Prologue

Lakeview Manor

Morndas, 16th of Second Seed, 4E 208

Harald Lorasson's ears pricked up at the sound of the approaching hoofbeats. He looked up from the tilled earth at the newcomer, quickly deducing him to be a courier by the papers poking out from his satchel, and the sealed letter he produced as he stepped down from the saddle of the sprightly mare he rode. The young courier walked briskly toward the gate of the manor that Lorasson had built on the shore of Lake Ilinalta. Of course, I had help, he thought, as he glanced toward his steward, as well as one of his closest friends. Faendal had likely heard the approaching rider well before Lorasson had, and had quietly laid his bow across his lap as he lounged in a chair on the porch, his clay pipe still in between his teeth. The Nord looked back at the approaching courier and stood from the patch of lavender he had been busy planting. The lad held up the letter and finally announced himself.

"I've been looking for you. Got something I'm supposed to deliver, your hands only." He looked back and forth between the Nord and the Wood elf.

Lorasson brushed the dirt from his hands and reached into his pocket, handing the lad a handful of Septims as he took the letter. He glanced at the seal and raised an eyebrow. Auryen. He looked back at the courier and spoke softly, "Thank you. Give the curator my regards."

"I will, though I'd be quick in responding to him. He seemed awfully excited about something."

"He didn't say what it was about, did he?"

The courier shook his head, "Nope, sorry. Nothing. Well, looks like that's it, got to go."

Lorasson said nothing as he turned and stepped inside. Faendal got up from his chair and followed him in. Lorasson tossed the unopened letter on the dining room table and went to rinse his hands in the wash basin. Drying them, he paused to wonder what this could possibly be about. Despite their steadfast friendship, Auryen Morellus had been content to leave his former relic hunter to his own devices, the latter having decided to live quietly in the woods by Lake Ilinalta. Even when the Nord had been regularly offering his services to the museum, Auryen had almost never bothered sending couriers to deliver news of discoveries. Must be significant for him to have contacted me after all this time. He sat and opened the letter, sipping from a chilled snifter of Black-Briar Reserve as he read.

My old friend,

I hope this missive finds you well. While I normally have not bothered you with letters announcing every new discovery, this one in particular I feel you may find to be interesting, and I also confess that we may yet have need of your talents and connections to solve the mystery surrounding this item. Indeed, it was sent to us by courier from none other than the Greybeards, and the object was brought to their attention by the dragon Paarthurnax, who happened upon it when returning to the Throat of the World, after some time spent elsewhere. I would offer specifics, my friend, but given the nature of where this item was found, I feel that some discretion is called for. I am sure you will understand. Please, make haste to the Museum so that we might discuss this in person.

Best wishes,

Auryen Morellus

Before any conscious thought was formed, Lorasson was on his feet, having drained the glass of mead, making a beeline for the basement.

Faendal called after him, "I've seen that look before, friend."

He stopped and glanced back, "What do you mean?"

"Remember when you thought you were ready to hang your cloak in Raven Rock?"

He shook his head, "I don't anticipate this being some grand adventure. Though I doubt I would say no if it turned out to be."

"You'd give up gardening that easily?"

He sighed, "Do you remember what I told you after Solstheim, about why it is that I wander?"

The elf nodded, "I suppose it's not the sort of thing that just fades away completely with time."

"It might diminish, but some remnant still lingers," Lorasson said, as he opened the trapdoor to the cellar.

The Bosmer's face tightened, "I understand. I suppose we're alike in that regard, but being attached does complicate things somewhat."

The Nord smiled, "Camilla's not an easy woman to leave behind. Give her my best."

"Of course. I'll draft some letters to Jorrvaskr and the College to let them know you're indisposed."

Lorasson nodded back as he descended the ladder. In recent days, he rarely went armed when traveling, even between holds on the rare occasions he did so, his mastery of spell and shout being more than enough to turn even a group of well-armed highwaymen. The uncertainty of this errand being what it was, however, meant that a healthy measure of caution wasn't unwarranted. He took stock of the many arms and armor he had accumulated over the years, both found and forged. Being close friends with an Orc quartermaster during his days in the Legion had been a boon, as it turned out. Yotul had always wanted to work Skyforge steel, he thought, wondering what she would think were she alive to see what he'd made of himself. His gaze settled on a mannequin in the far corner, away from the forge where the heat would not affect the integrity of the harness that it bore. It had taken him and Eorlund Gray-Mane a fortnight to complete it. It had been Eorlund's idea, a celebration of sorts to mark the passing of a year since the defeat of Alduin. The carefully formulated alloy of ebony and Skyforge steel gave the plate a glossy, dark gray hue, the ornate engraving on the breastplate and helmet contrasting with the buffed-out scratches and hammered-out dents of a harness that had lived much of its life outside the confines of an armory. The dark crimson mantle and black fur covering the shoulders offered some protection from the elements, more there for the wearer's comfort than to protect the corrosion-resistant metal. The helmet was a barbute style, with a visor resembling a letter "T." This style of helmet offered an acceptable balance between visibility and protection, as well as allowing Lorasson's shouts to escape the confines of the ebonsteel without deafening him.

Having donned his armor, he now looked over the pieces that had been his choice of arms for the last several years. A seax, forged for him by Eorlund to mark his appointment to Harbinger of the Companions. The forearm-length, clipped point blade was forged from an alloy of copper and Skyforge steel, the latter etched until it was nearly black. This rode on his belt, forward of his left hip, easily drawn with either hand. On his back, was the two-handed longsword Ritevice. This sword, forged by the legendary Argonian smith Hazadir, had once been wielded by a Breton paladin of great renown. It had come into the possession of Legate Rikke, who had presented the sword to Lorasson after he had helped bring the Stormcloak rebellion to heel. Lastly, on his right hip, was his grandmother's war axe. Though she had died before Harald had been born, Ritgerd the Bearclaw was a legend in her grandson's eyes. His mother had regaled him with story upon story of the half-mad woman who had left behind a comfortable life as steward to the Jarl of Riften to become a Shield Maiden of the Companions. Indeed, the only man she was willing to take as a husband was one who could best her in a duel to first blood. That same fighting spirit seemed to live on through the bearded Skyforge steel axe, as he could not help but feel a swell of confidence whenever he gripped the weapon's worn, leather-wrapped haft. His arms accounted for, he donned his satchel. Another gift, this had been bestowed upon him by Sergius Turrianus, the College of Winterhold's head enchanter, when Lorasson had turned down the position of Arch-Mage as offered to him by Tolfdir. The enchantment placed upon the satchel was a marvel, allowing the unassuming leather tote to hold any number of potions and scrolls, which he could pick out at will, as if the bag could somehow read his thoughts. Which, given Sergius's eccentric nature, could very well be the case, as Mirabelle Ervine had pointed out. "Still," she had said, "quite useful for one who seems to have a gift for inviting danger."

Solitude, Dragonborn Gallery

Turdas, 19th of Second Seed

Finding the door to Auryen's study locked was a rarity. Indeed, the curator was prone to wandering around the gallery and simply leaving his notes for anyone to read. Something about this must have him looking over his shoulder. He knocked on the door. The reply came almost at once.

"Avram, I thought I was clear that I was not to be disturbed. No visitors, patrons, or anyone short of the High Queen herself!"

"And what of old friends?" Immediately, he heard the sound of something being dropped on a desk, and footsteps approaching the door. It opened, and the wisened Altmer's eyes went wide, and a smile nearly split his angular face.

"Harald, dear friend! It's been too long! Please, come in! Would you care for some wine? I know I've got a bottle of Firebrand around here somewhere…"

"Just water, thank you. I read your letter. What is it you wanted me to see?"

The elf nodded, all business now. He went to a tap next to one of his bookshelves and filled a tin mug with water, handing it to his guest. "This latest find has proven to be quite vexing. Carefully, now. It's made of some sort of metal, but we haven't yet ascertained how fragile or stout it is." He picked up a small, light grey object from his desk and handed it to Lorasson. It was light and thin, easily fitting in the palm of his large hand. The light metal was cool to the touch. He turned it over in his hand, examining each side. There was what appeared to be a single large button in the center of the device's rectangular shape on one side, and nothing on the other, save for two small pieces of black glass in the corner. There was a clear line splitting the small slate in half along its length. He would have guessed it to be Dwemer in origin, save for the absence of any of their unique bronze alloy, a dead giveaway for anything Dwarven.

"Have you tried pressing this button?"

"No, we're waiting for Latoria to get back from Winterhold, she should be back sometime tomorrow." Auryen explained further after his friend raised an eyebrow, "I had her show etchings of the object to some scholars at the College, to see if anyone could shed some more light. Assuming it is of a magical nature, I would like another trained set of eyes here when we start poking and prodding it."

He handed it back to Auryen, "Where exactly was it found? Your letter mentioned the Throat of the World, but you wouldn't be more specific than that."

"The Greybeards were. They said that Paarthurnax explicitly mentioned the 'Tiid Ahraan,' or 'Time Wound.' They said that you would understand the significance."

"Twice has an Elder Scroll been opened there, both with the aim of defeating Alduin."

Auryen's eyes widened at the mention of the arcane artifacts. Three of them, including the aforementioned Dragon scroll, were displayed in the Hall of Heroes, under the constant, watchful eye of the best guards money could buy, and secured with the strongest binding spells that Tolfdir could muster. "Oh. Oh dear. That…stands to complicate things."

Lorasson nodded, "Time is a fickle thing. Ripping holes in it can have dire consequences."

Auryen shook his head, "I'm afraid it may be a step more complicated than that, my friend. You see, I summoned a metallurgist from Gwylim University in High Rock. The best in his field, as a matter of fact. He told me that whatever metal this object is constructed of doesn't match anything that exists here on Nirn."

"Meaning that it may have come from somewhere outside Mundus?"

"Indeed. As of now, there's no telling what plane of reality it came from."

Lorasson furrowed his brow. "Well, there are some places we can rule out at least. It doesn't look anything like anything I've seen in the Deadlands, Coldharbour, Apocrypha, or the Soul Cairn. Then again, the other possibilities could have us speculating for another week at least." A thought came to him, memories of what he'd learned about the Prophet Marukh. "Have you considered divination?"

Auryen shrugged, "The thought occurred to me as well, but trying to pry one of the Imperial Cult's Oracles away from Cyrodil could take months, if the effort succeeds at all."

The hulking Nord shook his head, "I know where we can find someone with that gift, much closer. In Hjaalmarch, actually. Are you familiar with the Jarl there?"

"Vaguely. Idgrod the Younger, if I recall correctly. She took the seat two years ago, after her mother passed." Auryen raised an eyebrow, "Wait, are you suggesting that she possesses the Sight?"

"She claimed it wasn't as potent as her mother's, but it's still more than most." He reached out his hand to take the object, but Auryen hesitated. He could understand the scholar's trepidation, "It's less than a day's ride from here. I promise you, I won't let it fall into anyone else's hands." The elf relented, and handed it back to his friend.

"You're quite sure you can manage any danger that might arise? It's…been quite some time, especially for a man of your years."

Lorasson understood that too. He had recently purchased a looking glass to put in his bedroom, and the view hadn't been a particularly kind one. His face was cragged with lines, and there were visible streaks of gray in his once black hair, and his beard was heavily tinged with it as well. At fifty-one, he was past his prime. Almost, he kept telling himself. Deny it as he might, he had also prepared for the inevitable march of years. His tireless study and practice of spell and shout could more than make up for where he had ebbed in strength of arms as of late.

"I'm still not decrepit, elf," he replied with a wry smile, knowing that Auryen had at least four centuries on him, "You and Marassi will likely outlive me yet." The Altmer responded with a slight chuckle, though the Nord could hear a tinge of sadness in it, too. He nodded at the curator as he headed for the door, the irony not lost on him that he, a veteran of the Great War against the Aldmeri Dominion, now counted two elves among his closest friends. Time goes on. That's all it ever does.

Morthal, Highmoon Hall

Turdas, 19th of Second Seed

"Late is the hour when you come calling on the Jarl. I'm sure whatever business you have with her, it can wait until morning," said Aslfur, the steward of Morthal and father of Jarl Idgrod the Younger.

Lorasson shook his head, "I'm not convinced that it can," he reached into the small of his back, and pulled out an ornately decorated axe from his belt, "and I was hoping she would be willing to make time for a Thane and friend of the hold." He handed the weapon to Aslfur, whose eyes widened in recognition.

"Forgive me, my Thane. It's been a few years, I'm afraid I didn't recognize you. I'll see if she's still awake." He knocked on the door of the Jarl's bedchamber.

"Enter," it was a young voice, but one that seemed to have gained an air of authority and decisiveness since Lorasson had heard it last.

Aslfur opened the door, and ushered Lorasson in. There, the Jarl stood at the foot of the large bed, still in her nightclothes, "My lady, Thane Harald Lorasson, here on business which he claims requires your attention."

The Jarl shifted her gaze to the taller of the two Nords and nodded in recognition, "You can leave us, father."

He nodded, bowed, and exited the room, shutting the door behind him.

She regarded Lorasson with a wary look, "Well, it's not often a Thane barges in and interrupts a Jarl when she's about to turn in for the night. I trust that this is important?"

"I pray the importance is not of life or death, though I fear it might be. I have need of the gift your mother bestowed on you. You still have visions, correct?"

She hesitated, then sighed, "Yes, I do. Do you need me to predict something?"

He shook his head, and placed the small slate on her writing desk, "To tell where this came from. Have you ever been able to auger anything from objects?"

Her curiosity was piqued, it was easy to tell now, "Only fragments, barely decipherable. And only rarely, on objects with a lot of history associated with them."

"That will be more than what my colleague and I have on this. Is there any…ritual or spell I can help with?"

"No, I've only ever needed to touch something and concentrate. So, if you would just sit there and be silent, this shouldn't take long…" She stepped towards the desk and laid her fingers on the small metal slate, and squeezed her eyes shut. Her head seemed to twitch randomly from side to side, as if she were having a fit, only standing up. As suddenly as it began, she collapsed into her chair, eyes wide, breathing heavily. Lorasson rose to his feet and placed a hand on her shoulder, giving her a few moments to recover before he asked the obvious question at hand.

"What did you see?" He pulled up a chair beside the desk and leaned in, listening intently.

"Saw and heard. I saw a night sky with a shattered moon, cities full of tall, glass towers. I heard talk of kingdoms, names like…Vale, Atlas. Do those words mean anything to you?"

He shook his head.

"There was one other thing I heard, towards the end. A voice, a woman's voice, asking a question."

He narrowed his eyes, "What was it?"

Idgrod locked her eyes on his, her gaze intense, "Do you believe in destiny?"