EPILOGUE

The Rift

To any man, elf or beast with an ear to put to the ground, there had been a new name sweeping the underworld of Tamriel lately: Redwater. Billed as Skyrim's best place to get a fix on all manner of drugs, narcotics and other addictive compounds, Redwater Den had grown up almost overnight, operating out of a burning house. At least, that was how it appeared on the outside, anyway, before the armored city guard patrolling the area would muscle the overly curious in another direction.

But she knew the truth.

As she navigated her way through the deliberately ruined wooden floor at a nod from the so-called guard, she could see the smoke and choking atmosphere came from pots of burning rubbish hidden under the floorboards, and she'd long since known that the city guard was nothing more than a glorified bouncer. Whether he was a legitimate guard or not was a popular rumor in some circles—but that mattered little to her.

She clambered down the trap door, not even bothering to pay attention to the doorman as he launched into an obviously rehearsed warning to keep her weapons where they belonged, or they'd be getting "better acquainted." She resisted the urge to roll her eyes as she crossed the threshold, ignoring the loud coughing noises that pervaded the area beyond—and the doorman's suspicious gaze at the satchel slung over her back.

Immediately, the atmosphere turned into a choking haze—but it was a different kind of choking than the elaborate hoax put on upstairs. Here, the smoke did not burn at the eyes and throat, but seemed to tickle instead, and she caught a whiff of something metallic as well—even the cloth covering her mouth did little good against the miasma. She grimaced; she'd been alive long enough to know what that particular smell was, and she fought the urge to murder everyone in this room for acting like such degenerates.

A Nord in her twenties—but who'd apparently spent long enough in places like these that she looked three times older—walked up to her. "Looking for a fix? Just pick your poison," she said in a scratchy laugh that made her want to stick a dagger in the woman's throat.

But she suppressed the temptation, and stepped forward, keeping a close hand on her satchel.

"Venarus Vulpin," she said in a gravelly whisper, almost unnoticed over the hacking coughs. "Find him. Now."

The wizened young Nord narrowed her baggy eyes. "Who wants to know?"

Her answer came in the grisly form of a decapitated head, dumped unceremoniously on her counter from the satchel on her shoulder. A metal broach in the form of a spiky, eight-point star had been stuck into the forehead of the unfortunate vampire—for his yellow eyes and cleft lips could be found on no other man.

This sight had a powerful impact on the dealer, who muttered "One moment," and scurried away.

Her eyes scanned the room furtively. Once she knew no one was watching, she reached behind the counter and lifted a small red bottle from the shelf below. She uncorked the bottle surreptitiously, sniffed at it once, and grimaced again. The smell of skooma was always noticeable, but there was something else as well—that metallic smell. Like blood.

She pocketed the bottle just in time for the dealer to come back. "Master Vulpin is away on business, procuring more ingredients for our mixtures," said the Nord. "He'll be back by week's end if you're willing to wait. But if it's that urgent, then I can point you to the Pale—he did say he'd be passing through there."

This made her raise an eyebrow. So they haven't heard. She looked around the hazy den—it was possible the dealer didn't know what they were actually selling in those tiny red bottles. This entire den had been a front for Venarus' real business—and scores, if not hundreds of people had drunk that excuse for poison.

She walked away without a word, ignoring the dealer's shouts to remove the severed head off her counter. Her expression did not waver until the destroyed exterior of Redwater Den was out of her sight. Then, she pulled out the red bottle she'd stolen, sniffed it once more—and then hurled it against a nearby tree, shattering the bottle and spilling its contents.

The Pale

Two days later

Mistress Malys had had a very strange day.

Some time after parting ways with Cosette and Vinye, She had decided to make her way to Morthal, recalling that Lucius had mentioned a man who lived there—an expert on vampires who was capable of extracting the affliction from a mortal's body.

Of course, She had no intention of giving this gift up. But Malys' hybrid nature had given rise to many questions over the past few days. She had not told either of the others about this of course—even Grimnir had remained in the dark—but She was beginning to lose sleep over these questions. More specifically, She was becoming concerned that being half-Volkihar, half-Quarra was beginning to turn against her. They were two powerful bloodlines in their own right, after all, and Malys had believed that if She had been weaker, she would have been consumed by the furious battle inside her. But she was strong—and She had become stronger now.

At least, that was what She had thought.

She had to know—was it possible that the same set of circumstances that had made her one of the most powerful vampires in Skyrim could still destroy Her? She had no answer to this—and it was her hope that this mysterious man in Morthal did.

But the burning dwelling that She had come across earlier this morning had dispelled all those questions—especially since several bodies in the wreckage were revealed to be vampires—Volkihar vampires, no less. It struck her how much She looked like them—they had the same same cleft faces, and eyes that burned even in death.

The others were Vigilants of Stendarr, and a closer inspection of the ruined building revealed this to be one of their bases—perhaps even their headquarters. There were far more bodies of Vigilants here, desecrated and marked with blasphemous sigils in their smoldering flesh, and She had guessed that they had come off as the losing side.

Weak, She had thought.

There had been footprints in the snow leading away from the massacre, and they led Her towards a mountain holdout not far away. There were more bodies here, She had discovered—Vigilants and vampires alike—and there were much more of the latter than the former. Perhaps this had been a base of theirs before the Vigil had cleaned it out—and the vampires had retaliated by burning the Vigil's nearby hall to the ground.

Along the way, she had met a man—another vampire, as it turned out, an Imperial with a decidedly foxlike appearance. He had introduced himself as Venarus Vulpin, and he told her that he was responsible for most of the dead bodies inside this crypt. As to why he had come, Venarus did not say, but Malys could tell that this was no ordinary vampire, either. He was strong—perhaps almost as strong as She was … an equal.

And so they had proposed to work together; Malys had been overjoyed to find someone like Her at last. Perhaps, if She was lucky, Venarus was a master vampire—one with his own clan, where Malys could live and thrive among more of Her kind.

Yet as they now stared at the massive construction before them—the bodies of yet more vampires and Vigilants bleeding at their feet—Malys still had no idea what Venarus was after in here. But one thing She was certain of was that it must be important. The cave was immense, dwarfing even the gigantic circular pavilion as large as the College's courtyard—an island in a subterranean lake.

"After they massacred the Vigilants, the surviving vampires fled with several manuscripts on this crypt," Venarus explained. "Apparently, something was buried deep beneath this place—an ancient artifact that was deeply coveted by the Volkihar for almost as long as they've existed."

"And that something is here," Malys guessed, staring at the structure. She saw Venarus nod. "So what now?"

Venarus pointed towards the center of the pavilion, where a short pillar topped with a rusted metal spike stood. One of the vampires they had killed was slumped against it. "That must be some sort of switch," he mused. "If there is indeed a vampire artifact here, then maybe … "

Venarus straightened suddenly, and walked toward the spiked pillar. He pulled off one of his black gloves, exposing chalk-white skin—

—just in time to catch the black arrow streaking from behind both vampires between his index and middle fingers.

Malys did a double take, and She whirled around every which way—only to find the cavern empty. But that only infuriated Her more.

Where had that arrow come from?! They had entered this cavern alone—She was certain of that! Her eyes flitted to the arrow—polished ebony with a heavy pointed tip for punching through armor, and spiral fletching to make it fly straighter and farther than any other arrow. And if Venarus had not caught that arrow in time, Malys had no doubt it would have made a nice, clean hole dead center through his skull.

The Dunmer couldn't resist a shudder. This was an assassin's arrow.

Venarus, for his part, was smiling. "Not many people can sneak up on me," he called out, showing his fangs in an approving smile as he turned around to face apparently thin air. "Come on out—I know you're in here!"

For a few moments there was silence. Then Malys saw a thin, dark shape emerge from a pillar overlooking the other end of the bridge—a female, clad head to toe in form-fitting red-and-black leather. It looked quite like the catsuit some thieves were known to wear, and covered most of this woman's flesh, save for her eyes. A number of daggers were strapped to her chest (Malys counted at least four) and She could see an ornate ebony bow over the woman's shoulder as well, with several more arrows resting in a quiver—presumably with the same spiral fletching as the one Venarus had just caught in his hand.

The woman walked towards them, and even in the darkness of the cave, Malys saw the huge black eyes of the figure, set like empty sockets in her skull—and that was more than enough for Her to know who she was.

"Rolega." She grinned, exposing the tips of Her fangs. "I was wondering when I'd see you again."

The woman blinked, but made no indication as to whether or not she was expecting Malys to recognize her.

"Malys … " she spoke for the first time—a soft, slightly strained hiss, like invisible razors were itching at the Nord's ruined throat. But there were two things that made Malys uneasy: one was that she could hear an undertone in the thief's voice that did not sound entirely like hers; deep and throaty, like freshly greased velvet.

And yet, more importantly, even though Rolega the Quiet was a whole ten feet away from Malys, that velvet hiss seemed to whisper right into Her ear; it was almost as if there was a second voice speaking for her.

"I'm glad to see You're alive and well … mostly," Rolega said with a thin chuckle. "That's more that can be said for Solyn, isn't it?"

Malys frowned. "How do you know about him?" Then, as an afterthought, "And it's Mistress Malys now, by the way. You should remember that if you don't want me to punish you." She bared Her fangs in a smirk.

Rolega was not fazed by the threat in the slightest. "It's my business to know who lives and who dies," she said shortly. "Which reminds me."

The Nord strode forward, turning her attention to Malys' companion. "Venarus Vulpin," she whispered silkily. "Your name's been thrown around quite a bit in my circles. That Redwater skooma you brew is quite the popular drink."

The cloth covering Rolega's face wrinkled slightly, as her cheeks curled up in a smile. "I'm sorry for your loss."

Venarus looked confused. "I beg your pardon?"

The thief's smile grew wider. "I murdered Venarus Vulpin three weeks ago."

What?! Malys whirled back at the Imperial behind Her.

Venarus smiled widely—and then, to Her further astonishment, he began to change. His hair was lightening from jet black to straw blond, and lengthening as well; his stomach shrank, while his chest expanded and divided into two pronounced breasts. As this all happened, something long, dark, and very thin grew from Venarus' hand, expanding into an ornate, decorated staff topped by a carving of a mutilated horned skull.

Mistress Malys watched in unmitigated shock as within a matter of seconds, an Imperial female took shape before Her. The woman was an imposing figure; six feet tall, and resplendent in heavy purple robes, with long blonde hair hanging down to her lower back. She might have been beautiful if it wasn't for the slightly starved look on her face, and her very strange eyes. Her right eye was pink, and burned in such a way that Malys instinctively knew she was yet another vampire. Her left eye, however, was a pure milky white—but the violet, hook-shaped tattoo that seemed to skewer that sightless orb made Malys think that eye was anything but sightless.

When Rolega next spoke, she was clearly very impressed. "My father has given me a wonderful boon," she laughed, clearly grinning under her hood. "I come to investigate a shady skooma den, and who should the trail lead me to but Mistress Malys Aryon … and none other than Carmilla Anglinius."

Malys' mouth fell open. Anglinius?! She thought madly. That woman is—?!

Keep Your claws off my daughter.

"That priest of Meridia is your father?!" She shouted incredulously.

The woman called Carmilla spat. "Was my father," she hissed in a contralto that reverberated around the cavern. "Speak of him again, and I'll kill you before I kill him."

The hand not clutching her strange staff twitched and glowed purple, and almost absentmindedly, Carmilla began twirling the ethereal flaming dagger that she had conjured just now. Malys eyed the jagged blade with some unease; something in the vampire's tone told Her that she was not bluffing.

"It's ironic that you should bring up your father," Rolega said with a gurgling chuckle. "I know him quite well. Did you know he prayed to my mother for nearly ten years before my brothers and sisters listened to him?"

Prayed to her mother? Something about that didn't sound right to Malys. Carmilla seemed to understand well enough, though—and she did not sound happy about it, judging by her condescending snort in Rolega's direction.

"So you're telling me my father loved me so much that he went to the Dark Brotherhood to bring me back?" sneered Carmilla. "'Sweet mother, sweet mother, send your child unto me'—for I am lost and lonely and oh-so-terrified of dying alone! If I wasn't a vampire, I'd be sick to my stomach that he'd sink so low as to go to your kind!"

The Dark Brotherhood? Suddenly Malys' head was spinning—now it all made sense. She whirled on Rolega. "You're an assassin?!"

"The assassin," Rolega corrected Her, her smile wider than ever. "I Listen for my Night Mother, and I kill for my Dread Father."

"And you've killed a lot of people, too, haven't you?" Carmilla said. "Amaund Motierre of the Elder Council, Emperor Titus Mede II, even the famous Maven Black-Briar—so I can only imagine the most wanted woman in Tamriel wants to kill me, too." She smirked. "You can go ahead and try."

"You killed Maven Black-Briar?" Malys blurted out before She could stop Herself. "But you told me the Tong—"

"They did," Rolega said cryptically. "It was one of the better jobs I've helped to arrange in my time, and if I say so myself, it's quite the tale—maybe if you're lucky, you'll get to hear it sometime. My only regret is that I didn't kill her myself." Her sibilant voice turned bitter at this.

"But that's enough of that," said the assassin. "It's time we moved on to the matter at hand. I've been tracking you for a long time, Carmilla. You've taken on a lot of faces since you killed those three vampires—priests of Mara, underground drug lords. But your father became desperate. Some years ago, he prayed to my Mother, and when I came to answer his pleas, he promised me a very considerable sum if I brought you back to the Imperial City alive."

Carmilla's bound dagger disappeared, and she leveled her staff at Rolega; the mouth of the skull glowed with dark red energy. "Sorry," said the changeling. "I'm not going anywhere."

"I'm not giving you a choice," Rolega smirked. "You've already confessed to killing your captors—and while I'd love to say that makes my job easier, that only means you have that much more to answer for. Did you know that the Cyrodiil Vampyrum Order declared you a traitor for what you did to them?"

Carmilla didn't even bat an eye. Malys had a feeling that this Imperial did indeed know—she just didn't care.

"Well, it doesn't stop there," said Rolega. "I was the one your father commissioned to kill those vampires, not you. Which means you stole what was, by all rights, an official Dark Brotherhood contract. I can't let that slide today—not after I've been searching for you this whole time. And You, Mistress Malys."

What did I do? Malys thought in surprise—flailing for answers, but failing to find a one.

"The fraud Taron Dreth was also marked for death," Rolega explained, crossing her arms. "Unfortunately, poor Katria never lived to see her contract fulfilled. But that's not important; what is important is that Taron—another official Brotherhood contract—was killed by Solyn, who was in turn killed by You and Your associates. The Night Mother is very displeased with You for this. Since you three are the only known witnesses to these events, she has declared all of you targets by proxy as a result of your interference in Brotherhood business."

Malys bit Her lip until Her fangs punctured the gums beneath. Now it all made sense—Rolega hadn't been tracking the mages to and from Arkngthamz, she'd only been after Taron! But did that mean Rolega was now after Vinye and Cosette, too?

Again, however, it seemed that Rolega held all the answers. "However," she went on, "the whereabouts of Your friends are … unknown at present. But Sithis will see them before me eventually. Until then … well, let's just say this might not be Your lucky day." She laughed coldly.

Malys cocked Her head, puzzled. "It might not be?"

"I'm a firm believer in aggressive expansion," smirked Rolega. "The Brotherhood is small, but we are already stronger than we have been in centuries. And yet we still have potential to grow."

"Get to the point already," Carmilla groused. "You Brotherhood types always did like to hear yourselves talk."

"I'm simply offering you two a chance to join the Dark Brotherhood—to join myself and my dark brothers and sisters in service to Sithis for eternity." The assassin's smile was as sweet as poisoned honey. "Vampires like you would feel right at home."

Malys didn't like the sound of that. The chance to be with others like Her was tempting—but … "What's the catch?" She asked.

Rolega unhooked two daggers from her belt, and tossed one to each. "Well … we've only got room for one more, I'm afraid," she said gleefully. "So, we are going to hold tryouts. The last one standing will have repaid her debt to the Dread Father. And the loser … well, you're already dead," she smirked. "It shouldn't hurt too much."

Carmilla was eyeing the razor-sharp dagger at her feet in a way that made Malys feel very uneasy.

"Oh—and just to make it interesting … "

Both vampires turned to see Rolega unhook a third dagger from a scabbard between her shoulder blades. This one was smaller than the ones she'd given to Herself and Carmilla, but looked far older—and strangely familiar, Malys thought; the dagger's scabbard carried the Daedric letter oht on it—the traditional symbol of Oblivion.

Her breath caught in her throat as she recognized it. That's—!

Carmilla recognized it, too, and she licked her lips. "So the stories are true," she grinned. "Someone really was stupid enough to re-forge Mehrunes' Razor."

She laughed daringly at Rolega, and raised her staff directly at her. "Two Daedric artifacts, two cold-blooded killers," challenged the vampire. "Normally, I'd love to watch this drama play out, but I'm afraid I'll have to pass on your offer. So, if you wouldn't mind putting away Dagon's little toy … "

Carmilla's face split in an evil grin as she raised her staff—and then suddenly, she fell to the stone floor with a resounding thud. Malys didn't need to be a vampire to sense that Carmilla Anglinius was dead as a doornail.

But was that really Carmilla? Even as Malys gawked at the dead body in shock, wondering when Rolega had had a chance to make her move, the body began to morph again, the female face shifting back into the foxlike expression of Venarus Vulpin. At the same time, a noise from behind Malys distracted her, and She wheeled around.

To Her shock, the dead body slumped over the spiked stone pillar was coming to life! Is this necromancy? Malys wondered. But that was impossible—reanimating anyone or anything required a link between the caster and his or her target. If the necromancer was killed, so was his puppet—not to mention that his puppet would have been disintegrated into ash by the strength of the magic used to reanimate him. But here—

Then many things happened in rapid succession.

The body slammed its open palm upon the rusty spike. Fresh blood flowed from the wound, and trickled down the pillar into the vast grooves spreading out from the center of the pavilion. There was a rumbling noise from below as the last of the blood vanished into the cracks, and ethereal purple flames leapt up in their place.

Then, Malys' confusion was augmented yet another notch as the dead body turned to Her and threw off its hood—revealing the pale face of Carmilla Anglinius, staff in hand and all. How had she done that? She thought wildly. This was more than simple reanimation, of that She was certain—this was illusion magic on a whole other level as well, perhaps more advanced than even Solyn's magic.

For her part, Rolega the Quiet was observing the entire affair with nary a trace of worry on her face. But she was slowly backing away a few steps, and Malys was sorely tempted to do the same thing. Whatever Carmilla had done, it was clear the assassin had not been prepared for it at all.

Then, all three women stumbled as the pavilion sank beneath their feet, and rearranged itself into a tiered arena. The pillar in the center remained where it was, revealing a larger, five-sided monolith beneath it, several feet taller than Malys was. In fact, she thought it looked wide enough to fit a person inside it.

Carmilla laughed as she got back to her feet. "I don't know what's buried here—and I don't know why the Volkihar would want it," she said triumphantly, "but I'd love to find out!"

And before either Malys or Rolega could stop her, Carmilla grasped the monolith, and roared in exertion as her vampiric strength ripped the solid stone in half—only the monolith wasn't solid. It was hollow, much to everyone's astonishment. And it wasn't empty, either.

All three women stared as the occupant of the chamber stared back at them.

"Ugh … where is … who sent you here?"

Druadach Redoubt

At that moment in time, Cosette Ionsaithe was walking up one of the Reach's many blasted hillsides. The smell of burnt juniper and dried blood filled her nostrils, and the acrid stench of fresh taproot assaulted her. The source of this last smell—the remains of a spriggan, a forest spirit found throughout Tamriel, leered at her through unseeing eyes. Cosette was grateful that it couldn't make any sounds anymore, owing to the wooden spike that was impaled through its body from backside to mouth.

"Halt!"

Suddenly, the Breton found herself staring down two drawn bows. Each of the Forsworn was regarding her with a strange amount of suspicion. It took a moment for Cosette to understand why: she was still wearing her robes from Winterhold. So absorbed had the Culler been in her own thoughts that she had neglected to remove it over the course of her journey.

She held up a finger, high aloft so the guards could see, telling them to stay their bows for a moment longer. Then, in one flowing swoop, Cosette whipped off the novice robes she'd been wearing for the past few weeks. A sudden breeze caught them, and carried them into a lit sconce further up on the hillside. It didn't take long for the enchanted fabric to be set ablaze in the flames.

Cosette paid it only a few moments of attention, watching the last links of her life with the College consumed in fire. Then, it was back to business—she had come here for a reason. She displayed her body to the guards before her, clad in bits of fur, feather, bone, and leather that she'd been wearing under the robes now burning in the fire. All of it was arranged in a very revealing ensemble around her chest and groin: the traditional garb of the Forsworn.

The Breton, her true allegiance thus revealed, hollered out at the guards in the most no-nonsense tone she could muster. "Where is your King?"

Neither of them answered, or so much as moved a muscle. Their forked arrows did not move an inch, ready as ever to bury themselves dead center in Cosette's skull.

Good, she thought, concealing an approving smile. They're learning.

"I will see him!" she continued. "If he is here, tell him I have returned! He will know what it means."

The guards still did not move—but this time, Cosette saw them trade glances with one another, only for an instant. One of them—a woman in a mohawk, and the closer of the pair to her—nodded imperceptibly—still not daring to lower her bow even an inch—and the other Forsworn vanished from view inside a nearby cave, framed by the half-bleached ribcage, skull, and antlers of a great elk.

Some minutes later, the Forsworn returned, and gave a wordless shout. At this, Cosette's guard grunted, and lowered her bow. "It is good to see you again, Ionsaithe."

Cosette nodded curtly. "Likewise, Kaie."

She brushed off the other Forsworn who'd been guarding the entrance to their redoubt—he was not a familiar face, unlike Kaie, whom she had befriended in Cidhna Mine, and helped to escape along with all the others. "I can show myself in from here," she told him flatly. The Forsworn furrowed his brow, but nonetheless complied as Cosette and Kaie entered the cave beyond.

It took some time for Cosette's eyes to get adjusted to this place—of all the redoubts of the Forsworn, this was the only one she had never visited before. The Cullers, though they operated above and beyond the authority of the Forsworn, were nonetheless respectful of the personage who dwelled within the Forsworn base. Therefore, they had left them alone. But Cosette was vigilant; she knew that times could change—and that eventually, even Druadach would not be safe from the grasp of the Cullers, who sought to spill their own blood to make the Forsworn stronger.

She had to admit, however: if she was told today that Druadach would have to be cleansed, she wouldn't mind taking a good, long look at the place before carrying out her duty. It wasn't as vast as the redoubts of Hag Rock and Red Eagle—nor was it as well fortified as the strongholds of Deepwood Vale and the Broken Tower. But it was by far the most interesting to look at—and, perhaps more objectively, it was certainly one of the finest self-sustaining communities that the Forsworn had ever developed, able to withstand an extended siege from almost any adversary.

The farm to her right was growing almost every kind of food imaginable—mostly potatoes, but with a scattering of carrots and leeks. Cosette saw another familiar face from the mine tending to the plants—Uraccen, the first face she had gotten to know during her time in prison. He saw Cosette, and gave a small, half-hearted wave. The Breton felt a small twinge in her stomach—the look on his face suggested he'd just found out about what had happened to his daughter Ualie. Cosette knew there would have to be a talk about that—Ualie had been Forsworn as well, after all, and the circumstances of their encounter had not exactly given her much of a choice.

She crossed the crudely lashed bridge, hearing the sound of falling water and flopping fish in the stream underneath. The noise was almost soothing enough to make her forget why she had journeyed this way—almost. Another Forsworn was nearby, skinning several catches with his sword. Two others were across from him, busy carving up freshly slain livestock with stone knives. Cosette thought she might have recognized Duach among them; she waved hopefully, but the Forsworn was too absorbed in his work to return the gesture.

She ascended the steppes of the natural cave, passing a full dozen tents along the way. Cosette breathed in the air around her, and smiled. It felt good to be back here, she thought, among people she could actually sympathize with. She would remember Vinye and Malys until the day she died—it was a pity, therefore, that she considered that day more important than any other in her life. She heaved a small sigh—hopefully, she thought, they would come to understand the meaning of her duty—

Cosette stopped. She had just crested the topmost steppe, where the largest tents rested. Milling about were more familiar faces from the mines; Braig was toiling away at a forge, surrounded by dozens of newly forged weapons. Odvan was hunched over a table laden with potion bottles both empty and full. Across from him was the briarheart who was in charge of this camp—in terms of raw power, anyway, Cosette amended. She knew who the most powerful person in this cave was.

And she could see him right now.

His back was turned to her at the moment, so Cosette could not get a good glimpse at him, but she knew it could be no other person. The giant Orc next to him—only the second-biggest Orc Cosette had ever encountered in her life—had been faithful towards no other person, to the point where no one dared argue that he was the only non-Breton inside the inner circle of the Forsworn.

The eyes of Borkul the Beast glinted in the firelight as they alighted on Cosette, who was now striding towards his charge with renewed confidence.

"You took your time," growled Borkul. The white skull painted over his face leered at the Breton beneath him. "He's been waiting for you to come back. What kept you?"

Cosette stared back at him, not daring to blink an eye. "My reasons were my own, pig-face," she shot back through clenched teeth, bared like fangs. "What I do, I do for the good of the Forsworn. That's all you need to know."

Borkul glared at her even harder for a few tense seconds before his scarred, horned face twisted into an ugly grin. "Ha!" he barked. "You haven't changed, have you, Ionsaithe?"

Behind him, the man he'd been standing next to stiffened slightly, as if he'd just recalled a long-forgotten memory.

Cosette saw this, and set her jaw. "I need to talk to Madanach," she said in an undertone, so that none of the other Forsworn could hear her. "It's very important."

Borkul tried to look curious. It wasn't a pretty sight. "Important," he repeated. "To him or to you?"

The Culler didn't answer to him. "Do I have to get you another shiv or not, Borkul?" she asked impatiently. "I'm getting through to him, one way or the other. And we both know I don't have a problem killing my own kind."

"You'd find me a lot tougher to stomach than that bastard Grisvar," Borkul sneered at her, but eventually he stood aside. "Fine, go on. But I'm keeping my eye on you."

"I feel safer already," Cosette smiled, just loud enough for Borkul to hear her. The Orc growled menacingly at her, but Cosette had seen the corners of his tusked mouth turn upwards for only a moment.

But now was not the time for jokes, she knew. She had come to Druadach for a reason, and that reason was steadily growing closer and closer to he—until, finally, Cosette reached the crude bench where he'd been sitting, and saw the face of the only hero she had ever looked up to in life.

Madanach looked completely at odds with the half-wasted man Cosette had met in prison. The King of Rags looked much older, it was true; his graying hair was longer and stringier than it had been in Cidhna Mine. But his body had not yet failed him. And then there were the eyes—the same eyes Cosette had seen inside the cramped cell of that prison.

They hadn't dimmed in the slightest, she knew. In fact, that resolute flame only looked like it had gotten brighter. The three decades he'd spent in that accursed hole under Markarth were nowhere to be found.

His mouth cracked in a smile. "So," he said. "You finally came back. I knew I'd see you again, one day."

He stood up, and suddenly the two were embracing like old friends. Cosette felt her jaw twinge—she hadn't remembered smiling so widely in so long, or even if she ever had smiled so widely in her life.

It was the first time she'd wanted to cry, she was so happy.

Five minutes later, the two were sitting on the bench, chatting away like old friends—Borkul's watchful eye entirely forgotten to Cosette.

Something on Madanach's armor caught the Culler's eye just then. "I like the new adornments," she saw, pointing out the two skulls dangling from the leather belt. Arcane sigils, known only to the briarhearts and hagravens who inscribed them, had been carved into the bone.

Madanach cackled. "Funny you should mention them," he said. "Got 'em both from these two boys who tried to get past the guards about a few weeks ago. Kaie still likes to tell me about their last moments in life."

Cosette felt a dull thud in the pit of her stomach as she realized the skulls were much smaller than an adult's.

"The real funny thing, she told me, is that they kept on saying you'd sent them here!" Madanach laughed, not noticing Cosette shrinking back in silence. "Now why would they be saying something like that, I wonder?"

Cosette had to bite her tongue. Madanach was a sharp man, she knew. Very little went on inside Forsworn territory that escaped his knowledge—the Breton was fully aware that her forays into Bthardamz and Arkngthamz ought to be known to him by now.

But that wasn't why she was here.

Madanach must have noticed something wrong, because the mirth on his weathered face had immediately left him. "What's troubling you?" he asked.

Cosette tried to force the fate of the two children out of her mind. She'd been rehearsing her answer ever since she'd set foot out of Winterhold. The trick was to keep it general enough to keep Madanach in the dark about who she really was—but not so much that he wouldn't be able to help her.

Only the essentials, nothing more, she reminded herself. And so, choosing her words carefully, she began to talk.

"Suppose you were the last of your family," she began, "the last of your clan. Months and years passed, and just when you'd put all hope out of your mind … you were wrong. Someone had survived. And you saw them with your own eyes. But an instant later … it all gets taken away from you. And you have to watch your family die in front of you. You have to watch their blood stain the stones of the earth, over and over again … until you're the only one left. Until your worst nightmare has become a reality." She looked at Madanach intently. "How angry would that make you feel?"

Madanach considered this. "I'd be angry, of course," he replied, his voice hardening in anger as he clenched his fist. "I'd want to take my revenge upon the Nord bastard who did it, too. I'd make an example of him, too—just like the example I made of Thonar. I'd show all of Skyrim the monster he was if I could."

Cosette decided not to tell him that Orchendor and Taron Dreth were not, in fact, Nords. Possibly Madanach had noticed her reluctant expression, because his angry expression immediately softened. "For what my word is worth, you have my condolences, Cosette," he said. "I have lost family myself—and the Ionsaithe clan was as much my family as it was yours."

Cosette bit her lip. No one in the Forsworn—save for those in the Cullers—had ever bothered to call Cosette by her first name, save for Madanach himself. Her heart began to race. Did this mean what she thought it meant?

He stood up. "And this news you bring me—if it is what I believe it to be—is very sad indeed. I will spread the word around our camps that the Ionsaithe line has met its end. We will send them off to the Old Gods in the most fitting way for that great clan."

He smiled. "The absolute purification of the Reach."

Cosette wanted to smile at the thought of this. "It doesn't stop there, though," she pressed on. "What if you never had a chance to take your revenge?" She thought of Taron Dreth, gasping his last breaths in the ashen grip of Dagoth Solyn. "What if the man who killed your family was himself killed … before you had a chance to kill him yourself?"

Madanach paused. "The Old Gods work in mysterious ways," he replied. "Whether it was the work of old age, or some disease, or even by the sword … yes. I would consider my thirst sated. The same debt need not be repeated twice, Cosette. It is enough."

The Culler seethed. "But it isn't enough—not for me!" she hissed through her teeth. "I feel cheated, Madanach! I wanted to end the bloodshed myself—not have to rely on the wiles of the gods to solve my problems for me!"

She clenched her fists so hard she could feel the blood flowing from where her nails were digging into the flesh. "I still feel angry about this," she whispered. "But I don't know where to turn. I … I don't know who to feel angry at anymore."

She slumped back on the bench. Neither she nor Madanach spoke for a long time—she was too incensed to speak; he was too pensive.

Finally, Madanach spoke. Cosette was surprised to see a smile spreading across his face.

"Cosette Ionsaithe," he said, "that was exactly what I wanted to hear from you. You feel angry. You feel vengeful. And if you can stay true to that, then it doesn't matter who you're angry at anymore."

The Breton was utterly confused. "What are you talking about?"

"As long as you can stay true to who you are," Madanach said again, "the Ionsaithe clan will never die again."

"What are you talking about?" Cosette said impatiently.

And Madanach smiled again. "I am the king of the Forsworn, Cosette—the most powerful man in all of the Reach. Or at least, that's what most people call me. For all my influence, I am nothing more than who I am: a King in Rags. I can direct the Forsworn wherever I please … but I am little more than a figurehead for the true power of the Forsworn—the spells and swords and axes and bows of our hands, and the resolve and fury of our minds."

Cosette did not speak. She could feel the revelation coming from Madanach, building up inside his throat, and so she waited with bated breath.

"The Forsworn are stronger than ever," said the King in Rags. "They have their King … and I believe it is time that they had a Queen."

His eyes alighted on Cosette upon the last word, and the Culler felt her breath leave her lungs at the ramifications of what he had just said. A Queen … of the Forsworn?

But before she could process this further, Madanach was walking away. "Why don't you rest, Cosette?" he asked, the deceptively genial smile back upon his face. "You've had a long journey—and if you want to be ready to fight for the Forsworn another day, you need as much strength as you can."

Cosette was about to protest, but a stiffness in her body had chosen that moment to flare up, and she felt her knees burning as she stood up after him. She bit her lip to stifle the cry of pain, and subconsciously she knew Madanach was right.

Mercifully, he had already picked out a tent below the topmost steppe, furthest from the constant bangs and clangs of the forge. Madanach bade her enter, and summoned a Forsworn to provide her with a bedroll and food. Once Cosette had been settled in, the two men took their leave.

Suddenly, however, the Forsworn Madanach had summoned turned to Cosette, just as he was about to leave her sight—and tipped her a long, slow nod. His eyes seemed to flicker toward the bedroll for only a moment.

And in that moment, Cosette caught the orange color of flames tattooed around the man's eyes and mouth.

She started to shout out as realization hit her, but the Forsworn had already turned away—and by the time Cosette made it to the edge of her tent to look around, he was nowhere to be seen.

Cosette stared at the exit of the cave, her mind swamped in shock and confusion. What were they doing here?

Then she remembered how the Culler had nodded towards her bedroll, and immediately Cosette set upon the sleeping bag, turning it inside out for anything that looked out of the ordinary.

It only took her a minute to find something of the sort: a rip on the inside of the bedroll, a gash that looked just wide enough to fit a—

Cosette's breath caught in her throat as her hands brushed across something unfamiliar.

A small, tightly sealed scroll had been stuffed into the tear, just far enough inside to where she could see the edges of the letter.

The Breton pulled out the parchment with trembling fingers—now that the scroll was bathed in the light of the cave, she could see a coat of orange dye lining the edges of the scroll. That was more than enough for her to know where this letter had come from.

Without a second thought, Cosette sliced open the sealed letter, her resolve suddenly dutiful and hard as steel. Her round eyes flitted over the parchment, narrowing into slits with each line she read. The orders were not signed—one of the Cullers' many methods of maintaining anonymity in the field. And even if they had used a name, it was most likely an alias—the Cullers took so many fake identities in their line of work that there were some among their number who had forgotten what their real name had ever been.

But the Cullers, ultimately, did not need names.

And although Cosette wished dearly to hold onto her name, her duty—and Madanach's intention—was clear as day.

You will travel to Darklight Tower. Test the resolve of those who dwell within. Prove yourself worthy of his cause.

This will be your final mission. Do not fail.

For the Forsworn!

Haafingar

"Halt!"

Outside a small, but forbidding-looking fortress, a woman bristled as the guard directly in front of her called out, but still she kept walking. She knew they would not bat an eye—as long as they didn't get too close to her, at any rate.

The Thalmor soldier walked up to her, resplendent in his glass armor, and she stopped then. She was close enough to notice that the greenish malachite had been polished to a mirror's shine. "What business do you have with the Embassy, Justiciar?" he demanded.

She smiled. "I bring a message from Alinor," she said, making her voice as commanding, smug and supercilious as possible. "I am under orders to see it delivered to Herself personally." She reached into her ornately detailed navy blue robes, and produced a scroll sealed with a wax marking—one that the Thalmor immediately recognized.

"I see," he said, straightening up his form so that it looked like a ramrod had been shoved up his spine. He made no further apology, but for only an instant, he had slumped earlier—and that had been enough. "You will excuse my presumption, Justiciar. Between the Stormcloak insurgency and the Blades agent who attempted to infiltrate this place, the First Emissary has been forced to make many changes in recent years. Most of our ground patrols have been recalled to the Embassy to bolster security should either the Stormcloaks or the Blades decide to try something rash." He toyed with his gleaming glass sword as he said this.

"Noted. As you were, soldier," she said dismissively. "Where is the Madam Emissary?"

"She is in her personal solar," said the soldier. "I will escort you to her. Our security protocol requires all visitors to be accompanied by an armed detail at all times."

The Justiciar raised an eyebrow. "Excuse me?" she asked, pretending to take offense to this—though in reality, it was something she had been expecting in light of those events.

"I'm sorry, ma'am," said the soldier without a hint of apology. "Even our own cannot be exempted from these measures." He lowered his voice conspiratorially. "If I may, Justiciar," he whispered, "the Madam Emissary has grown very suspicious of this forsaken region of late. She has secluded herself in her solar for weeks at a time. Were it my place, I would say she is afraid."

Her lip twitched. "Unfortunately, soldier," she said, assuming a stony face, "it is not your place."

The soldier slumped again. "Understood, ma'am."

"Good," she said, feeling some relish at watching the Altmer squirm in front of her. "Now, kindly direct me to the Madam Emissary, and you may return to your duties."

The guard saluted. "Ma'am. Follow me."

The two elves walked past the heavy gate that highlighted the thick fortifications of the Thalmor's embassy in Skyrim. The embassy itself was squat and square, and last night's snowfall gave it a very stark and foreboding look. She fought the urge to shiver at what must be going on within those walls—and wondered if the scream of the wind through her hood was really coming from the wind.

The Emissary's solar was located separately from the embassy proper, located right at the northern edge of the fortifications—below which was a cliff of considerable size, she knew. She stole a glimpse over the barricade, and noticed a single large tree standing at the snow-covered valley below, surrounded by sheer rock and gale-force gusts brought in from the Sea of Ghosts. The last bastion, she thought apropos of nothing.

This is the last holdout of the Thalmor in all of Skyrim.

Her escort saluted to a guard as they approached the door to the solar. This guard—a female—saluted back, and promptly fell in with them as they entered the solar. It was much warmer inside, and though she dared not let it show, she was grateful for the warmth of the roaring hearth.

The trio ascended a flight of stairs and turned down a short hallway. Several heavy oak doors lined the passage; the guard knocked on the nearest to their right with his armored fist.

"Who is it?" asked a refined but commanding voice from the other side. She tensed as it reached her ears—there was no mistaking the owner of that voice.

"A justiciar from Alinor, Madam Elenwen, bearing a message for Your eyes only," the guard replied.

There was a pause. "Enter."

The guard opened the door, and she strode in with the two soldiers flanking her.

Perhaps befitting of the frigid winds of northern Haafingar, the room beyond was surprisingly stark, not least because of the bare gray walls. There were few sconces to be seen; most of the illumination came from the giant windows behind the single desk, providing its sole occupant an unobstructed view of the Sea of Ghosts.

That person—presently occupied with quite a bit of paperwork, by the looks of her desk—now stood as the new arrivals strode in. The soldiers saluted her in response, and she did too.

"Thank you," Elenwen said. "You may return to your posts." The soldiers nodded once and marched out without a word. They closed the door behind them, and suddenly she felt a surge of anticipation as reality caught up with her, and she realized just who exactly she was alone with right now.

But she forced it out of her mind for right now, and produced the sealed scroll in her hand. "I was instructed to see this to you personally, Madam Emissary," she informed her, taking a few steps forward and positioning herself in the exact center of the square stone room. It took all her resolve to keep her voice from trembling and her body from shaking—she could not afford to be unprofessional right now.

Elenwen took the scroll, and slit the wax seal with a delicate finger as she sat down. She unfurled it, began to read it—and her brow furrowed in puzzlement. She watched in anticipation as Elenwen's lips silently repeated the four simple words that had been scrawled upon the parchment only last week—words that needed no eidetic memory to perfectly recall.

I know about Falinesti.

Elenwen glared at her, her face the paragon of confusion. "What is the meaning of this, Justiciar?" she ordered—but she could hear the slight tremor in her voice, and the Emissary's sloped eyes had contracted with ill-concealed fear.

It was time, she knew. Trembling in anticipation—for a moment she'd prepared for ever since the massacre in Valenwood that had changed her life—she pulled off her hood, and revealed her short blonde hair, and her olive-colored skin: the exact same shade of olive as the woman sitting opposite her.

"Hello, Mother."

Vinye spoke without any trace of emotion, and her calm expression did not waver even as the lethal sparks danced on the fingers that clutched Kinsbane. There was a flash of blue-white light, a wet crunching noise—and First Emissary Elenwen, Thalmor Ambassador to Skyrim and widow of Justiciar Orinwe, crumpled in her chair, blood leaking from the wound dead center in her skull, where the dagger had struck her. She stared upwards at the ceiling, wearing an expression of shock and recognition on her face that Vinye would remember for the rest of her life.

And for the fifth and final time, the thin, long tubes of Septimus Signus' essence extractor sped for the dead elf, puncturing the flawless flesh with impunity and drinking Elenwen dry of her blood.

Vinye let out a sigh as she retrieved Kinsbane from her mother's body; just like that, the deed had been done—but she had no time to dwell on the magnitude of what had just happened.

Her act of matricide had not been a difficult task in and of itself. She had renounced her family a long time ago; they had been dead to her since the massacre in Valenwood. This had merely been the closure Vinye had been looking for. She had no other family now; no one else to know that she had ever existed.

She was finally free. Free to vanish into Skyrim, free to live the life she had wanted to live for so very long. Free to study, free to learn.

Free to pursue the truth.

But as the Altmer exhaled once more, allowing herself to come back to the real world, she knew that she wasn't out of the fire just yet. It had been even easier for her to procure the clothes on her back from that Justiciar than it had to extract Elenwen's whereabouts from him. And her eidetic memory had served her well once more in recreating the official seal of the Dominion on her letter, to mislead any prying eyes from believing her letter might be a forgery. All in all, breaking into the Embassy had been relatively easy.

Breaking out of it, however, would be an entirely different matter—especially since the soldiers stationed right outside would have been robbed of their senses to not know what had happened.

As the extractor did its work, Vinye wasted no time in blasting a lightning bolt at the lock to the door behind her; the extreme heat it generated fused the mechanism. A yelp from outside told her that one of the soldiers must have tried to grasp the doorknob at the same moment, and had either been electrocuted or severely burnt in the process.

That wouldn't hold them back for long, she knew.

Once her mother's blood had been drained, and the tubules had retreated into her rucksack, Vinye quickly strode to one of the windows that overlooked the same cliff she had noticed on her way. She didn't need any tests to know the north wind was still blowing. With the glass destroyed, it whipped her hair every which way, and each gust felt like a knife stabbing into her flesh.

The Altmer heard lightning blasts coming from the other side, and the sound of splintering wood told her the soldiers were breaking through the door. She mentally steeled herself as she strode to the edge of the window—she knew she had only seconds. And if Vinye had miscalculated—even by a fraction of a moment—then she would die.

She replaced her hood over her head, and readied her hands right as the door was finally broken down by the efforts of the Thalmor troops. The two soldiers burst in, bound swords raised and spells ablaze as they took in the scene of the room. Then they spotted Vinye—and their staunch expressions turned murderous in the blink of an eye.

"Traitor!" "Kill her!"

But Vinye did not care to hear them. And as the soldiers opened fire on her, several things happened at once.

She threw up a ward right as the first fireball hit, scattering glass and debris all over, and sending her sailing out of the broken window—

—and right over the cliff.

Push, she immediately thought, her mind flashing back once more to her lessons in Alinor; she'd used the ward to catch the momentum of the fiery missile, giving her the right amount of horizontal velocity. For a brief moment, she smelled the odor of chaurus eggs as the memory passed though her mind, and then it was gone—replaced by the harsh, cold reality of northern Haafingar.

As the sheer, jagged rocks loomed below, the Altmer twisted around in midair, and spread out her stolen Justiciar's robe as far out as it could go, holding the hems at arm's length either side like they were bird's wings. The north wind buffeted her, and her eyes stung, but still she held on to the edges of the cloak for dear life as she plummeted ten more feet—twenty, thirty—

Pull—

And then she felt a blast of wind from below her; the north wind from the sea had been caught by the rocks, and had been deflected upward towards her falling body. She felt a sensation like a hammer crashing into her chest as the gusts hit her, propelling her slender body upwards, and she began angling her airborne form towards her destination.

Once the top third of the lone tree below the cliffs was right in front of her, Vinye counted under her breath—and played her last card. With both hands this time, she threw up a ward, releasing her hold on the robe. She tucked her legs as closely to her chest as she could, and plummeted like a stone—

—straight into the tree trunk. The coniferous branches between it and her, combined with her double-handed ward, were just enough to arrest the momentum of her controlled crash landing. Her left side was the first part of her body to hit the toughened wood, and she cried out in pain with the force of the impact. She heard a number of resounding cracks, and yet more pain in her abdomen told her that not all of those cracks belonged to the branches. Thankfully, however, Vinye had angled her body just so that none of her vital organs were in serious trouble; any damage could be healed later on.

There were no signs that the Thalmor knew she was still alive—there was no continued rain of magefire, or shouts on the wind commanding their subordinates to search the premises. Perhaps they believed that the winds had dashed her on the rocks, killing her instantly.

She smirked, ignoring the pain as she resealed her wounds. How wrong they were.

Vinye stayed there for a long time, finally letting the implications of her actions crash around her. Her own mother—the sole witness besides herself to the atrocities her father had committed in Falinesti those years ago—was finally dead, and her fresh blood now flowed in the machine that lay nestled inside her knapsack, intermingling with the blood of the unknown Bosmer and Falmer, and of Ugluk gro-Lugburz and Taron Dreth.

Seek you out the forest and the snow; sift you through the dung and the ash.

Then at the last, return you to your family, and we shall sing the song of the deep ones together …

Finally, Septimus' riddle had been answered, and she was ready to deliver the final piece of the old hermit's mysterious experiment.

At long last, Vinye began to descend from the treetop, and down the cliffs to the shoreline. From there, she would head east along the northern coast to Septimus' hideout.

As she began the long journey, she noticed that she no longer felt cold—the shriek of the wind was merely a whisper now, and the freezing knife-edge of each gust was now nothing more than a not-so-gentle nudge on her robes. Indeed, warmth was spreading throughout her body—a tremble of anticipation for the future that soothed her more than the hearth inside Elenwen's solar.

Though it had not gone according to plan, Vinye had helped to make perhaps the most astounding discovery of the last three eras—she would not begrudge Malys and Cosette for assisting her in getting this far. But the mystery of the Dwemer was not yet complete, she knew. There was still one last task—one last artifact.

And yet, it felt as though her quest for the truth had only just begun …

Winterhold

The wind from the northern seas howled in Grimnir's quarters above the College, and the echoes howled in his ears as the Arch-Mage bent over his desk. His single eye—invisible behind his iron mask that had once belonged to Hevnoraak, whose enchantments kept him hale and hearty even after the injuries he had suffered from his battle with the necromancer M'Alga—looked at the dying candle on his desk, spattering wax over the sheaves of parchment clustered before him.

How long he had been sitting there, doing nothing, Grimnir did not know. But Varulf's visit to the College during the funeral, and what the High King had had to say to him, had vexed him greatly.

Why do you hide and cower from the future, Dragonborn?!

And at first, Grimnir might have rebuffed him. But ever since then, he had been dwelling on his words. He was a Nord, no less so than Varulf, but where the High King was still young and in his prime, Grimnir was old. He had the soul of a dragon, but he still had the body of a mere man—and that body had been lingering in the twilight for longer than it had any business to be.

Yet Varulf's stubbornness was to be admired, Grimnir thought. Here was a man who still believed in heroes and legends—and believed that they still had a part to play in this changing world.

Was it possible that he was still right?

Eventually, Grimnir put down his quill, which had been sitting unattended in his hand for what must have been several hours, and strode out of his quarters. The groan of the windows against the wind turned into a rumble as he ascended a staircase to the top of the College—an empty space, perfect for practicing all manner of magic.

He did not feel the slightest bit cold as he entered this place; the high winds battered his robe, but a simple application of J'zargo's sleight-of-hand replaced Hevnoraak's iron mask with that of another dragon priest of Alduin—Otar the Mad, who he had slain in the necropolis of Ragnvald. The enchantment woven into the malachite protected him from the elements, both magickal and natural.

But it did not protect from the emotional—for the chill spreading over Grimnir's skin had nothing to do with the extreme cold of Winterhold. The Arch-Mage had never thought himself a seer of the future, but nevertheless, a part of him could not help but think that the world around him might need him one more time.

The rumbling sound distracted his thoughts again, and Grimnir turned his gaze northward, staring out to sea. The clouds were growing dark over there, he noticed, and growing darker and larger—and closer.

A storm was coming.

A/N: A belated holiday gift to all my readers, new and old. I hope you've been having a pleasant time of it.

Well, with this update, Second Seed is finally done! Thanks to all of you who put up with me as I kept on slogging through this monster of words. You're amazing people, and you should feel amazing.

But fret not—there's still more to come, and I'll be releasing a few more things down the line before I start laying the groundwork for any sequels. There'll be some one-shots, maybe even some tie-ins, to explore a bit more of the ES universe I've already laid out—perhaps reveal a little more about some of the characters in the process. I will also be updating the prequel First Seed as well—give that a glance, if you haven't already.

Stay tuned, thanks so much again for reading, and I hope you enjoyed it! - K