle and the head as he slammed it into the heavy table in pure hate so the other sharp blade-end of it aimed up. He raised his head, straightened up, leaned back, as he took aim…

"There are others coming, Redguards, they are of no concern to us. But we should be gone before they get here."

And he shot forward and down, slammed his head down into the axe head and his body instantly went limp. Remaining, hanging from my workbench with his face dug into the axe.

What the hell just happened? But I was far too close to death to comprehend the event that had just transpired before me. I merely sat, with my back against stone, as I slowly slouched down. Things were going darker. It didn't hurt anymore.

Still, I could see the prisoner out of the top of my eyes. Doing his armor. I heard the sound of the buttons. click… click… click. It sounded nice. It'll be over soon.

No… no-no… no, no, no, no, no, no, no!

I forced myself back, forced my eyes to seize from shutting. I may be dying, but not just yet. Not yet!

The Dominion… must know of this.

I forced my arm to move, the only arm I had left, and reached for my wound as I watched the prisoner armor himself further—Click-click-click, as he attached the pieces—and wetted my fingers with warm blood.

I kept my fading eyes on him as I felt my fingers against the wall behind me, and struggled to move them. Struggled to write. By the time the prisoner was done, I was not, and I feared I'd die before I had the time to.

Once in complete armor the prisoner headed over to Meredreins corpse, grabbed him by the neck and tore his face out of the axe as he easily tossed him aside like a ragdoll. He buttoned open his glove and grabbed the handle.

A quick grunt escaped him, the air shooting out of his lungs, and he hunched over to remain for a second before composing himself and slowly straightening up tall. Axe still buried into the table, he lifted his free hand and looked at it and took a long breath to fill his lungs. "Oh, I will," he spoke to himself, stretching his muscles and cracking his neck. He smelled the air, tore the axe out of the table in a single jerk, and grumbled, muttered: "You're wrong… I only smell twelve."

I fought the pain. Struggled to finish my writing in blood, hoping I'd managed to spell it right before I ran out of time. He turned his head toward me. He saw me. Axe in his hand, he saw me. And his eyes were frosty blue. Not the dark eyes of the Prisoner. I see—what manner of sorcery is this?

"Y– You– you won't… succeed…" I spoke to distract him from my hand. "The– the Dominion… will stop you. And–" I choked on blood, coughed, and felt the taste of death. My dying words: "Elven supremacy will rule once more!"

"¨Elven supremacy…¨" he sneered. Not the voice of the prisoner, this voice carried emotions: hate and disgust. He stepped toward me, approached me, looked down as he towered above me—was he always this tall? "Your northern cousins promised me the same, as they fled my onslaught to cower beneath the dirt like worms and rats."

He leaned down and grabbed me by the leather of my collar—the wolfhead biting at my throat—and heaved me up against the wall without the tiniest hint of effort as my feet left the ground. I reached for grip on his arm as I struggled to live, felt the pressure build up in my head and my body pain, vision taking to flicker once more. All the while, his stern blue eye of hatred pierced me.

"They may have escaped my wrath. But I assure you, your piss-breed will not."

He raised his axe, no hesitation as he aimed it parallel, and pieces of stone smattered as he hacked it into the wall below.

I blinked. There was a 'thud' beneath me. A flash in my mind—synapses firing signals like fireworks. Heart rate raced for a couple of beats, then it stopped. So did my breathing.

It was cold. My waist? I could no longer feel my legs. The air had left me. It was cold. A shard of ice inside me, as cold as the color of his eyes.

He let go of me, tore out his axe, and I fell. There was nothing to hold me up. I fell.

I can't feel my legs.

I landed on the stone floor, fell to my side, hit my head against the hard sandy floor. It scraped against my skin—I can't feel my legs—yet, I didn't blink. I couldn't. My eyes were no longer working. My arms were no longer working. The only thing pounding was my head. No sounds in my ears. My legs… I can't feel my legs.

I saw his feet before as they turned away without hesitation. No moment of pity? No moment of admiration for his kill? No moment of thought whatsoever? Just walk away and leave me here?!

I'm dying…

Everything's fading…

Nothing more…

---

Thunder? In the desert?

I pulled the reins, raised my hand in a closed fist and ceased the line. Everyone stopped in their tracks, hushed their camels and remained still. I tilted my head, aimed my palm and ear.

It was silent—and echo long since past—I heard nothing. Did it pass us? Had I imagined it? I can't have.

"By the Gods," Nacim spoke out behind me.

I faced forward, looked ahead, and saw the sky darken as a sandstorm took form. A wall of whirling sand rising in the distance, quickly growing and spiraling outward and toward us. It grew quickly and forcefully, only increasing in speed and mass as it began to be heard and, before I knew it, rose to take up my entire field of view.

My camel bawled and rose on its hindlegs, nearly tossing me off as I gripped hard on the reins, leaned forward, and pressed my heels into the stirrups to regain my balance.

The sandstorm struck, tore like sandpaper against my skin, and engulfed us. I pressed the pit of my elbow into my closed shut eyes and held on for dear life as the camel panicked—the sand was in my mouth. I lost my balance, was tossed off, and lost my breath as the sand hit my hard against my back. I rolled over and around and onto my stomach for the tearing wind alone. I pushed away the striking suddenness and surprise and kept the pit of my elbow pressed against my eyes as my free hand gripped and pulled over and down my hood, lifted my scarf, and frantically searched my pocket for my sand goggles.

Screams and shouts could be heard through the storm. ¨Get the camels!¨ someone shouted, ¨Over here!¨ came another.

There! My goggles.

I turned over, sat up with the wind howling against my back and ears as I pulled up my legs and buried my head between my knees and struggled to pull the goggles over my head with squeezed shut eyes.

Once I could see, it was pure chaos—lost silhouettes of camels and men stumbling around in the whirl, falling over by the wind. Even with my goggles in place I could feel the sand stinging at my eyes.

"Nacim!" I shouted out, raising to stand on the loose, flowing, sand. No answer. Again: "Nacim!" I waved my arms out wide, made myself broader, only to stumble downhill as the wind gripped me and I rolled down the dune. By the time I stopped, I had no sense of direction other than the sand against my face and stomach. My mind raced with the seriousness of our situation:

This is bad. If this continues we're all lost.

Again, I rose with my hands raised in front of me to block out the sand without success—I couldn't see my hands in front of me no matter how hard I squinted. Still, I heard them shout for one another. They can't be too far away.

I pressed my hands together in prayer, squeezed shut my eyes, and took a wide stance as I took in the wind: I had to be careful with this one.

I relaxed my body. Ignored the howling wind. Ignored the sound of the storm. Blocked out any and all sounds I did not need. Until I heard nothing but the voices of the men—I knew where they were. And once I did, I ignored their voices too, until I heard nothing but the soft, flowing sound of the whistle: let it grow within me.

20 meters. Any further and people will die.

I raised my foot, held it, and stomped down my heel into the sand and my clothing fluttered as I shot out my arms, and I cut the storm.

The wind stopped. All turned silent. I exhaled, and opened my eyes:

"Here! On me!" I shouted, waving my arms as sand rained down around us: the storm was still ongoing, soon to overtake us once more. But at least here, around me, we had a brief moment, a bubble of stillness. "The storm's coming back! Screw the camels, hurry!"

Heads turned as the sand settled; I counted less than I had hoped, but more than I had feared. Men struggled to stand up, others let go of panicked camels, and took to running for me as they set their goggles and pulled up their scarves and raced the inbound storm.—my bubble was quickly growing smaller.

"Sator!"

"Nacim!" Praise to our ancestors.

I reached out, grabbed hands as they approached, "Form a chain!" I shouted and all interlinked hands with one another as the storm engulfed us once again. And, once again, we were lost in painfull blindness.

"This storm isn't natural! Thalmor magic?!" Nacim shouted.

The sound I had heard as the storm appeared, I couldn't have imagined it—it was only hard to believe. "We must be close! If they summoned it, it could only be to keep us away. The origin of it, don't tell me you've lost your sense of direction now?!" I shouted over the tearing wind for Nacim.

"Ha! You've clearly never been lost at sea!" he loudly laughed back. "Uphill! Slightly to the right!"

Nacim took the lead and we moved in a straight line—holding hands—so as to not lose our sense of direction. Our ascend was slow, struggled, and a constant battle against the storm as it stripped us of our senses and tore at our balance. The sand constantly shifted beneath our feet. Bit at our skin. People fell, dragging us all down with them, but as long as we held together and got back back up, we kept moving forward. We reached the top of the dune, made our way down, and, after what felt like an eternity, we reached the top of yet another.

"There!" he shouted, pointing ahead, and as I ascended to the top behind him, I saw it too: "illusion barrier!"

It was hard to make out behind the whirling and roaring sand, but it was there; a large dome shaped bubble in the desert.

"Spread out, but keep within sight!" I commanded—no need to hold hands anymore, "Prepare for assault!"

We drew our scimitars, prepared for battle, as we hurried closer. Preparations should be made—intel gathering and scouting—but with the storm tearing us appart there was neither time nor opportunity. The men knew it.

The closer we came, the larger the dome became. And the larger it became, the clearer the inside. There was nothing inside, only plain sand that would've camouflaged itself flawlessly against the surrounding desert. A perfect mirage. Had it not been for the storm we could've walked right past it none the wiser. Which spawned the question: why summon the storm in the first place?

"Somethings wrong!" Nacim shouted and we slowed, "They should've seen us by now!"

The same question on my mind; no incoming arrows? No incoming magic? The Thalmors must know of us, watch from within their barrier. So why hadn't they opened fire while they still had the advantage of visuals? Why wait for us to enter?

It's a trap.

I raised my hand and seized, shouted for the others to stop, and turned my ear toward the massive dome that rose like a bending wall no more than twenty meters away. But the storm was too loud, I couldn't hear inside—much less feel vibrations.

"Sator?!"

The others gave glances, shifting their weight from one leg to another as they stood on the ready with swords in hands and scarves tucked all the way up to their eyelids. The tension was clear, nervousness for the situation we found ourselves in. But I knew too little. Should we retreat?

"Sator?!" Nacim repeated louder.

I could hear the desperation in his voice. He wanted orders—they all did. We were sitting ducks in the midst of a murderous storm, standing before an illusion that could spew death at any given moment—why hadn't it? The buildup of sand had already reached halfway up to my knees, no, we couldn't retreat: the camels were gone and we'd be buried and lost within the hour. There's only one way we can go.

"Sator!" he straight out shouted, finally getting me to look at him.

It was impossible to see his expression behind the scarf and goggles, but his tone said it all:

There's only one way to go. "We're going in!"

I faced forward, raised my sword, and commenced the assault with a forsard pointing swipe.

The men raised their swords and shouted as we took up to sprint. Men disappeared into thin air as they crossed the barrier before me and once I, too, entered, the sounds of the storm instantly died out and the air shimmered for a second as the outpost within took form before me—there was no one here—and cold air hit me and the sand suddenly turned hard beneath my foot.

My heart skipped as my foot broke through the hard surface of the sand and I fell over as it dug into the soft sand beneath. I reached out to dampen my fall, and my freehand broke through a layer of cold sand as I clumsily stumbled down on my knees. Quickly, I regained myself and looked up and forward to face their outpost—again, there was no one here—the others as well had fallen over for the sudden change in footing and I could hear men do the same as they rushed in behind me.

The air was cold. I swiftly looked down at the sand around my hand—it was frozen—and then back up. "Get up!" I shouted and the frozen layer of sand cracked and crunched beneath us as we rose. "Anyone got eyes on the Thalmor?!"

No one answered. All stood looking around, confused and surprised—there was no one here. No movement whatsoever as I scanned the outpost and guard tower. No alarm bells sounding. No shouting. No sound at all. I could see clearly through the barrier from here within, the storm was still raging outside yet the sound of it, like the storm itself, couldn't penetrate the barrier.

But the true mystery was the frozen sand.

I looked over at the outpost and lifted my goggles, poked my finger inside the fabric by my nose and pulled down my scarf and took a deep breath.

The air was chill enough that I could see my breath. Far colder than that of a desert night. Far too cold for Hammerfell.

"What… What did the Thalmors do?" Nacim asked slowly and the sand crunched beneath his feet as he walked up beside me.

"I don't know," I answered. But the cold clearly originated from the outpost—I could tell from the rays of frost in the sand that stretched out in all directions from it. "Whatever they did, it's something new."

I signaled the men, pointed out directions of movement, and we headed forward in a wide formation.

The closer we got to the entrance, the harder the layer of sand became beneath our feet. Until our steps no longer broke through its surface.

"Anything?" Nacim asked as we reached the door.

I silently placed my hand flat against the door, tilted my head.

"No…" I answered as I listened. But there was something. The faintest sound of a distant… something. It gave a bad feeling in the pit of my stomach—a worry that had me hold my breath. But there were no sounds of life. "There's no one in there. No movement within."

The men calmed, sheeted their swords, and relaxed as they all took to breathing normally.

"Don't lower your guards, there could still be traps," I reminded them harshly and grabbed the handle.

More cold air met us as the door opened, and, once inside, men had to pull down their scarves as the fabric began freezing stiff against their mouths and noses from the moist in their breaths. We lit the wall mounted torches as we headed down the short hallway with two men in the lead and the lump in my stomach made itself known again as I heard it: the same silence that had been in the last outpost; the silence that followed an echo. Only, this time, the echo was there. It was less than faint, I couldn't hear it, but it was there. I knew it was.

"Why would the Thalmors do this?" Nacim stated, thinking out loud, "They usually burn their outposts before we get to them, not the opposite."

"I don't know," I mumbled back, trying to figure out why the residue-sound felt familiar.

We reached the end of the hallway, entered the main chamber, and the men stopped as the light hit the room.

It was another graveyard. Dead Thalmors everywhere. Frozen corpses and frozen blood.

We all stood stunned, unable to comprehend what we saw.

A fight had unquestioningly taken place here. Weapons lay on the floor. Corpses were hacked up and even missing limbs.

Their skin was black down to the bone.

"It's the same as the last place," he finally spoke, "But… more recent."

He was right. Undeniably so. "It's frostbite," I said. "Their skin? The way it came off that Thalmors arm back then? It's what happens when bodies thaw." But these one's were still frozen. Just how recent? "Well, one thing's for certain, the Thalmors didn't do this."

"You think someone else is hunting them? Allies?"

"No group I know of." I turned for the others, "Search the rooms! Count the bodies. Find anything we can use."

As they all spread out and set to work, I gave Nacim a look. Neither of us spoke, but we didn't need to, we both had the same questions on our mind.

I drew a cold breath. "See what you can find," I told him and remained as he lifted his torch and walked off with a nod.

I looked down at the floor, that anxious knot in my stomach was still there, and closed my eyes. Slowed my breathing. Blocked out the sounds of the others. And listened.

I could hear it now. The echo was here. Distant yet close. Slowly dying.

I opened my eyes, faced the room, and walked over bodies to the center of it—Here—and looked down at the floor once more.

I got down on my knees, placed my hands on the floor, and pressed my ear against the freezing stone. Eyes wide open. I can hear it—and I now knew why it felt familiar—not the echo of a whistle. But… It was rumbling, duller, blunter, harcher. More brutal, lacking finesse. It sounded more similar to… the sound I heard before the storm. Thunder? A roar? Whatever it sounded like, it had me gravely interested. And utterly perplexed.

"What?" Nacim asked, knowing I had something.

"Whoever did this, they also caused the storm."

"The storm? What makes you say that?" he asked.

"It's tonal magic," I said and sat up on my knees and gave him the same mixture of a serious and surprised look he was giving me.

"Tonal magic?" he repeated, "One of yours?"

"No." Of that I was certain. "That's what has me worried. I have no idea who did this, or how. It sounds like… If my whistle is a blade that cuts through bone, this sounds more like a club made to break them." I took a breather to think, rubbed my hands together for warmth as I looked around the room, "And I've never heard of tonal magic that freezes. Nor calls storms. What can you tell me of their injuries?" I turned my head to look back at Nacim.

"Not from scimitars," he said. "Our swords don't dismember, and all the cuts that didn't are too deep. Most likely a large axe."

"Same injuries on all of them?"

"The ones I've checked so far."

"Hm…" I brushed my hands against my thighs and rose. "How many bodies have we counted so far?" I asked one of the men.

"Nineteen," he answered as soon as he had done the math with the others.

"Any non-Thalmors?"

"None."

"None!?" Nacim repeated out loud and, again, we shared another look that didn't need to be spoken out loud.

"A group didn't do this," I said to end the pause, "There'd be other casualties."

"You're think a single man did this?" he asked, as skeptical as I.

Tonal magic; injuries caused by an axe: "Possibly two."

"Sator," one of the men shouted by one of the doors, "You should see this."

He was holding parchments, handed them to me as we approached. Like everything else in the room, they were frozen stiff.

"Found them by the fireplace. Probably about to be burned."

The text was still legible.

"Seems HoonDing has us guided," Nacim said beside me as he read.

"Indeed…" I answered, "Their main outpost is in Hegathe?"

"Could we be so lucky?"

"It still doesn't have the exact location."

"You should see this as well," the man said, gesturing for us to follow him into a room.

I handed the parchments to Nacim and followed.

That the room was a torture chamber was without question. Knives, spikes, and tools hung from the ceiling or were mounted on walls. Work benches. Buckets. Rags. Chains and ropes and the likes.

Here, too, were there signs of a struggle: tools cluttered the floor; the center table was broken in half; axe marks in one heavy, blooded table with a corpse lying beside it, as well as in the stonewall above yet another corpse—this one, missing an arm and split clean in two.

"Who hacks a man in the face?" Nacim said disturbed as he looked at the corpse by the table.

The Thalmor had a crude cut straight across his eyes, halfway through his skull.

"Who hacks a man in half?" said the other, pointing at the Thalmor by the wall, "and how?"

But my sight set on the interrogation chair. The handles were broken, and broken restraints of iron lay on the floor next to it. Someone had broken out of it. Or been broken out of it.

But there were more questions here: the Thalmor by the table was still in his sleepwear while the one split in half was wearing Justiciar robes. The Thalmors are strict when it comes to dresscode, I can't imagine anyone wearing sleepwear in front of one of their superiors. Which can only mean the one in sleepwear is of high enough status to get away with it—their leader? Which, in turn, can only mean the other one is the interrogator, who most likely called his superior here for something important enough that he had no time to dress.

Whatever happened here, they were not prepared for it. It took them by surprise.

Again, my eyes set back on the chair.

"This is what I wanted you to see," the man said, drew my attention to the split in half Thalmor, and pointed at the wall, "There."

We stepped closer. He had written something on the wall with his own blood. Thick black letters written by an uneven hand. Hard to make out under the torchlight,

"¨C. Bl - Ysgramor.¨" Nacim read with the tone of a question. "Code black, Ysgramor? Never seen a code black before."

"No," I agreed, looking at the axe mark in the wall above the corpse. It was deep. Too deep. "They use red for dragons," I continued, taking my eyes off the mark as I looked at the chair once more. "Whatever happened here, the Thalmors consider it a larger threat than dragons."

"You think it's us?" he joked knowingly, actually lightening the mood for a second, before going serious again, "What's Ysgramor?"

"I don't know," I answered. "Never heard of it."

He walked away to think, cursing under his breath before he looked back. "So what now?"

"Same as always. We focus on what we do know, follow our lead," I said and tapped my finger toward the parchments in his hand.

"¨Same as always,¨" he scoffed and shifted. "So, Hegathe then? That's far away."

I sighed, clicked my tongue, and looked at the ceiling as I crossed my arms over my chest, "My daughter won't like this."

"So…" he repeated, "Hegathe?"

I looked down, "Hegathe."