At dawn, Kelran passed across the border of Morrowind and returned to Skyrim, himself and his horse slowly striding down the path that he had trodden not too long ago. A faint smile slid onto Kelran's face beneath his ebony mask. He noted that the bodies had since been moved off of the road. The inquisitor continued south along the road, moving near Windhelm, from which smoke still billowed slowly from the Grey Quarter. Nary a soul passed him on the roads, which was unsurprising as it was now the time of Frostfall - the dawning of winter. The orange leaves that usually signalled the region known as the Rift were not to be seen, but bleak husks of bark instead.

Kelran had picked his timing perfectly. He had travelled a good distance already over the course of the morning and now he felt that he was close to his destination. Now only several miles from the small village known as Shor's Stone, Kelran turned his horse left off of the road and into the wilderness. The black beast carried him further and further until it halted abruptly, whinnying and expulsing sharp breaths in sudden panic. The inquisitor deftly slid off of the horse while it struggled to keep still then he cast a simple spell of command, forcing the horse to return to the border post to Morrowind. Kelran always kept a certain respect for horses, and like hounds, they seemed always to be able to sense when something wasn't quite right. Naturally, he could feel it too. It was quiet and hidden, but it was there.

Slowly, the Dunmer walked further in, the air seemingly becoming colder than it already was. He froze in place as a deer darted across his path, carrying with it a putrid stench. Kelran pushed further into the wild with a black ebony hand on the hilt of his longsword. After around another minute of skulking through the trees, he saw it. A small stone door built into the side of the mountains that bordered Skyrim with Morrowind. He took another step and stopped, locked in his position. In a swift movement, Kelran drew the sword from across his back, spun to the left, parried a strike with the blade, following up with a strong kick to the back of his aggressor's left knee and then he brought the sword down, stopping short of decapitating the fiend. Staring back up at him with eye sockets filled with a dark red energy was an animated corpse. The man appeared to be have been dead for a while, yet not long enough to become skeletal. Ripped clothes and battered plates of armour clung to him while a heavy steel sword lay limp in his grip. The undead made no move to attack him further. A wise decision for anything with a blade to its neck.

"Tell your master that I am here, slave. I expected a warmer greeting." said Kelran to the corpse.

The corpse seemed to grin wickedly and expelled what he could only assume was some vain attempt at a laugh that only resulted in a horrid gurgling of old blood and bile. As the creature laughed the energy dissipated from its eyes, and it sank down to the ground lifeless once again. The stone door opened of its own accord and Kelran's crimson eyes fell upon a simple downwards set of stairs illuminated in blood red light. Sheathing his blade, he entered and traversed the steps, leaving the corpse behind.

At the bottom of the steps, Kelran emerged into a long and wide corridor of stone. Almost alien depictions of different events in history lined the walls before reaching the large circular door at the corridor's end. Curious, the inquisitor took his time walking the corridor, making sure to at least briefly study the ancient petroglyphs. Moving from one to the other, he saw scenes of ritual sacrifice, mass slaughter, slavery and many men kneeling before a figure sat upon a throne. At least that is what they appeared to be. Without knowledge of the incredibly detailed symbology used, it was very difficult to ascertain true meaning and understanding.

Satisfied, Kelran moved to the large circular door at the end of the corridor which now reminded him of the ancient dragon priest temples that dotted Skyrim. As he approached its stone face, an altar rose out of the floor before it. It was shaped like a bowl with the likeness of a deity upon it. Kelran chuckled to himself, immediately comprehending its significance and then shook his head. Producing a small knife, he stood above the altar and opened his robe to partially reveal his torso before tracing the blade across a faint scar that matched the shape of the Daedric symbol for 'M'. He then leaned over the altar and allowed the blood to drip into the bowl where it sunk into the metal itself. The door slowly slid open in response, throwing up dust and a musty scent. Kelran sealed the cut closed with a fast and precise beam of flame and a stifled scream of pain. Composing himself, the inquisitor strode through.

Inside the inner sanctum, Kelran laid eyes on a throne atop a raised platform to which steps led up. The air was cold and there was little light, but he could see the silhouettes of banners lining the walls that were waving slightly in the gentle breeze from the corridor behind him. A dead hearth lay at the foot of the steps and a sigil of blood lay emblazoned into the stone floor; rigid lines veering off towards the walls of the circular chamber. Kelran took a step into the throne room and a voice stopped the elf in his tracks.

"So, the Dra'gaharihn returns at last at the dawn of the frost…" it said. The voice was ablaze with ancient power, but also did not sound ancient at all. At the end of its words, braziers immediately ignited themselves along the walls with pale blue flames. Black candles appeared dotted around the throne, illuminating the speaker. It was a man, but only to the eye. He was clad in slim black armour accented in faint gold; crimson fabric hung from underneath the pauldrons and belt. A gauntleted hand rested upon the pommel of a longsword that was slightly thinner than the broader designs typically found in Tamriel. His face was like alabaster, gaunt and stern, his neck-length hair blacker than midnight. Black veins surrounded the piercing cold blue eyes that stared towards Kelran.

"Malath." said Kelran, bowing with a fist to his chest.

"Why are you here, boy? Your last words vowed that you would never return." demanded Malath, his voice filling the hall with malice.

"I need your help to save this world." he stated, to which Malath laughed.

"You dare make a demand unto me? Say what you will, perhaps I will listen."

After telling him all that he knew, Kelran still stood before Malath, who was sat upon the throne with his head leaning against a fist. The silence between them seemed unending. Malath had made no movement whilst Kelran had told his tale, his arrogance set aside to hear the plea of his friend. Finally he got to his feet, took hold of his sword and approached the Dunmer.

"I have lived a tremendously long time on Tamriel, as you know." he said, now standing directly in front of him. "War is a natural phase of society for both men and mer, and while I hold no love for this world, neither would I see it destroyed. This is a matter of survival, not fighting for any one side." Malath bowed his head and then dropped to one knee, his hands raised with his sword resting atop them. "I give unto you my blade. I shall help you overcome this crisis until it has found its end."

Kelran stared at Malath and reached out, his hand trembling slightly. His black plated fingers curled around the grip and he lifted it slightly, feeling the sudden volume of power shifting between the sword and himself. Black, shadowy vapours emanated from the steel, tying themselves to both Kelran and Malath before disappearing again. Gradually the passing of magic faded and Kelran flipped the sword and handed the grip to Malath.

"The pact is done, old friend. I don't need the sword, I need the man behind it." he said with a faint smile.

Malath returned it, grabbed the sword and got to his feet, "I am no mere man, Kelran."

"I meant no offence. It was a simple turn of phrase."

Halfway across the world on the north-western coast of Summerset stood the Altmeri city of Lillandril, a port city that was home to the gladiator team known as the Crimson Guards. Spires of silver rose high above the residential buildings at the city's uppermost tiers, giving the Lillandril skyline a needle-like visage. Upon the tallest of these spires, an Altmer gazed out towards the sea and the Dominion fleet that traversed its glistening waters in the evening sun.

"The Dunmer have begun to mobilise their troops. Should we be worried?" asked the Altmer, a woman clad in robes and armour of black and gold. The colours and garb of a Thalmor Paladin.

"I think not, Lady Nerelica. With the Dunmer having not long separated from the Empire, it's likely they are just bolstering their borders now that the Imperials won't do it for them." said the image of another Altmer, a male clad in heavy plate and his face fully covered. Nerelica turned towards the image that hovered just above a small receptacle of illuminated crystal.

"I do hope you are right in this, Tharatol. If the Dunmer mobilise a standing army, they may be more prepared than the Legion for when war breaks out." she sighed and looked back out to sea, "What of the Inquisitors?"

"They are widespread across Tamriel at the moment and Malicin's agents are hunting them down as soon as they can, although rumour has it that he's not quite up to the task…" said General Tharatol, his image pacing back and forth as he spoke.

"Malicin retrieved the Soul, that in itself is a commendable feat."

"Indeed, though I would place greater faith in a well armed and organised army over some ancient stone, my lady. Furthermore, Malicin's agents are losing their foothold within Cyrodiil and especially Skyrim. The Stormcloak rebellion, although quelled by the Legion and our justiciars, clearly sowed the seed of dissent against the Dominion." he said with clear skepticism in his voice.

"Attempting to puppet an entire Empire of various cultures created their growing hatred of us, not some pathetic rebellion in the northern province. The White-Gold Concordat simply gave the enemy the means to regenerate itself, and this time we won't have the element of surprise. That is why we sought the Soul of Trinimac. If we can harness its power, however that may be expressed, the Empire would fall away like the leaves on a tree."

Tharatol laughed and Nerelica turned in confusion. "By Auri-el, this is absurd. Tinkering with the relics of the Aedra has never led to anything good. One result of such dabbling stands against us in the form of the Great Houses of Morrowind! You are naive if you truly believe that this war will be won with old trinkets." he shook his head, "Alas, I have no more time for such talk. I have troops to organise and fronts to plan. A good day to you, Lady Nerelica." he said, and with that the image faded and the crystal dimmed.

Nerelica slammed a fist against the railing that she leaned against and continued to look outward towards the sea in ponderous thought. Frostfall had arrived upon the continent of Tamriel yet as ever it avoided the Summerset Isles. This was not the time to begin a war, but preparations were already under way. The political climate of the Thalmor called for a final end to the Empire, and the loyal servants of the Dominion were all but too happy to oblige. A new war loomed upon the horizon, a conflict to dwarf any other. Whatever the outcome, she knew that Tamriel would be forever changed.

"One empire rises, another falls."