"Personally, I do not want to make you a man. Men are so very frail. Men break. Men die. No, I've always wished to make a god."

Pierce Brown, Red Rising

Prologue

"And what makes this one any different than the others?" The Breton sniffed, unconvinced. An Altmer man sat across from him; a lifetime of frowning had shaped the wrinkles of his face into a perpetually grim expression. Behind the Altmer, another, younger member of his race stood perusing the Breton's bookshelf. A glance towards the two older men showed the pair deep in conversation, so the younger elf drifted a few more feet away, towards a worktable strewn with books and papers.

"He's half Nord-"

"I've carved up half-breeds. They die like the rest- or worse, they live, and come back in five years with nothing to show for the effort. You people do not pay me enough to continue making inconsequential creatures."

The young elf sighed internally and glanced over his shoulder as he began to quietly sift through papers. The argument had been going in similar circles for over ten minutes, and all three parties were growing agitated with it.

"If you don't want the money, we'll go to Riften. I'm sure Galathil will be willing to negotiate."

"Galathil? Hah! If you want her to work on you, Arethor, then by all means. She can surely make you look ten years younger. But she is no Chirurgeon, and no Chirurgeon is me. Let her attempt it, and the boy will die. Let anyone but me attempt it, and the boy will die. You do what you want, but we both know that there is a reason that you always come here."

"You made a deal, Mercer. This will be seen as a betrayal. I am a Knight of the-"

"Do you think that the threat of your tarnished, fading name will buy what money will not? I don't care about your damned songs and your damned gryphons."

For the first time, the younger Altmer spoke. "Do you care about the Dwemer, Mercer?"

Both Arethor and Mercer looked up, annoyance spasming across the latter's face as he saw that the young elf held two papers in his hand.

"Give me that-" Mercer snapped, surging to his feet.

The elf glanced up from the papers and interjected, "And so it was that your people were given passage to our steam gardens, and the protections of our power. Many of your people had perished under the roaring, snow-throated kings of Mora, and your wills were broken, and we heard you, and sent our machines against your enemies, to thereby take you under."

The Breton froze in place, slack-jawed. Arethor glanced between them, realization and then pride dawning on his face.

The young Altmer continued, "Only by the grace of the Dwemer did your culture survive, and only by the fifteen-and-one tones did your new lives begin. We do not desire thanks, for we do not believe in it. We do not ask for gratitude, for we do not believe in it. We only request you partake of the symbol of our bond, the fruit of the stones around us. And as your vision clouds, as the darkness sets in, fear not. Know only our mercy and the radiance of our affection, which unbinds your bones to the earth before, and sets your final path to the music of your new eternity."

The elf set the papers back onto the table. One was an incomplete cypher; the other page was occupied first by a transcription of dwarven symbols, and next by the few phrases and words that Mercer had been able to piece together. The Altmer slowly met the gaze of the stunned Breton, expression cool, eyes hard. For the first time, Mercer noted that his eyes were not the gold of a High Elf, but a muted green-blue. There was silence for a long, long moment.

Finally, Mercer asked, "What's your name, boy?"

"Julius."

"Are you afraid of dying, Julius?"

Julius thought about the question for a moment. "I am. There are too many things I need to do first."

"Do you realize that, extrapolating from my previous attempts, the survival rate for these operations is less than one in eight?"

"I know the numbers. I also know that the operations and recovery will take over a year, and that most of that year will be spent in considerable pain."

Mercer evaluated the boy for several seconds, then nodded, and looked to Arethor.

"If you can still afford my fee, I'll carve him. Perhaps this one won't disappoint."

"He won't."