A/N: I am freely interchanging the words "cohort" and "battalion" in this chapter. I have no idea what terminology should be used in Skyrim, so I picked whatever seemed convenient. The sizes of these two units are pretty much the same anyway – around 500 men. I also use the term century – information about the number of soldiers in a century differs depending on the source, so in my interpretation, let's stick to 100 men per century.


Chapter 20: Dragon's Call

How in Oblivion had it come to this?

Yrith looked around the ravine, above the heads of the thousands of people present. The rock walls enclosed the area, cutting off most escape routes mercilessly, and where there were no rocks, there was a raging river. The sky was dark, massive cumuli rolling in a gathering storm. The ancient crooked pines loomed above like vultures watching out for prey. There was nowhere to run.

And above all, the tenebrous blade stung on her neck, sending a trickle of blood down to her chest. Just how many times in her life had she been this close to death? But there was no escape this time. No Cain to pull her out of the snow, no Qassir to brew her an antidote, no Singird to stand up for her.

How in Oblivion had it come to this?

Ah, yes. She knew. She recalled every single moment of the journey.

A dragon cried above their heads. It sounded so close…

She closed her eyes. If she was to die, she would at least die with a good memory on her mind.


The thought of death had been ever present. It resounded in the dragon roars that every now and then tore through the air. The winds whispered of it as they assaulted the canvas walls of the tent. And it was in the footsteps everywhere around.

They were everywhere. From quiet shuffling to violent thrumming, their sounds mingling together to create a twisted symphony of painful noises. They pierced and pressed from all sides, and she had no power to stop them. She felt the tremble that was not there. Her body did not have the strength to tremble anymore. She could only lie and listen, and hurt with every sound and every shake of the ground.

Yrith had tried everything. They had been on the move, never staying anywhere for more than one night. She had not been fed, nor had anyone given her a semblance of cloth to warm herself. The pain of hunger had kept her awake until it faded into uncomforting emptiness, replaced by the sensation of burning and freezing. When her captors gripped her every morning and slung her mercilessly over the back of a horse, she could not even cry with the agony the impact had brought upon her broken body. Her magic was spent on healing what was left to heal and easing the pain when it came. She had none to spare. Her body was weak. She knew she would not be able to stand, even if by some miracle she managed to rid herself of the glowing barrier and send her magic outside. Erinor had stayed true to his word. He had only left the thinnest strand of life in her, just barely enough for her not to pass on to the other side.

Was this the end?

How many times had she asked this question already? And yet, it never came true. He had always let her rest, gain a feeling of momentary safety. Then, she would hear his elegant gait approach the tent. Every time, his quiet step drowned the stomping of the soldiers, as if trying to unsettle her on purpose. Every time, she could feel her body tense and her breath get stuck in her throat. Every time, she pretended to be sound asleep. It never worked.

The canvas tent door flipped open. A gust of cold tundra air bringing it the smell of upcoming winter, straw, roast and soldiers' sweat came in and stung on her skin. Yrith had always thought that once her life was in danger, once she would feel a hunger so great her stomach would feel as if stretched over a jagged rock and thirst that would burn her throat with a million of white-hot blades, her other aches would retreat to nothingness. But the cold was still shaking her person, and she could still feel her broken ribs with every breath. There was not a part of her body she could safely focus on. In her mind, she let out a sardonic snort. Erinor must have been very satisfied with his work.

She despised him. She despised him with all she had.

The footsteps approached.


The smell of Erinor's wine was different from the usual ale and mead carrying from the soldiers' encampment. The fine fragrance carried to Yrith's nostrils and filled her with disgust. It was the third night. Third night he was so very comfortable, sitting with his face to her, observing the whole tent from his makeshift seat of logs and linens. At times, a single drop of wine fell on Yrith's lips with the softest of splashes, as if he was simply careless and laid back. But he wasn't. Erinor had perfect control over the goblet he was holding. To torment her with the liquid she could not have, burning her chapped skin with booze instead of soothing it with life-giving water, was his daily pleasure.

She suppressed a cry. She did not want Cain to pay the price again.

The wicked elf let out a relaxed sigh. Yrith closed her eyes, trying to drown in the darkness that spread around her, enter a world where he could not touch her. It embraced her sweetly, inviting. She was so tired.

A red bead dripped onto her lips. The illusion shattered. Reality paralyzed her once more.

She opened her eyes again. His face was just above hers, staring down at her in feigned sympathy. She fought not to glare.

"Soon, little Yrith," he spoke, quiet voice still razor sharp in her ears. "Justice will be done."

On the other side of the tent, Cain let out a snort. Yrith froze inside. He still fought. While Leyna did her best to stay silent and invisible, Cain would use every opportunity to show their captor what he thought of him. Every opportunity to get himself beaten and hurt all over. He coped with the pain in silence, an occasional heave the only thing to barely satisfy the elf. With guilt stabbing her chest, Yrith wondered how many bones in his body had been broken beyond repair. But Erinor was careful not to kill. He always would, until Yrith's time came.

He rose and crossed the tent. Yrith's hands weakly clenched into fists, body tense with anticipation. The elf laughed.

"You are so naïve in your affection, young Aldaryn. If only you knew."

"Knew what?" Cain spat. "That you're a pitiful creature that has never been cared for?"

"And what about you? Are you being cared for?" Erinor's voice was almost compassionate. Silk sliding over a body and leaving it exposed. A flower petal falling on the cold ground. And under it was a blade, cutting a clear line in them.

"Whatever. You don't even know the meaning of your own question. Heartless bastard."

The elf let out a cold chuckle.

"The Ravencrofts do not care for anyone. They never have… and they never will. You are deluded. Little Yrith… this… abomination. She has no feelings. Not for you. Not for anyone else."

Abomination… again.

"But she is different and you know it. Let us handle her."

The chains chattered. Cain huffed and snarled, like a wild wolf kept in a cage.

"Take it back, you s'wit! Take it back!"

"Take what back? That she does not care? Did that hurt your feelings?"

Yrith gritted her teeth, stopping the words from leaving her mouth. She wanted to shout at the man. To tell him to torment her alone, in some remote cave where no one will hear. But she knew he was waiting for just that. For any impulse to break another bone of Cain's and make her feel guilty for it. She stayed quiet, invisible, listening to another chuckle of his. She hated the sound of his voice.

"I wonder if you've heard of the institution for which her parents worked."

There was a quiet harrumph.

"The Association of Wizards and Alchemists… such an innocent name, is it not?" Erinor circled the tent, his pace relaxed and carefree. For a slight moment, he stopped by Yrith. She tensed, but he only returned to Cain's side, kicking some dirt into her face on his way, pretending to have tripped. "And with a noble cause too. To keep the world safe from harm. But like so many others, they realized there is only one way to do that."

He sipped from his goblet and let the question linger. Cain was not saying anything anymore. Yrith wished she could see his face. But she was too weak, and even if she had not been, the punishment for moving her body would be severe.

"Power… what a great thing to have, isn't it? Even your family recognizes that, young Aldaryn. Only you are so clueless. Yet, the AWA would give anything for power. And the Ravencrofts were such fine representatives. They had plenty of it. Enough to engage in the AWA's not so secret mission.

"Tell me, young Aldaryn… do you know where her power comes from?"

Yrith felt herself pale. She wished to disappear. To shut this man down, make the world explode, anything that would stop him from speaking. Cain did not answer. Erinor laughed.

"Of course you don't. They don't exactly shout it into the open air. Ah, the sacred, immaculate AWA. Obviously, the only right image of the world is theirs. They think themselves gods… your parents never told you what spellbrewing was, did they?"

Silence. Heavy, suffocating.

"Changing things from within. Altering their essence. What a beautiful craft. You could turn a rock into a soft pillow, you could make gold out of water. An arrow aiming for your heart would dissolve into thin air and your skin would become rock solid so that nothing could even scratch it. You could build a house anew from its own ashes. Tempting, isn't it? Life would be so much easier with spellbrewing. If so, then why is it not taught at the academies of the arcane arts?"

Erinor paced around the tent in his leisurely tempo, like a wolf casually observing his territory. He stopped inches from Yrith's head, letting out a mannered sigh.

"Everything comes at a price. For spellbrewing, the formula was simple. Great spells demand great amounts of energy. A volcano, thunderstorms… and when there were none around, perhaps a life or two would suffice."

Yrith felt her heart stop. No… her parents had not been murderers. They had been wonderful people, full of love…

"But you do not want to depend on the external sources when casting magic, do you? The AWA wanted people with real power. Prodigies… the elite. And if they could change the essence of things, perhaps the same could be done to people."

Yrith looked up at Erinor, but her vision blurred and went black. It was not true. It could not be true. They could never…

"That gang is still paying good coin to keep you going… she will never be accepted. She will wish she was born to Oblivion instead."

It was not true! It could not be. She put a shaking hand over her chest, trying to suppress the stabbing pain. The cold air stung in her tightened throat. Erinor's voice hurt in her ears. Why did it have to be so? Why did she have to be different? Why couldn't this end already?

"You lie," Cain growled, voice hoarse and trembling. "If you think anyone is going to believe this…"

Yrith had thought her tears to have dried up a long time ago. Perhaps it was the magic in her causing them to reappear. The very thing that made her an abomination. She felt them meander over her face, drip down along her ears. Inadvertently, she let out a sob.

"Yrith…" Cain's voice was so distant, fuzzy. "You can't believe him! He's lying to you! He's lying!"

"But you do not believe in your own words, young Aldaryn," Erinor said in that sweet voice of his. "Her tears only confirm that I am right, and you know it. Think on it. Think on it well."

There was quiet. The outside world had plunged into darkness as the night claimed it. The distant crackling of bonfires was drowned in Yrith's quiet sobs.


Footsteps. Loud and thunderous, stomping the soaked ground, resounding amidst the falling rain. The tent roof did not entirely protect them from the water. It was everywhere, smelling fresh with new grass, and rotten with life dying in the dirt. It pricked with every raindrop and splashed with every footstep. The sound was everywhere, soothing, drowning the world in a softly humming haze. Taking away the agony brought upon by Yrith's own thoughts.

Somewhere in the middle of the stomps, there was the sound of soft gait. Not Erinor's elegant step, but a sneaky one, cautious and measured. It went around in wide circles, just like Nirn circling the Sun, slowly, patiently coming closer and closer. Something soft followed them, brushing the grass where it grew. A tail, perhaps?

A sound that brought comfort. Yrith closed her eyes. There was no voice spouting lies to upset her and no wine dripping on her face. Only the steps and splashes. She let them fill her head and chase away her turbid thoughts.


"Wake up," a voice said. The rain obscured its sound, already quiet and indistinct. She had not heard it before, but it was no doubt a Khajiit voice. She heard the typical cat-folk smile from it. She smelled spices and perfumes from the far south, just like back in Daggerfall. From the distance, she recognized the smell of sweat and ale. Only then she realized she heard snoring from where her two guards, Arius and Silvio, were seated. "Wake up, little cub."

A hand slid over her face, soft, covered in fur. Gentle. Almost caring. She allowed herself to open her eyes.

In the fading, red-tinted light, she could see a cat. Eyes of light blue and green stared at her, one amid the field of dark silver, the other marked by a white spot spanning from the same white muzzle. He seemed smiling, just like all his kinsmen, but his eyes did not. His furry hand brushed over her forehead.

She opened her mouth to ask a question, but the sound got stuck in her throat. She had been deceived before. What guarantee did she have that he was not someone sent here by Erinor to raise her hopes, only to shatter them again? She let out a sigh, closing both her mouth and her eyes. The Khajiit stroked her hair.

"S'kharr has seen many broken people, but this one has hope yet. The sands will become warmer. Rise, little one."

Yrith could feel his hands slide under her. She held her breath, preparing for pain, but only that of her body warning her of changing her position came. He raised the upper part of her body, slowly, methodically, until she was sitting with her back against his chest. She felt heavy and more exhausted than ever, only wishing to fall to sleep. He held her firmly, keeping her from sliding back to the ground.

Down by his waist, buckles rang, and leather brushed over leather. Yrith had no idea how he had managed to unfasten the waterskin he held up and even uncork it. But he had, and now he was holding it to her lips. She frowned, unwilling to just accept the strange gift, but he did not give her a choice. Warm liquid made its way to her throat. It stung on her parched tongue, forcing her to cough. He waited. Silently, patiently, until she caught her breath at last. Then he raised the waterskin again.

It was a soup of sorts. Yrith could taste a mixture of root vegetables and meat, softly blended together in a slightly creamy liquid. Food, after what seemed like eternity. She did not care if it was poisoned or rancid. She gulped too fast and too much, coughing, spitting a great deal of the liquid all over and about. She felt full all too soon, regretting she could not take in more. The effort made her immensely tired, head slumping against the Khajiit's leather armor. He took the waterskin away, wiping her with tufts of hay from the ground for lack of other means.

"Heal," he said as he laid her down gently. His eyes smiled as he draped something over her, something she could not see. For a moment, she spotted a strange quiver in the air. She had seen it before, in the room of Drevis Neloren. Chameleon spell. The Khajiit had managed to carry with him an invisible blanket. "The Moons are watching. The dragons will greet the new day."

Yrith felt the air around her body warm. It almost hurt, burning, sending a tremble through her flesh. She pulled the invisible blanket as close to her skin as her shaky hands allowed her to. Just for a while… just for a little while, she would allow herself to rest. She could hear the Khajiit make his way across the tent, to Cain and Leyna, before her mind wandered off to the dark. The last thing filling her ears was a dragon's cry in the distance.


"They're closing in on us. What do we do, Master Erinor?"

"Ignore them and proceed with the plan. Ready my horse."

"But Master…"

"A dragon or two against an entire unit? Don't make me laugh. Now get out there and make yourself useful."

"Yes, Master."

The voices were sharp and close. Yrith was warm, so warm. Almost too warm. She curled up on the ground, refusing to give up the tiniest bit of that warmth. The canvas door flapped open and a new supply of cold air wrapped around her. She shivered, keeping her eyes closed.

"Get out." There was no compromise in Erinor's voice. Yrith held her breath. Arius and Silvio, keeping the night watch, rose, muttering unintelligible sounds under their breaths. Erinor let out a quiet hiss.

"Anything you'd like to share with me?"

"No, sir." Their voices were trembled. One of them tripped and quickly gathered himself. Yrith could almost smell their fear as they backed out of the tent. It mirrored hers.

Erinor was angry. Yrith could feel it in his voice, in the way he stormed the tent, contrary to his usual composed elegance. Something had happened and she, or Cain and Leyna, were going to pay for it. She heard him rush toward her, kicking the wet soil from the ground. A lump landed on her face and she unwittingly puckered her forehead. He snorted as he sank down to her side.

"You better open your eyes before I do something that not even death will be able to wipe from your memory," he said quietly.

Yrith opened her eyes instantly. He stared at her, face pale in his conjured magelight, with the usual smirk on his lips, but his eyes were cold like an icy abyss. Yrith's stomach knotted, and before she knew it, she was backing away, the cuffs around her limbs ringing heavily. For the first time, his smile disappeared.

"What is this?" he whispered as he grabbed the collar of Yrith's ragged tunic. "You still have the strength to crawl? And this?" he pulled on something invisible that made the air around his hand quiver. "We have gotten ourselves a friend, haven't we, little Yrith?"

Yrith had almost forgotten. She looked up at her captor, feeling the color retreat from her face. From the outside, a dragon cried into the incessant stomps, shouts and thuds of the whole camp quickly packing their things. The magelight faded. She could only see his silhouette against the red canvas, lit by the fires from the outside. He loomed above her for a moment that lasted for eternity. She closed her eyes, expecting to hear Cain's or Leyna's cry any moment. Instead, she was hurled to the ground with force that made her lose her breath. Yrith cried out in shock, fingers burying themselves into the dirt below. She felt his grip on her ankles. The world began to move. She shrieked again.

"Yrith!" She could barely hear Cain over her own voice. "What are you doing, you bastard?! Let her go! Let her go! I'm the one you want to…"

His voice faded away. They left the tent behind. She was being dragged over the ground. The soothing, wet dirt was soon replaced by spiky grasses and then by gravel. Yrith tried not to cry. To no avail.

Were it any other time, Yrith would give anything for the chance to look around. Now she was keeping her eyes tightly shut, her body screaming in waves of agony. The strength she had gained from the Khajiit's soup had been exhausted. She could not grit her teeth or clench her fists, and even her voice betrayed her, cries turning into soundless rasp. The rocks underneath her felt like white-hot knives, sinking deep into her flesh and spreading fire. The pain was too great. She was going to die…

No, a voice from deep within her whispered. Not now.

She needed to survive. She could not let him have his way. Never, she would not give him the pleasure. She concentrated, mind retreating from this madness, from the pain, from everything physical. She let darkness engulf her mind, withdrawing from every feeling, keeping her whole consciousness contained in a small casket somewhere deep inside. Even her magic seemed to recede… until she felt something fall into place, a soft click just beyond her reach. Then, her mind exploded.

Images, feelings, colors, sensations, hundreds and hundreds of them everywhere. Even with her eyes closed, she could now see the horses, the men, the grasses covering the surrounding flatlands. She could feel the heart of her captor, beating like a war drum foreshadowing pain and torment. She gasped and opened her eyes. The glowing rings around her wrists and ankles were gone. She did not know whether to laugh or cry. This was not the time. It was not supposed to happen. But she finally understood the mechanism. Of course they would not let her magic through when she pressed on them. It was so simple. How could Erinor have kept the barriers up without feeding them with magicka? He had her do it for him. It had been Yrith's own magic, feeding them, preventing her from seeing, taking the energy from her own soul and leaving her weakened. But now… he himself helped her unlock it.

She did not waste a single moment. A thin layer of magicka to protect her weeping back was the simplest of tricks. But to survive, she would need more. The moment Erinor would turn to her, he would notice the barriers were missing. Even if she could fight him with her magic, it would not be enough to ward off his entire army. She needed to replace the bracelets. An illusion, a simple image. Something to deceive him…

The tunic she wore was now entirely torn on its lower side, leaving her back bare. Her skin was on fire, begging to be healed. She wanted to scream, to just forget everything… but this was her chance. Perhaps the only one she would get. She fought to concentrate, call for her magic as inconspicuously as she could, recalling her lessons with Master Neloren. A mirage, the simplest of illusions she could produce. It would have no other effect than to fool one's eyes. For a moment, her magical shield receded. A twig buried its tip in her skin. She stifled a moan, struggling not to shake. She forced herself to breathe, feel the power flow inside her. The magic gathered at her fingertips, enveloping them in its glow. No, she must not let it show, she could not be exposed… Something big and hard hit her spine. She cried out, using the sudden rush of energy to send her magic along her body, silent, invisible. A fresh supply of tears welled in her eyes and dripped in streaks along her temples. She closed them, forcing an image in front of them. Circles, silvery bracelets glowing in pale blue. She took a deep breath as another wave of pain threatened to paralyze her. No! She was so close. She would not let it slip now. She clenched her fists, forcing the images to materialize. That's it, just one final touch to set them in place…

She let out a breath as the circlets settled around her limbs once more, almost letting her head sink down and take a blow. She avoided it in the last moment, gritting her teeth to make the pain bearable. The time until Erinor finally stopped, dropping her at the feet of a horse, felt like eternity. She fell into the tufts of colorful grasses, exhausted, shaking, avoiding his gaze. He gripped her chin and turned her to face him.

"No one defies me, little Yrith. You will remember that when your soul shatters to pieces."

Yrith felt her stomach knot. The memory of her falling to the Spirit Blight was still vivid in her mind, reminding her of the nothingness that had filled her, the feeling of imminence and darkness that had try to swallow her whole. She did not want to return there, to forget who she was, leave those she cared for behind. She would cling to her life with all she had. Even pain was better than having her soul ripped apart. Everything was better than that.

She stared at her captor with her eyes fully open, feeling her own rage. No, she would not give him that pleasure. In her mind, she thanked him silently for reminding her how dear her life was to her. She would embrace all the pain and make it her own. It meant nothing compared to the dread of nonexistence.

He gave her a wicked smile. "Hate me," he whispered. "Wish for my death. It will be my pleasure to break that will of yours."

Lifting her by her waist as though she weighed nothing at all, he tossed her over the horse like he had done so many times before. Yrith gasped, feeling her stomach tumble and empty itself. Pain and shock paralyzed her, taking away her breath. She could not hold up. She did not have the strength. Her eyes closed by themselves. She let her limbs slump down, succumbing to the darkness. It held her like a dear child, taking the pain away.


Where were Cain and Leyna? Yrith did not know. They were not kept with her anymore. She caught herself crying in secret, wishing for just a glimpse, just to confirm that they were alive. Erinor did not speak of them. Back then, Yrith had always thought that hearing their voices full of pain and despair was the worst thing that could happen to her. She had been wrong.

She shifted on the ground. Erinor was sleeping, or meditating, or whatever he liked to do when he was not toying with her. She could not see him from where she was, and perhaps she did not even wish to. She could only see the darkness cast by the canvas of his tent. Somewhere above its roof were the stars, the two moons and the dragons whose cries continuously echoed through the valleys.

Cautiously, Yrith let her magicka stream from her fingers, slowly enough for it to not glow noticeably. And out, out of the tent she sent it, spreading it all around, searching. She closed her eyes, feeling the minds of the people outside. A part of her stayed with Erinor, touching him, but not diving in too deep out of fear of discovering things she would rather not know. She already knew too much. And she refused to believe it.

All over she sensed fear. Fear of war, of the soldiers' wives being dragged away and put through things she was too scared to imagine. Fear of dragons. And of something she could not place. Something imminent. Curiosity gnawed at her, telling her it had to do with her. But she gritted her teeth, continuing her search. Thoughts and feelings mingled in a colorful kaleidoscope of emotions. Tent after tent, bonfire after bonfire, she searched and examined. There were so many people, but none of them her friends. Or perhaps she had missed them in the crowd. Perhaps she had skipped them as she lost track. They were out of her reach.

She sighed, ready to retreat, when a soft voice called her. Startled, she looked around, but there was no one but Erinor in the tent. The voice had been in her head. She followed it in her thoughts and tried calling back. There was no response but a faint feeling of regret. Regret… strange as it sounded to herself, the feeling was familiar on touch.

With her eyes closed, she embraced it, trying to visualize its owner. She had only practiced this once, that time Singird had scolded her for cheating her alteration practice, and that was with people and things she knew. They had been so close to her. Now, she was far, and the outside world was full of secrets she had yet to uncover. She concentrated. Her magic touched the grass and found a tuft of dragon's tongue. There were scarce globs of melting snow in the area, a rising gravel slope and two pine trees watching the land like a pair of lovers frozen in eternal embrace. The person sitting on a large crooked root under the pine branches was a Khajiit with eyes of blue and green, silver fur like a sea of dark under Yrith's spell. Yet again, he was gripping a waterskin, playing with its cork.

Yrith could only guess he had been searching for her. She tried calling to him again, this time using his name. S'kharr…

He did not hear her. He was tired, unfocused. Nevertheless, he rose again, ready to continue his search. Yrith shouted at him in her mind. With his tail slumped, brushing the snow and grasses and dirt, he walked away.

Yrith concentrated on the tree above him. Forcing her magicka out of its lazy pace, she tugged at a branch. It bent by a mere inch, sending down a soft shower of snow. Enough for the Khajiit to look up, only to see the veiled stars shining through the pines. He frowned and wondered. And walked away.

Yrith was exhausted. Sleep was calling to her, and she felt deep in her bones that she had grown out of practice of using magicka. Or even moving her fingers. But she had to try again. Gritting her teeth, she sent the magic out once more, taking deep, silent breaths to help her concentrate. A tiny rock on the ground was her next target. She lifted it with sheer willpower, firing it at the Khajiit. It fell down on his armored paw, but it was enough for him to notice. He looked around, only to find a still land. Yrith lifted one more rock, and this time, he caught a glimpse of it immediately. His eyes followed its trail to a tent of rowdy soldiers singing an off-key Age of Aggression. Closer to Yrith.

As she took another breath, she lifted a small chunk of dirt and fired it at a pole nearby. And the Khajiit walked on, toward Erinor's tent. Each of his steps brought a small speck of hope to Yrith. Perhaps there was a way yet.

It took a while of meandering around the tents and bonfires, always taking two steps forward and one step back to hide from prying eyes, before the Khajiit finally found himself just a few feet from Yrith. Cautiously, she raised a corner of the canvas door, waving at him before she finally let go. He was here. And she was so tired.

He circled the tent. Once, twice, three times. Then, he halted with a more than conspicuous grunt.

"Ah," he muttered, seemingly to himself, "S'kharr forgot to bring the mead to the Captain… he will be back in the morning."

And he was gone. Yrith could only assume the message was meant for her.


The impact tore the tent down. Right from a quiet dream, Yrith woke up into chaos, suffocating as the red canvas buried her deep underneath. She groaned, trying to push the heavy fabric aside, but her strength was not enough to move an inch. Somewhere around her, hundreds of armored boots stomped the earth.

Another blast shook the ground. Several feet from Yrith, Erinor growled like a rabid dog. She could hear him shake the canvas down and kick the pole that had almost struck him.

"Enough!" he bellowed over the mass of people. The footsteps ceased in an instance. "What madness is this? Who did this?"

There was silence. Yrith could hear several people shift their weight.

"You. Speak."

"W-we don't know, Master Erinor… I h-haven't seen anyone. I thought… I thought it was the Stormcloaks…"

"Not even the Stormcloaks are foolish enough to set out on a suicide mission that would achieve nothing. You. Go get Captain Bolund. You. Gather the first and second century right here. You. Tell the third century to start searching for the culprit. Take some scribes with you. Everything will be reported. Every snatched loaf of bread, every sock you find in the soldiers' belongings that exceeds the list of allowed possessions. Do I make myself clear?"

"Crystal, sir!"

"Good. Now…"

Yrith could not hear the orders that came after that. The canvas shuffled. A bubble of air formed around her, and she drew in a deep breath. Next to her, a Khajiit emerged from among the folds of the tent. She watched him with surprise in her eyes.

S'kharr did not waste any time. In absolute silence, he lifted her and pressed his waterskin to her lips. Pungent liquid bit on her tongue and her throat. She fought not to cough, eyes tearing and face dyed in red. She recognized the taste of a healing potion, not sweet like the snowberry-flavored one from Master Marence's dispensary, but the one she had been used to from her parents. Heavy and strong, making her dizzy as she felt her body being mended, sewn back together, giving her back the long-lost strength. The small piece of the world around suddenly gained on sharpness.

"Listen, child of man," the Khajiit spoke with urgency. "Listen to the dragon cries. Help will come when the time is right."

"Who are you?" Yrith rasped, sliding a hand over her mouth to muffle the sound of her own voice. "What's going to happen? Where are my friends?"

"Later, human cub. S'kharr needs to go now."

No sooner than the Khajiit turned his back on her did Yrith spot the black marks on the palms of his hands. Burn marks. As he left the small, confined space, she sank back to the ground under the brunt of the tent canvas.


A circle of soldiers surrounded them. Nobody spoke. They were waiting for orders, unmoving like perfectly carved statues, all standing to attention. Erinor paced around them, but his eyes did not leave Yrith for a single moment.

"Captain," he said as he stopped by a soldier in an overly gilded armor. The man stuck out his chin even more than it had been.

"Y-yes!"

"You and your century will keep searching. You will keep reporting to me. Nothing will disturb the exchange. Because if something does, there may be… consequences. And you do not want to know what they are, do you?"

A dragon cry tore through the grey skies as if adding weight to Erinor's words.

"N-no, sir."

"Then get to work."

The man bowed as he backed away. After a few steps, he bowed again as if to make sure Erinor noticed the gesture. The elf had long been gone from his spot.

"Bring me my horse and ready the battalion. We will be moving out."

"Master Erinor." A soldier was gripping his studded shield as if his life depended on it, but as Erinor approached him, he bravely lifted his head.

"What is it?"

"Do we make the shackle formation again?"

Erinor regaled the poor man with a scorching look. "If you need to ask this sort of question, then you better not ask at all. Tindil."

"Sir!"

"As of today, you are replacing Captain Horgnir. Private Horgnir, you are dismissed."

The former captain stared at Erinor with growing defiance in his eyes. From afar, Yrith could hear the knuckles on his fingers crack. "But Legate Silion…"

"As far as I know," Erinor purred sweetly, "Legate Silion currently answers to me. You are dismissed. Depending on your actions in the upcoming exchange, I may or may not decide to overlook this matter."

"Of course, Master Erinor." The name was spat. Yrith was quite certain that the matter in question would not be overlooked.

At last, the elf turned to her. She stared up at him, blood freezing in her as their eyes met. He approached her unhurriedly, as he always did, face bright with a smile full of unspoken promise. He stopped inches from her, not bothering to lower himself to her level. And before she could react, his hands flashed with magic thrown at her with ruthless force.

Pure energy shot through her, burning like a thousand white-hot blades. Yrith cried out, trying to catch her breath. The world turned the darkest black, then grey, then it slowly gained color again. It was over before she could even panic. Her skin itched everywhere, but she was alive and, strangely enough, stronger.

"There is your strength," he hissed. "Surprised? Hopeful? Grateful, even? You should be. Stand up, beast."

She could not tell if he was joking. His smile was cruel, full of poorly concealed anticipation. Something was waiting for her. Should she obey?

She looked around. The circle of soldiers was watching, like a flock of vultures waiting for their prey to succumb. Fidgeting fingers and stiff faces gave away their fear. Yrith did not understand. Who was Erinor to have the main say in an Imperial cohort? He was not respected, she could tell with one glance. He was only feared.

She stared at him for a moment too long. His face twisted into a vicious glare. A snap of his fingers caused the soldiers to break the circle and create a passage. Through it came two others, each dragging a person. Yrith's eyes widened. Cain and Leyna we tossed on the ground before her, both with faces covered in blood and bruises. But both breathing and in one piece. She let out an exhausted breath.

"I said stand up."

Yrith's limbs hurt. She was stiff, her body refused to listen. She forced it up it with sheer willpower. And fell back on the ground. A hard rock took her breath away.

"One last chance, little Yrith," Erinor whispered.

Yrith gritted her teeth, fingers digging into the ground. The bastard was enjoying the show. He would pay. She would make him pay.

She could feel an overgrown nail crack, but she could care less. Her eyes found his, letting him know exactly what she thought of him. She took a breath and made the magic inside her flow. He could not know that there was plenty of strength left in her yet. And what she could not force with her body, she would make up for with her magic. He wanted to torment her friends? Break her will? He could try.

Her magic coursed through her body like a never-ending river, helping her find balance as she rose. She was trembling and staggering, but she stood. Her eyes drifted to her friends instantly, but she only caught a glimpse before Erinor turned her around.

She froze. One move from him and she could be dead. She would not find the time to react. But that would be too simple. And he could have killed her so many times before.

Yrith forced herself to breathe. From behind, Erinor's hands cuffed her neck. He pulled at the chain out of caprice. She clenched her fists.

"Let us go," Erinor ordered. "Onward, to justice."

The battalion moved at once. Her friends were gathered and thrown over horses. Yrith winced inadvertently upon hearing their grunts. Erinor shoved her forward, leading her step with an iron grip on her upper arm. She followed his lead, calling in thoughts to the mysterious Khajiit. Would he make it in time?

"Listen to the dragon cries," he had said. She listened. Their voices echoed high above the valley before them, bouncing from one mountain peak to another. Soon, the cohort would enter the mountains' shade and get in the firing distance. But they marched on, those at the front paving the path through the brushwood and tall grasses, rousing the birds and rodents from their nests. Yrith walked in silence, fighting her exhaustion as she let her magic do all the work.

From ahead, she could hear the deep, humming sound of wild waters. She struggled not to fall as they descended a slope opening into a vast canyon, a cobbled road spanning along it. Erinor led her to the left, down the river stream. Were it not for her fear and weariness, she would have enjoyed the freshness of the place. She watched with sadness as the soldiers before her stomped over the clumps of mountain flowers, leaving them shattered in the dirt. As she made to step over the flower petals, the men halted. Erinor tugged at the chain and pulled Yrith back. Her hand shot up instinctively, but she did not dare to cough. Everyone stilled, save for a single man coming from the front.

"We are here, Master Erinor," he said quietly. "What are your orders?"

"What of the Stormcloaks?" The elf put his hands on Yrith's shoulders, digging his long nails into her flesh. She flinched with pain.

"They are at a standstill, just past that rock."

"Good. Bolund and Tindil will accompany me."

"Master… shouldn't we at least send a herald before…"

"No. And do you know why?"

"N-no, Master."

Erinor leaned to the soldier, forcing him to take a shaky step backwards. Yrith's face twisted as the chain pulled on her neck. The man averted his gaze.

"Because we want to be careless," Erinor whispered in his ear. "Now scram."

"Y-yes, sir!"

The man scurried away as if running from an open fire, soon replaced by two gilded-armored captains. They stayed a step behind Erinor, each taking one side. The elf let out a short, dark laugh.

"Look ahead, little Yrith," he said. "Look at the path before you. Look into the eyes of your patron. It will be a sight to remember."

He pushed her from behind as the soldiers before them created a passage. It led them to a turn, past a smooth rock with a white cap. A sprinkling of snow landed on their heads as a passing dragon blew it away. Another roar echoed through the ravine. Yrith suppressed the urge to look up.

As a new view opened before them, she could see the frontline of an army in blue, men and women gripping their weapons, shields at the ready to defend and close potential gaps. Before them stood Toddvar with two men at his sides, facing his enemy with pride in his eyes. His face was hard and cold, one that Yrith had only seen once. His eyes were fixed on Erinor, hands wielding the shaft of the axe that was jabbed into the ground. Yrith stared at him, praying silently for a sign. Was he the help the Khajiit had been talking about? He had to be.

"You have some gall invading the Stormcloak territory," the General growled. His two companions nodded in silence.

"Do I?" Yrith could hear the smile in Erinor's voice. "Is this how you thank me for bringing your dear friend here?"

Toddvar let out a bitter laugh. "Playin' games, that's what you pointy ears are real good at, ain't you? Now what's the real deal? I bet my axe that the good ole Erinor did not come to watch me tear up at the happy encounter."

"Perhaps he has come to do just that. Bolund, if you will."

The man at Erinor's right straightened his back as he stepped forward. Yrith could see an almost unnoticeable tremble in his gait. He stopped before Toddvar, bowing has he handed him a sealed scroll. For the first time, the Stormcloak general took his eyes off Erinor. With a slight tug of hope, Yrith followed his gaze, but did not spare her a single look. He broke the seal without a word, frown deepening the wrinkles on his face as he read.

"How very trusting of you," Erinor commented with unconcealed amusement. Toddvar responded with a snort, not bothering to look at his counterpart until he finished reading. Then he raised his head, face stiff with a twisted smile.

"A good deal is a good deal… of course I accept." There was a momentary silence before his face twisted into a glare. "After you rot in a sinkhole, you miserable wretch!"

With one swift move, Toddvar gripped his axe and sent the man before him to the ground. His head rolled off into the dirt before he could even scream. Yrith gasped. The next moment, she was pulled back, feeling something cold and thin touch her neck. She froze. Her view blackened momentarily, only to return strangely distorted. She sent a pleading look to Toddvar. Perhaps he did not even see her.

"Right on," Erinor whispered, voice trembling with queer excitement. "If you want her to die. I am giving you one last chance, General Toddvar. If you think you have the advantage, perhaps you should look more closely."

Thousands of heads emerged all around. Far up on the mountains, on the other side of the river, behind the trees, rocks and bushes, so many faces looked upon the General. Thousands of bows were drawn, thousands of arrows nocked and ready to fire. Yrith could not see them with her eyes. But she felt them. She felt the thrill in the air. And the elf's blade on her neck, buzzing with strange, dark energy. He was prepared for his moment of triumph. He had left nothing to chance. Perhaps if she was quick enough, she could at least kill him to give the world justice before she would die herself. And perhaps it would all be in vain.

Something stopped her. A speck of hope. He would not lie to her. S'kharr would not help her for nothing… or would he?

"Yes," Toddvar said quietly, yet his voice drowned even the thrumming river on their side. "She will die. Because at times, a sacrifice is necessary… for the greater good."

Their eyes met for the first time. Yrith stared at that face, realization dawning upon her with the strength of an avalanche. Not a hint of remorse showed in his eyes, no pain, no affection. His smile mirrored the thrill in Erinor's voice. He could have saved her that time in Winterhold. He had all the power to do so. He had not. Toddvar… this could not be true.

How in Oblivion had it come to this?

She let the tears flow. There was nothing left for her. No one would come. No salvation was waiting for her. She was despised, and for that, she had been abandoned. Now there was only death.

She closed her eyes. If she were to die, she would at least die with a good memory on her mind.

A dragon cried above their heads. It sounded so close…

"Listen to the dragon cries."

A speck of hope in a sea of despair. Perhaps there was one last thing to do. She took a breath.

Her hands flared with magic. Then, the world turned into chaos.

A sudden gust of wind almost swept her away. The sound of river faded in the swooshing of the wings above. She heard a gasp from behind. All over, yells tore through the air. Now! a voice cried inside her. Do it now!

"Y-you…" Erinor's voice sounded distant, weak.

She had no time. The blade would cut through her any moment. Maybe she was already dead. The dragon roared just above her head, much too close to be real. And in the uproar, she clearly heard three words.

"ZUN HAAL VIIK!"

Yrith opened her eyes to see Erinor fall to the ground, trying to regain his dark blade. Everywhere around, people were screaming, searching for their lost weapons. A dragon with scales of blood swooped down from the skies, breathing fire and tearing up everything and everyone that came in its path. As the creature lunged at a group of soldiers in its way, a figure slid down from its back, a man with reptilian face and bright eyes of green and gold which she knew. They were the same as those of the Arch-Mage. The Dragonborn had come.

He turned to her, drawing a thin, curved sword in a graceful motion. "Come," he said.

"No!" Erinor yelled, gathering himself from the ground. "You will die, little beast. You will die!"

A dragon wing shielded her from a volley of arrows coming her way. From the other side, the Dragonborn's blade cut through a line of men desperately trying to reach her. Erinor was now the only one separating her from her escape route. With a face twisted in a mad grin, he raised his hand, firing a bolt of lightning. Yrith smiled.

He was slow. Slower than Singird and Master Tolfdir in their practice. Slower than Master Neloren finding gaps in her defense. Slower than Lady Faralda shooting balls of fire. She lifted a shield unlike any she had conjured before. Erinor's magic bounced off and hit the surprised elf in the chest. He fell to his knees, staring at her as his mouth filled with white foam.

"You…"

"No," she said as she passed him, shattering the cuff around her neck with her magic. "You will die here… beast."

She did not watch as his beautiful face hit the dirt and his elegant robes got torn by the rocks and his own blade. She did not watch as Toddvar screamed behind her, calling his men to his side, and as the soldiers finally raised their weapons to face the mighty beast. She let the Dragonborn hurl her up the creature's monumental body, seizing the dragon's neck with the last bit of her magic. The Argonian swung himself after her, catching her as she lost her grip.

"Nii los tiid wah bo," he said to the creature as he patted its metallic scales. The land below shrunk as the dragon soared to the skies, burning and dodging the arrows that came their way. Yrith shuddered with the cold that gripped her entire person. She tried to warm herself with magic, but she was too tired to even cast a spell. She barely managed to catch a glimpse of the battlefield below.

"My friends…" she mumbled weakly.

"Kharjo has them," came the soothing reply from behind. He held her firmly, providing a sliver of warmth to her numb body.

She took a deep breath to keep herself from passing out. "Khar… jo?"

"The one you know as S'kharr. Sleep, little hatchling. There will be time for a talk later."

Yrith hugged the huge scale before her, rubbing a cheek against it. She tried to look down, see the ribbons of rivers and the white caps on the mountain ridges, but her vision blurred. Her eyelids felt so heavy. "But I'm… flying on a dragon…"

"That you are."

There was a gentle pat on her back before the world drowned in darkness.


Happy New Year, guys! Sorry it took so long… my work has been keeping me super busy. And this was a hell of a chapter to write. I hope you enjoyed it. See you around!

Mirwen