CHAPTER TWENTY

~ANGER IS A CRACK IN THE HULL THAT SINKS THE SHIP~

The sack of straw and wood chipping that served as the dummy's head went flying in an extraordinary spiral, arcing high above the wide-eyed audience of Companion whelps.

Rayya deftly caught it on the tip of a scimitar and faced her audience. "That," she said, "is how you decapitate with two blades." It'd put stars in the youngsters' eyes, but the satisfaction of the trick had long worn off for her. It wasn't an execution she often performed; Nord necks tended to be thicker than others. She flicked the dummy head off her bladetip. "Equal momentum across both arms. Equal deliverance from either side. And the commitment must be absolute. You have no opportunity to parry until you can guard your centreline again."

"So why bother at all?" asked one of the whelps – Mari, if Rayya recalled rightly. The Nord folded his arms and persisted, "You can do the same thing and better with a broadsword."

"Because not everyone has the upper strength to swing one," Rayya said curtly, "and I've found bare necks make bigger targets than armpits or armour joins. Anything else?" Her eyes raked the cluster of Companions, and received no further protest. She gestured at the remaining dummies. "Get to work, then."

They went to it, a handful with interest, most others with apparent disgruntlement. Rayya sheathed her swords and stepped out of the bright midday sun into the welcome shadow of the Jorrvaskr overhang as the training yard filled with the timber thunks of wooden weapons at use.

The door to the mead hall opened and shut. "Still training?"

"What else can I do with them?" Rayya answered, a little sharper than she intended.

But Lydia, Housecarl to the Thane of Whiterun, was no cowering whelp. The big Nord nudged Rayya's elbow. "You're right. Better than their sword arms getting idle. Even yours."

Rayya scoffed. "Not here to try to talk me out of it again?"

"Talos, no. I learned my lesson." Lydia tucked an errant black braid behind her ear. "But you should still go easy."

Rayya looked away impatiently. Ever since her return to Whiterun...! "I don't need your concern."

"You'll have it all the same, my Housecarl. I'm a woman of duty, just like you. Here." Lydia proffered a bottle. "Guessing you haven't had a drink in a while."

"Not for a month," Rayya muttered; the contents were water, always water, but she brought it to her lips with grudging appreciation. She was thirstier than she cared to admit.

"This, as well." Lydia placed a small parcel of food on the table nearby. "You haven't eaten since breakfast."

It was due lunchtime anyway. "I can get it myself, you know," Rayya said, as she sat down and unwrapped the rations. She scowled at the quantity of bread and salted meat that greeted her. "This can't be right. The rations are getting smaller, not bigger." Seized with a sudden suspicion, Rayya asked, "These are yours, aren't they?"

"I can go without." Lydia sat down opposite from her, serious. "You can't."

Rayya searched for the hidden resentment in the other's reply, and found none. It assuaged nothing, only rankled her. What's your play, Housecarl? What do you really want with me? She ate with annoyance and an almost embarrassing enthusiasm, pondering the warrior across from her, this woman who shared service to the same Thane.

Lydia had been assigned to Solen when he'd become Thane of Whiterun, two years before he'd been titled in Falkreath, before he and Rayya had met. It was unusual for a Thane to be named in multiple Holds, and to have multiple Housecarls – and Rayya had heard plenty of stories of rivalry between them. To share in a Thane's glory with their service was all the recognition Housecarls could ever aspire to, they who lived their lives for others – of course competition was common between them. Rayya had wholly anticipated such a rivalry, especially as Solen considered Whiterun far more of a home than Falkreath.

And yet he'd never travelled with Lydia, nor planned to; she'd been assigned the guardianship of his Breezehome hearth and his people, when he was away, and she maintained that duty without a trace of complaint or resentment. Solen had jested it was because he had companions in the plenty back then, he'd been travelling steadily with Faendal and Aela in those days. With Rayya, well, the why was history. Yet though her place as a Housecarl was assured at Solen's side, Rayya had never been sure how to receive Lydia. Were they rivals? Were they meant to be rivals? She was more than a Housecarl to Solen now, but did that elevate or lessen her in Lydia's eyes?

So much uncertainty – Rayya continued to abhor the topic, as she abhorred hesitation. She and Lydia had always treated each other with formal courtesy, and upon her return to Whiterun Rayya hadn't expected that to change. They'd share a roof and a purpose, and no further exchanges beyond it. Whatever jealousies a cheated Housecarl privately nurtured would be kept well apart.

But then Lydia had learned what had returned Rayya to Whiterun, alone. Rayya expected ridicule or scorn from the Nord – a warrior-wife, and a Housecarl no less, getting pregnant by her husband and Thane while on campaign! – but instead it'd been the opposite. Attention, company. All the more so since Rayya had decided to keep the baby.

That decision still suspended her in a miasma of disbelief. Every rational thought had screamed otherwise, all the way down from Fort Kastav – yet when Rayya had visited the Temple of Kynareth, and Danica confirmed the life she bore within her, and asked her the question that had tormented her since that terrible night in the snow... Rayya brought her hand over her gut, straining slightly under its armour in a way it hadn't before. Was it a sort of morbid curiosity? Was it really that instinct all women supposedly had locked away, awakening in the presence of motherhood? Or was it that morning before she'd returned to Whiterun, when she'd felt the glimmer under the skin, the very first?

All she knew was that the thought of tansy tea suddenly revulsed her, and Danica had smiled a knowing smile.

For all the good this unexpected sentiment had brought her. Rayya had never been so plagued with uncertainty. She hated it. Indecision was as good to her as poison, a dulling of wits, a clouding of the mind, an aggravation she could hardly stand. It was what had drawn her to the role of Housecarl at all in this frigid land; a purpose clear and defined, rigid as a sword's spine. She protected her charge from threat. Even being a wife was no different, other than her fear and joy in the endeavour was increased tenfold. But to be a mother...

Rayya hissed through her teeth, and Lydia looked at once to her with concern. "Is it hurting?"

"No. Hasn't moved in days." Rayya's hand lingered over her belly. "I'm not about to recite my troubles to you, not when there's bigger ones."

Lydia's dark eyes roamed over the training yard. "Are they still talking?"

"Not while they're training."

Lydia wasn't a Companion, and until recently had never visited Jorrvaskr – but she was a quiet woman, more ears than mouth, more thought than action. A rare quality in a Nordic shield-maiden. "I can understand the young ones jumping to conclusions – what about the older ones, who've known Solen longer?"

Rayya scowled. "They keep their doubts quieter." And that wouldn't last, either. She'd already caught Athis and Torngeir Ironhand muttering in the undercroft. Ria had become uncharacteristically uneasy. Even Ghelb, who maintained a steady confidence in his Harbinger, had grown increasingly worried as days turned to weeks and still the rumours remained unchanged. And they're the ones really keeping the younglings in line. If their faith in Solen goes...

She tensed and pressed her hand to her stomach again. Gods, Solen, why?

They'd dismissed them at first, she and Lydia both, the rumours that had flickered through Whiterun – the Dragonborn had bargained with the vampire menace, given a Moth Priest over to them without a fight. The city had swollen with refugees from all corners of the Hold across autumn – how many Snowborn dissidents had slipped in among the civilian populace, disguised among the ragged fearful farmers? It would be easy for them to spread spiteful stories.

Then the Dawnguard patrol had passed through five days ago, and confirmed it, blackly. Solenarren – the Dragonborn – had yielded to the enemy's demands. The city had buzzed with the revelation ever since. The people's staunch advocacy in their faultless Thane was vanishing fast, as resentful hearts and minds became embittered with anger and betrayal of the man they were meant to call hero, the warrior who'd set out to avenge their murdered Jarl. Even the Companions were shaken, even resentful; paid work had dried up since Jarl Hrongar had locked down the city, and none of the Circle had yet returned to them – supposedly the bargain had been made at all to save Vilkas and Njada, who against all belief had survived the Winterhold ambush.

It had eased Rayya's heart to hear it – but Solen knew better than anyone what was at stake went beyond the lives of two warriors, even two warriors dear to him. A prophecy, two Elder Scrolls, and a man who could interpret them.

And to think – Gendolin wanted me as well – to flaunt, to exchange... Rayya's hand trembled as she rested it over her girdle. If it'd been me held up like that... what would he have done?

It was a question she still struggled to answer. Vilkas and Njada were Companions, warriors who'd made their peace with death. They would have sacrificed themselves gladly, herself included had it come to it, and Solen should have known that – so why, in Tu'whacca's name, had he surrendered the Moth Priest to the enemy? What other reason could have been so great as to potentially compromise the very world itself?

No, it couldn't have just been for them. There's another reason. Besides, the bargain had happened weeks ago, and the sun shone as bright as it still could in autumn. There must be another reason.

"You're thinking about it again," said Lydia, intruding upon her thoughts.

Rayya stirred. "I know my husband," she said, almost defiantly, and chucked her chin at the whelps. "They do too, when they pull the scorpions out of their ears."

"They're just frustrated," said Lydia wisely. "There's only so many times a dummy of straw or a shield-sibling makes for a satisfying opponent. They're not used to being caged up behind walls for so long."

"Neither am I," grumbled Rayya, but at least she'd chosen this fate, somewhat. The jobless Companions and the masses of refugees now choking the city streets had not. "I don't know what to do with these glory-chasers, Lydia. They didn't join the Companions to rest their laurels, or follow the command of a pregnant woman."

"But they still respect you," said Lydia, watching Mari attempt the dual-sword execution with honest zeal. "To keep them together is all Solen asked of you."

"And I can't do even that," Rayya growled, infuriated. "Not when there's half a dozen situations to think about, and half of those are about my husband and what in Sep's name I'm doing swelling up at a time like this." She finished her last mouthful and glowered at the crumbs. Double rations, at the expense of another! She wished she'd forced Lydia to take her share back, and yet her shameless stomach still yearned for more. Pregnant! More like a curse!

Lydia considered her for a moment, so still and quiet that Rayya felt tempted to bark at her, to try and elicit some flaw out of this wretchedly composed and faultless woman. Then she said, "If you'd permit me, Housecarl, I'd like to help you."

Rayya squinted at once. "Help me?"

The Nord smiled. "It's uncomfortable watching you dither like an anxious High Elf. Your lack of distraction is what I admire most about you." Puzzled by the unexpected compliment, Rayya raised her head. Lydia leaned back and folded her arms. "I know you think ours is an awkward situation. Two Housecarls, one Thane. But we've both only ever served our duty."

"So why, then?" Rayya asked, because it felt like some curtain was finally being pulled back. "Why didn't you chase the glory? You were his Housecarl first."

Lydia's eyes misted with memory. "Solen had company already, and he wanted someone he could trust to watch his hearth and his people. But really, I don't think he wanted a servant following him. He was too humble a man for that. And we were strangers to each other back then."

"And now?"

"Now? Now our Thane has you. And I have a life as normal as a Housecarl like me could hope for." Lydia grinned. "It's not so bad, you know. Living quietly. The same warm bed each night."

Rayya turned away. "I don't know how you stand it."

Lydia laughed. "You'll be glad of it once you get fatter, my Housecarl."

"Don't remind me."

"But I fear I must." The Nord grew serious again. "You have enough on your mind without that as well. Let me burden some of it. You are precious to Solen – Shor knows there's no greater responsibility I face as his Housecarl while you're here in Whiterun."

Rayya stared, her head shaking automatically. "But I'm –"

"Protecting you is protecting him," said Lydia simply, "and I think you'd agree with me, Rayya. Let me be your shield, so you can be his sword."

For a Housecarl to be protected like a Thane... it was a most irregular concept, and it rankled Rayya, that again she had to be the exception to this damnably dutiful woman who, it seemed, understood her role as the Housecarl far better than Rayya herself. Forcibly she pounced upon those mutinous thoughts and shunted them aside. I as good as chose this when I refused the tea. "And what would your... protection entail, exactly?"

"I'll chase you down to eat and drink and rest, and tell you to put your sword down. In short, I'll worry about keeping the mother and babe safe, even if from herself. Meanwhile, you attend to the duty you know better. Guiding warriors. Protecting Whiterun."

A divide of burdens, Lydia meant – and oh, there were many, between the vampire menace and Whiterun locked down and the evil rumours circulating about her husband and the absence of communication since their parting... Rayya rested a hand over her womb and closed her eyes. I can't do my job – any job – with my mind pulled in a dozen directions.

"And I won't lie," Lydia confessed, "it would be good to feel needed again. Not that I ever wasn't – but the direction is clearer when it's one over many. For better or worse, it keeps a mind tempered."

Not glory – reliability, kindness – those were this Housecarl's motivations. Rayya looked again at the woman who had every right to be her rival, yet wasn't, and wished she'd summoned the nerve to have sparked this conversation years earlier. Perhaps friendship might have kindled sooner between them. "Have you ever looked after a pregnant warrior before, Lydia?"

"My sister," Lydia offered, and grinned. "She might as well have been. She got fierce as she got bigger."

Rayya managed to smile. "All right. I'll try it, Lydia – so long as you won't see it as an excuse to put me in a seat at every moment."

"Only until you can't fit your armour. Until then –" Lydia smirked and reached for her longsword. "Fancy a spar, at-Mafurah?"

To shift the lurking worries of motherhood to another's shoulders, and then to brawl out the last of that restive energy with live steel, was as revitalizing as a scorching-hot bubble bath. Rayya put her arm into it, joyously, feeling much like her old self, and not only because Lydia knew how to take a hit. Perhaps having a confidant in the Whiterun Housecarl wouldn't be such a bad thing after all.

They'd caught their breath and were about to start on their fourth bout when a scattering of screams rose up from the Wind District below. What Companions still lingered in the training yard swiftly hurried around the mead hall to the front steps. Rayya and Lydia, about to follow suit, didn't have to wait long. The sunlit training yard was suddenly engulfed in a deep shadow that passed as quickly as it came, coupled with the bone-rattling clamour of giant wings. "Oh, surely not," Lydia exclaimed indignantly, as several mournful horns trilled up from the walls.

But Rayya recognized the Dragon as it dipped below the blinding glare of the sun, trumpeting an answer; bold red scales, wings marbled in violet and silver, and a brazen confidence that came of rightly won recognition. "It's no attack," she said, grinning, and hurried up to the Skyforge.

The view it offered was near enough to the Cloud District – Rayya and Lydia climbed up in time to watch Odahviing circle around again from the south. Even Eorlund Gray-Mane, who couldn't be prised from his beloved forge with a crowbar on the best of days, had put down his hammer to watch. The city's screams had subsided with the initial shock of a Dragon's appearance – now they became cheers. Whiterun remembered the Red Scourge of the Stormcloaks, and the great red beast was clearly parading, winging great figures of eight above the city and the sprawling golden fields of Whiterun.

Only they weren't golden – along the distant stripe of the western road crawled a bold mass of silver and red, rippling in the unison of a march, and even from so afar Rayya spotted the twinkling of sunstruck metal and the fluttering of pennants clawed to life in the autumn wind. The mass of them stretched all the way to the horizon and out of sight – a thousand soldiers, thousands of soldiers. "Isn't that the Legion?" said Lydia in astonishment, as a fresh round of salutary warhorns rang from the walls, announcing the troops' arrival. "By the Nine, they haven't come along in such a fashion since –"

"Since Ulfric Stormcloak marched on the city," Eorlund finished. His two sons had worn blue cloaks, and both had been lost to the war. Rayya glanced his way as the smith rumbled grimly, "I doubt they're here for a reason any less pleasant."

Rayya hadn't expected to be summoned to Dragonsreach to join Jarl Hrongar's council, but it seemed in both Solen's and Aela's absence that she was the next best thing to the city's Thane or Companion advisor. The moment she entered the war room, up the stairs behind the Jarl's throne with Lydia at her shoulder, she felt to be thrust back in time. It was Stormcloak's looming siege all over again. The Whiterun Jarl and his court gathered on one side of the great war table, General Tullius and his commanders on the other.

Her entrance turned several heads, including his own. Rayya didn't salute, as she was no longer a soldier, but she bowed her head. Her surprise must've shown, as Tullius said, "Quite frankly I'm just as surprised to see you here, at-Mafurah, without Solenarren with you. Did something happen?"

Rayya deliberated on her answer. It wasn't exactly a secret, but nor had she advertised why she was presently out of commission. She cast her gaze around the war room, counting the known and familiar faces – Tullius, his scribe, Commander Caius, Legate Quintus Cipius, Jarl Hrongar, his new Housecarl, the steward, the court wizard – and decided it was safe enough. "I'm indisposed, sir." She indicated her lower torso.

General Tullius looked blank. "New armour?"

Lydia coughed slightly. "She's uh, pregnant, sir."

A stir of enlightenment rippled among the gathered menfolk, and suddenly Rayya was hard-pressed not to roll her eyes. Really. "Well, seems congratulations are in order, then," said Caius pleasantly.

"I'd prefer if we didn't let it distract us from what's brought five thousand surplus soldiers and Odahviing to Whiterun, Commander."

"Ten thousand," Jarl Hrongar corrected grimly, and to Tullius, "We can't feed or house that many, general, let alone a Dragon. The city's already on rations."

"My troops will feed themselves, and eight thousand will be moving out momentarily. Odahviing will be stationed at Fort Greymoor, when he won't be keeping the skies clear." Tullius frowned, recalling his march up from the Plains District to the palace. "What supplies can be spared will be given out among the civilians. Soldiers will be stationed across the Hold so your farmers can finish the autumn harvest."

"Finish! Scavenge, more like. Between the vampires and the Dragons, no one's leaving the walls, let alone to labour." Hrongar looked vastly different in his embroidered robes and decorative furs, Balgruuf's crown upon his brow, yet Rayya thought he'd eased into the role of Jarl surprisingly well. He leaned over the map and indicated with one broad hand. "Only farms still tended are the ones right in my city's shadow. Rorikstead was abandoned weeks ago."

"We saw," said Tullius grimly, "we rode through it."

Rayya had questions, but stood back and listened, as any sensible Housecarl would. Answers would come if she paid attention, and come they did, as the council clamoured and pored, sending for maps and documents and reports, covering the table in sheafs of parchment and grim truth. The problem of starving Dragons attacking travellers, then farmsteads, then small townships had become such an issue that Tullius could no longer mobilize his troops fast enough from Solitude – so he'd temporarily moved his centre of operations to Whiterun, the hub of Skyrim, leaving his trusted Legate Rikke behind to maintain order in Castle Dour.

"You can't force a Nord to do what he doesn't want to do," growled Jarl Hrongar. "My folk are scared and rightly so. Not even soldiers will send farmers further than a day beyond the walls, by day or night."

"They can work or they can starve," said Tullius, with his usual callousness. "Every Hold has struggled with their year's harvest. Whiterun always grows the excess grain to sell to shore up the other cities' stores."

"Our coffers have run dangerously low, my Jarl," Proventus warned, brandishing a ledger of accounts. "Traders have quit the roads, even the Khajiit caravans, from all these attacks. Normally autumn should be our most profitable time of year."

"Damn it, man! Do you think I give a damn about gold?"

"I only mean, Jarl, if you wished to purchase supplement grain from neighbouring Holds..." Proventus tailed off pointedly, and shook his head. "And no other Hold will have anything to spare."

Jarl Hrongar glowered down at the flag-studded map again, dour. A city facing starvation was one thing; a whole province was entirely another. "Can't your Empire provide?" he finally asked, turning to Tullius. "Haven't we bled enough for you?"

"The Jerall pass will seal off soon with snow," said Tullius, moving an assortment of pins across the map. "We've sent ships, but they're racing sea ice. Only the south Morrowind road and the Markarth pass will stay open through winter. Supplies will be long in coming, especially to the northern cities."

"There's no way around it," Quintus Cipius frowned. "Whiterun's harvest must be salvaged."

They stared down at the province of ink and parchment, Rayya with an uneasy feeling in her stomach. With the Forsworn withdrawn, the Markarth road would offer only the perils of the highland road – it was narrow and difficult. Even solitary riders on horseback struggled with haste – getting supply wagons through would be a nightmare. That left only the south Morrowind road, by far the most reliable thoroughfare even through summer – but that road led straight to Riften. Riften, where Gendolin and his vampires had made such a presentation of themselves upon the very ramparts...

Surely Tullius knows about that. Rayya looked up sharply and straight into the general's waiting eyes. "I've heard rumours," he said, "and unpleasant ones regarding the Dragonborn, at-Mafurah. I hope you're about to tell me they're wrong."

Rayya tensed. It had been Tullius who'd acted on Solen's behalf to get the Priest into Skyrim at all. "I've been in Whiterun this last month, sir. I wasn't there."

Tullius's expression sharpened. "What about the Scroll you were delivering?"

The Whiterun court exchanged mystified looks, but Rayya tensed further. If Solen had told Tullius about her quest, then Solen would have told him everything – about the other Elder Scroll, about the Day of Black Sun. Of course he would have – what else would we have needed a Moth Priest for? It took an effort not to look away. She still burned with the shame at the loss and shivered at the memory. "It was intercepted, sir."

"Intercepted?!" The general's eyes popped. "By who?"

"A vampire lord. Gendolin." She still felt his fingers around her throat, six weeks later. "The Volkihar's champion. The same one who concerted that... exchange outside Riften. The one whom my husband is hunting." The one who wants my husband dead.

Wheels were turning in Tullius's head, silently putting fragmented pieces of the grim puzzle together. The scribe at his elbow had stopped, quill poised curiously. "Do you mean to tell me, at-Mafurah," said Tullius eventually, "that not only has Solenarren lost the Moth Priest I sent for, but the same vampires whom he insists orchestrate this crisis across Skyrim now have a second Elder Scroll?"

"Pardon me," said Proventus weakly, "an Elder Scroll?"

"A second?" Farengar exclaimed.

"In a moment!" Tullius snapped, turning back. "Well, Rayya?"

Rayya couldn't bring herself to answer. Tullius swore and rammed his fist on the table, making the mead mugs jump.

"A Dawnguard patrol visited the city recently," said Jarl Hrongar cautiously, once the jolted map pins had stopped rattling their reproach. "Seems half the vampire hunters witnessed some sort of exchange at Riften, between the Dragonborn and a vampire lord. A priest for hostages. Sounded like the whole city would've been slaughtered otherwise."

"Impossible," Tullius growled, jerking his head up. "Legate Fasendil reports the city is stable."

Rayya's backbone stiffened in alarm. "But sir – it can't be."

Tullius glowered at her. "You believe Fasendil's reports are untruthful?"

"No, sir." Rayya recalled the Altmer Legate – knew Solen admired him greatly – knew him well enough that to deceive or whitewash would be entirely out of his incorrigible character, and not even a viper's nest like Riften could corrupt it. And no way in Tall Papa's name would he have ever let a swarm of vampires parade themselves on the walls like that. But parade they had, and that left three deeply unpleasant options to consider. "What happened at Riften's gates happened, but such a blatant show of power doesn't happen overnight. Fasendil's reports have been forcibly made untruthful, against his will – either through enthralment, or... replacement." Or worse.

Tullius straightened up alertly. "They can do that?"

"Oh, aye, general," glowered Jarl Hrongar, and suddenly the Whiterun court were thunderous. "They've glamorous ways of leaving wise men for fools." All were silent for a moment, recalling Balgruuf and his fate.

"Gods' blood," Caius suddenly cursed. "Then the south Morrowind road – if Riften's been compromised –"

"Don't get excited, Commander," Tullius snapped, but clearly the revelation was not only Caius's. "The Dawnguard are stationed along that same road, aren't they?"

"Right at Skyrim's border, sir," Rayya nodded.

Tullius sighed through his teeth. "Sennius," he said, and the scribe beside him jumped to attention, "draft a letter. I want words with the Dawnguard's leader – what was the name, at-Mafurah?"

Oh, that'll be fun. "Isran, sir."

"Draft one to Captain Agnata as well. I want Greenwall's reinforcements moved to the city –"

"Vampires aren't Dragons, sir," Rayya interrupted – she wasn't a soldier anymore, there weren't worse repercussions interrupting a general mid-stride than a sour look. "They don't throw themselves on shows of power. Send in a storm of swords like that –"

"The Empire will not be intimidated, at-Mafurah, nor will it tolerate insubordination or threat."

"Yes, I get that, but these aren't Cloaks or dissidents, they aren't even mortal. Bloodshed will only empower them. And there's still the civilians. Solen never would've surrendered to their demands if their lives hadn't been on the line."

As she said it aloud, she knew it to be true, as surely as if she'd been there after all. Tullius remained silent, and Rayya pushed the point. "You can't fight these enemies like Stormcloaks or Dragons, sir. Not in the open."

"So what do you propose we do?"

What could they do? What the Legion did best. "Keep Skyrim going," Rayya urged. "Salvage the harvest, garrison the keeps, protect our people. Keep torches burning every night, and give Solen and the Dawnguard a chance to turn this around."

"I already did," Tullius said darkly, "and it only became worse. The mutterings of my soldiers suggest I'm not the only one thinking that. Wars aren't won on promises, and the last ones the Dragonborn made to me – vehemently, I might add – he failed to deliver upon."

"Mind yourself, General," Jarl Hrongar warned. "He's been our Thane far longer than your soldier. We won't hear insults to his honour."

"I'm not saying a damn word about his honour, I'm questioning his results. I have a country being torn apart by Dragons by day and vampires by night, a failed autumn harvest and the prospect of the whole kingdom starving through winter. The situation is not improving and the Legion is stretched to its limits. If Skyrim's celebrated hero and the Dawnguard he spearheads can't get this under control –"

"He will," said Rayya fiercely. In a moment she could bear it no more – the undercurrents of doubt, the scathing whispers, the fears of defeat and the first strains of hopelessness, the sentiments that had plagued both the city and her own uneasy heart. "Never forget," she said, glowering among the council, "that Skyrim is his home. Our home. If Solen can bring down the Twilight God and avert the End Times, he can stop the Day of Black Sun, and gods help you all if you doubt that he will."

"Well said," boomed Jarl Hrongar. "He does take by surprise, our Solen. Sometimes in bad ways. Mostly in good." And even Proventus was inclined to nod.

Perhaps Legate Cipius recalled the siege of Whiterun, where all had witnessed the prowess of a Dragonborn unleashed upon the field. "I wouldn't write him off yet, sir," he said, "not until he's dead."

General Tullius exhaled languorously through his nose. The cluster of red map pins he'd been moving towards Riften he slowly pushed back upon Fort Greenwall. "He has," said Tullius slowly, "until my soldiers have been stationed and I hear back from this Isran. And if the Dragonborn hasn't delivered results by then, or I've not seen some shift in this war for myself, then the Legion will address this Volkihar situation as I see fit."

Rayya knew exactly what that would entail. Volunteers and hirelings and every city-fevered Nord with an axe pulled into the Legion's employ – perhaps even ex-Legion, if it grew bad enough. Bounties issued on vampires and Dragons both. Open fighting from inexperienced hunters and soldiers unprepared to face monsters like Gendolin. A handful of competent fighters harrowed from untold scores of warriors proven wanting. Bloodshed and death, suffering and loss. All on hungry bellies with winter's teeth bared to bite down on Skyrim's soil.

If the vampires didn't achieve their prophecy first.

"Perhaps now you might explain about Elder Scrolls and Moth Priests and what in Kyne's name they've got to do with this mess," Jarl Hrongar prompted gruffly, as though he'd read Rayya's mind. "And what does a 'Day of Black Sun' have to do with it?"

Rayya caught Tullius's eye and knew the burden of this revelation fell squarely on her shoulders. "Everything," she said, and to the waiting court explained the dark aspiration that had, despite their every effort, tumbled an exhausted Skyrim back into war.