Dragon from Ash

by Mortigaunt

"I may be Dunmer, but I am the Dragonborn, and I will defend your people whether they like it or not." Expands on Skyrim. Features fleshed out characters, content from earlier games and apocrypha, alternate choices and consequences for actions. WARNING: Contains mature content, including sexual themes, violence, and in-depth examinations of lore.

18. Chapter 18 - Better

Chapter 18 – Better

How terrible, I think, to be a vampire.

Rightly do we revile them, for they are a monstrous and parasitic race capable only of eking out a pale imitation of life by stealing the very blood and soul of others.

And yet, I cannot help but pity them as well, those unfortunate souls who find themselves trapped in the cruel vice of Molag Bal. Either they feed upon the living, and maintain their sanity at the cost of those around them, or they abstain, and degenerate further into corruption. They cannot even take their own lives, for their souls belong to Molag Bal, and who would willingly consign themselves to Coldharbour for eternity?

And so, when I slay one of them, I try not to hate. I cannot tell what path brought them to my blade, what agonizing choices they made. Perhaps they are evil or perhaps they are innocents who fell prey to that same evil.

Nonetheless, I slay each and every one of them. For though it must be terrible to be a vampire, we cannot suffer them to live.

Sindal Loan, Chapter Master of the Knights of the Circle, Shornhelm

---

Her father leaned in close enough that she could feel his breath when he spoke. "You have been away a long time, Serana, and I will not fault you for having become…unfocused…in your time abroad. It is easy to forget our place, or even to feel some misguided sympathy for the cattle, I know. However, now you are returned." His soft words became more insistent. "It is time for you to feed."

"Of course, Father." As the court watched, she bowed her head and drank.

Serana sat at her father's side, watching the court in all of its dark glory. For so long she'd been forced to hide who and what she was, to walk among the mortals as though she were of their kind. And now, I'm home. She could be herself again.

And who is that? She'd been asking herself that question since she'd woken up, and she was still floundering for an answer. After everything that happened, she should have felt more…

More what? Her home hadn't been a place to truly relax, at least not since the ritual. Even now, she felt the tension in the room, as the court assessed this new piece in the games they were doubtless playing. Everyone wants to know where I stand. Well, so did she.

Her father rose, and all fell silent. The cattle stood dumbly or lay motionless; she could see Jolf stretched out on a table down at the far end of the hall.

"Enjoy tonight, my children!" His voice was commanding, but Lord Harkon clearly had eyes only for the scroll on the table before him. "My daughter is returned, and our family is once more complete!"

Funny how my mother doesn't seem to be a part of our family anymore. She watched her father stare down at the scroll, clearly considering something.

He leaned over to her, and spoke in an authoritative whisper. "Your chambers have been left prepared for you; go there and once you are settled, come to see me." He studied her for a long moment. "I will be in my study; I trust you recall the way." Finally, there was the hint of a smile, and a tiny piece of her old father broke through. "You are home now, Serana, and all will be well."

Once her father left the hall, Elder Scroll in tow, the court resumed their feasting and chatter, and if the volume seemed slightly louder, the laughter slightly less forced, she supposed that was to be expected of underlings once their lord had left. None of them are of the royal blood, after all.

But I am. She glanced over at Vingalmo, who was studying her with an inscrutable expression on his long face. He had always been a sharp one, if too cautious to be much of a power player, and she found herself wondering how he really felt about her return.

The High Elf rose, and moved to sit beside her. "My lady, if your father is awaiting you, it would be wise to go to him."

Well, he's certainly mastered the art of sycophancy. Then again, perhaps that was why Vingalmo was still here after so many centuries. Lord Harkon brooked no challengers in his court, and that blend of shrewdness and servitude would have appealed to their lord.

She surveyed the room, eyes momentarily arrested by Jolf but quickly passing him over. "Of course. Thank you, Vingalmo." She gave him a smile. "You've always served us well."

He froze for a nearly imperceptible moment before returning her smile. "You do me too much honor, my lady."

She left the hall to its revels, following a well-remembered path to her rooms. My rooms! After all this time! The thought brought with it the strangest blend of nostalgia and regret; she was going back to a place she loved, but there was no way to go back to the years she'd loved.

No. She shook her head. I am what I am, and there's no sense in regret. Childhoods had to end, and she wouldn't get anywhere by mourning years long gone.

That resolve lasted for exactly as long as it took for her reach the door to her chambers. There, below the handle, was a crack in the wood. Trembling, she stretched out a finger, tracing the edges of the gash.

All at once, she was standing in front of her door, lips trembling as she swung her prize to keep it out of her father's grasp. "You said I got a reward!"

Harkon was trying to be stern, but she could see the smile threatening to break out on his face. "I meant you could have a sweetroll, love, not a sword. Now give it here!"

"No!" She raised the weapon as he grabbed for it, but its weight, too heavy for such a small child, sent her tumbling over backwards while the blade spun out of her hands.

"Serana!" Her father's voice was a harsh scream, and his arms were around her as she sprawled on the ground, clutching her knee. She glanced up, and saw the sword she'd taken from her father's trophy case stuck in her door. The pain from where she'd scraped herself on the stone floor warred with indignation at being held like this. I'm not a baby anymore!

I couldn't have been more than five. Her father had been so quick to run to her, making sure she hadn't harmed herself with the sword, forgetting even to reprimand her. Mother was furious, though. Valerica had felt her husband's childcare left something to be desired, and had let them both know that in no uncertain terms. And yet they gave me a wooden sword just the next week.

She sighed and pushed open the door. No sense dwelling on the past, is there?

And yet, the moment she saw her drawing-room, the memories threatened to overwhelm her. The window, where she'd sit and watch the clouds roll by. Sometimes ships would come from the villages that her father ruled, commoners and adventurers coming to pay tribute and feast at his table. In those days you could see the shore. Now, there was only the fog beyond her windows—windows with great heavy curtains to block out the sun— protection and isolation all in one. It does make things lonely, though. She remembered the bustle of Solitude, and sighed again. Maybe, once I've spent some time here, I'll go back, see some more of this new world.

As she ran her hand over a lounging-couch—I hid candies in the cushions so I could eat them late at night—it occurred to her that everything was unnaturally well-preserved. A lack of dust she could understand, but shouldn't four thousand years have faded the tapestries, or set the cushions to rotting?

She stretched out her magicka, and immediately felt the spells of preservation woven into—they put them in the stone itself? When she'd left, her mother's handiwork had protected a few key locations within the citadel, but this expansion meant that the entire castle was all but immune to the ravages of time. Centuries could pass here unnoticed. It must have taken a tremendous amount of magicka to enchant the entire castle. Or a truly fantastic number of souls. That was a less pleasant thought.

As she pushed open the door to her room, she recalled one thing that had changed. Where, in childhood her bed had rested, a great coffin now lay propped against the wall. She'd never taken to the coffins as much as her parents had, but that might have been because she hated the dreams, and so avoided sleep until she'd been able to put it off no longer. Vampires could not stay awake forever, but by pushing it for as long as she could, she was generally too exhausted to remember much of her dreams. Even we must sleep the sleep of the dead, and dream the dreams of our master, her mother had told her, and so she did. I'll have to sleep again, but not now.

Her lute was gone, though she could not remember to where, and she felt its loss. How long since last I sang? It was improper, however, for a lady of the Volkihar to do anything as mortal and crass as sing or strum at a lute. We have bards for that, her father had said. And we did, for a time. She couldn't help but notice, however, that there hadn't been any music in the hall tonight. Maybe I can change that, now that I'm back. The thought of all the songs that must have been written almost made four thousand years of sleep seem a good bargain.

Finally, she turned to the eastern corner of the room, a well-worn chair the testament to long hours she'd spent awake here after the transformation. From floor to ceiling stretched shelves lined with books, and even now she could name almost all of them. How many times did I read Morgain's Seasons or the Travels of Torval the Pilot? Even now, she could still recall entire passages of For the Honor of the Queen, a particularly salacious Aldmeri romance she'd read until it literally fell apart. I never did manage to recover the pages where Lord Merial bedded the princess the first time, no matter how much I looked. And I'd changed by then; it wouldn't have been proper for a vampire princess to go looking for another copy. She sighed. Childish things to be put behind her, she supposed, but she did adore a good romance.

Still, as her hand closed around the spine of Beneath the Halls of the Ancestors, she was seized by a sudden desire to just curl up and read. To shut away everything that had happened, and lose herself in the adventures of intrepid Ayleids and villainous Yokudans from beyond the far seas of the west. To ignore the summons, the Elder Scroll and whatever he had planned for it, and just be alone here. I could be home.

But, she knew that wasn't an option. Her father had told her to attend to him, and so she would. She checked herself in the mirror to make sure she was composed—Lydia had asked her, during a rare moment of companionship from the other woman, if it was true that vampires didn't show up in mirrors, which had been good for a laugh—and headed out the door.

Lord Harkon's study, in contrast to her rooms, was all but unrecognizable save for its location. Lord Harkon seemed to have embraced fully the trappings of vampirism, and so crimson and black paintings adorned the walls and the furniture was dark wood and stone. Very imposing, I'd imagine. Serana, though, had eyes only for the lord of her clan and her bloodline, the progenitor of Volkihar and guardian of the promise of Molag Bal. Or so he says. She didn't doubt that he had her lord's favor, of course, but that last one had always seemed a bit dramatic. Not that she'd ever tell him that.

Her father was standing over a table strewn with books, one hand closed in a vicelike grip on the Elder Scroll. He raised his head when he heard her enter, and smiled. "Serana. Come in, close the door. We have much to discuss."

I'll bet we do. She did as he bade her, standing beside him and looking down at the papers and books strewn before them. "What are you looking at?"

"Our future." He'd always had a flair for the dramatic, but she knew him well enough to recognize the real excitement in his voice. "Despite your mother's…treachery'" his voice fairly spat venom, "we are once more on our way to victory over our most ancient foe."

"Who?"

Her father placed a hand on her shoulder, squeezing slightly. "The most virulent enemy of our kind. Think, Serana. What has always opposed us, preventing us from our rightful dominion of Tamriel?" His eyes flicked to the heavy wooden shutters, dabbed with thick pitch, that obscured the window, and she understood.

"The sun," she breathed, scarcely able to believe it. If we didn't fear the daylight, what could we accomplish? She could watch a sunrise, walk the streets of Solitude or Whiterun—or even the White-Gold City!—with crowds swirling around her, all without fear of pain or revealing her true nature. I can…

Something of what she was feeling must have made its way to her face, and her father tightened his grip, smiling with a fervor she'd not seen from him in…well, not in four thousand years, I guess, but even before that. Since the ritual, her family had grown apart—not like we could pretend everything was fine after that—and Lord Harkon's smile, for all that it should have carried warmth, somehow chilled her. "Serana, there is a prophecy. Our prophecy, one that will spell the end of the tyranny of the sun." Those last four words were spoken with a strange emphasis, and he squeezed her shoulder so hard she had to bite back a wince of pain.

"Well, okay, then." Serana, as she always had, deflected her father with blithe pleasantries. The last time I saw him like this, he was kneeling before the altar, drenched in blood. Shuddering, she pushed those thoughts away. "What exactly does it say?"

Harkon— Lord Harkon—frowned. "I worry at your tone, Serana. These are grave matters before us." He sighed. "But, you are only recently returned, and so I shall be patient." He patted her shoulder. "There is a prophecy and a ritual, spread across three Elder Scrolls, that speaks of how we may blind Magnus, turning the very sun dark and letting us walk free."

She felt a stab of disappointment. It wouldn't let us walk free, it would just turn day to night. A moment's reflection made it clear how advantageous that would be for vampires, but still…I would have liked to see a sunrise. Not to mention, the thought of vampires—all vampires—wreaking havoc on the world was a little disquieting. She remembered Movarth, after all. Not everyone's as nice as I am.

Instead of letting her worries show, however, she only smiled at her father. "So, how do we start?" Clearly, he wanted her to be a part of this, and it was her duty to obey. "Just go hunt down two more Elder Scrolls?"

Lord Harkon's smile vanished as quickly as it had come. "No. Your traitor of a mother took the second of the Scrolls when she betrayed me, and the secrets held within. Until we find her—or her rotting corpse—we can only prepare." He stepped away, and indicated a map of Skyrim marked with numerous X marks and circles. "The third Scroll lies somewhere in Skyrim, I know, but we cannot find it." He hissed in irritation. "My hope is that with the dragons' return, the scroll that shares their name will surface."

Serana's stomach roiled at the thought of dragons—and Velandryn. "Shares their name?"

"The prophecy spoke of three scrolls. Sun, Blood, and Dragon. We found the first two long ago, but the third has eluded me for all these years."

"And it has to be these three?" Honestly, Serana hadn't even known they could be distinguished from one another. I'd always though they were just Elder Scrolls. Do they all have names?

Her father shot her a look she knew well, one that told her to remember her place. "Yes!" Then, he visibly calmed himself, and indicated a small shelf that held a few slim tomes. "There isn't much written on the Elder Scrolls, but I've found that the Moth Priests often name them."

Serana frowned, thinking. "So, there's a single scroll you need, and you know it's in Skyrim? Surely someone knows where it is."

He scowled again. "You think I haven't considered that? The libraries in Markarth and Solitude have nothing of any use to me, and those skilled enough in magic to help are also beyond my reach." He paused. "For now, at least. But for the moment, the only sure way to find an Elder Scroll is to seek enlightenment from another." Another pause. "Or, so say the Moth Priests."

Serana frowned. She was getting confused, and wanted to clear things up. "Hold on. So, what exactly do we know? Not speculation, not something you're fairly certain is true, but can confirm."

Lord Harkon only patted her shoulder, smiling. "Do not worry yourself, my child." His earlier irritation seemed to have passed. "Go, and enjoy being among us once more. I will send for you when I have a plan."

She clasped his hand. How long since he last touched me as a father, to show affection? Before her sleep, it must have been years. "Let me help you. I've been out there, I can—"

"When the time is right, my dear." He patted her gently. "Go! See the castle; meet some of the others. They will be pleased to know you." He smiled. "Or at least they will pretend to be. They all scheme, as ever, but do not let it concern you. You are blood of my blood, as they can never be."

She rose, recognizing that she'd get nothing further from her father right now. Even this much was extraordinary for him; he'd never exactly sought out her counsel. Still…

"Father?"

"Hmm?" He had already returned to his desk, and the tone of his response made it clear that their familial moment was done.

"Why did you offer the pure blood to Velandryn?" She had expected her father to make him a vampire, true, but the magnitude of his offer had been shocking. Lord Harkon had always jealously guarded what he called their royal gift, and even the highest of their court had not been offered such.

"The elf? He succeeded where so many of my own had failed, empowered by nothing more than a mortal's determination. Imagine what he could do if elevated to our level." He gestured at the desk. "Now, with you and the Scroll returned to me, we can begin to move towards our ultimate victory. I will need an agent unsullied by the politics of the court, one who serves none but me. He would have been an admirable servant, and empowered as we are, none could have stood in his way." He sighed. "A shame he was so foolish, but he has chosen his fate."

"Are you going to hunt him down?" The question almost caught in her throat, but she got it out with stammering. What would I do if he sent out a hunting party?

"No. He could be anywhere, and we must focus on our plans."

"But—" she bit back what she had been about to say. He's Dragonborn, and he has a map to our location. Either one of those would likely set her father hunting Velandryn, and both would certainly spell doom for her friend. My friend? She didn't know where that word had come from, but she wanted to believe it was true. I haven't had a friend in a long time. So, she held her tongue.

Her father had noticed her half-started sentence. "Were you saying something, Serana?" His voice had an edge that verged on danger, and she gulped. I never could hide anything from him.

"But…you have me. What need is there for anther pureblood?" It was an honest question; it had hurt a little to hear her father talk of needing an agent as though she weren't there. I got back home, didn't I?

"Serana, you will have your part to play, but I won't risk you running errands across the province. He would have been at once powerful and expendable. The strongest of our pieces, but nothing more." He waved at the door. "Like all of them out there. They are more than mortals, but they are not family."

She bowed her head. "Of course, Father." As she left, she wondered if what he'd said was true. Why would he lie to me? And yet, she had the feeling that was keeping things from her, and not just so that she could go and see the castle.

Well, whatever it is, I'll learn in time. After all, she was home.

---

"My lady, it is a pleasure to see you in my humble workshop. If there is any aid I can render, rest assured it is yours." Feran Sadri had been Dunmer once, and the vampire still had skin that put her painfully in mind of Velandryn. His manner, however, while similarly courteous, was far more servile than the Dragonborn had ever been to her.

She smiled back at him. "I'm just getting to know the important people of the castle; I've been away for too long. You handle potions for us, I've heard?"

"Indeed. Just about every kind you need, though before you ask I've nothing that will keep us safe beneath the sun. I can give you the potions themselves or ingredients if you'd care to try your hand at crafting." He smiled—I wonder if it's just Velandryn who has to think about them, or if this one's had practice? "I usually charge a small fee to make sure the others aren't abusing my stocks, but you need only ask."

Unlike lesser Volkihar, Serana wouldn't die from being out in sunlight, though it was tremendously unpleasant. Right now, though, she had something else in mind. "I heard you don't play politics, so I figured you'd be a good one to ask about how things stand in the court. Like I said, I've been away too long." Both Vingalmo and her father's other top lackey—no, I have to call them advisers—Orthjolf had expressed little in the way of an opinion on Feran Sadri, which led her to believe that he wasn't much of a power player. And I don't want to start mucking around in court intrigues. In order to avoid them, though, she had to know how things stood.

Feran, though, just shrugged. "I know Vingalmo and Orthjolf hate each other, but I don't much worry about what others are doing. I have my work and I go raiding; that's enough for me. Ask Garan if you really want to know something. I keep out of politics 'cause I don't care, but he's got a finger on the pulse—pardoning the pun, my lady—of the court."

"Garan?" She'd heard Vinglamo mention him, but nothing more than the name.

"Garan Marethi. Mostly keeps to himself, doing research on whatever it is Lord Harkon wants. Only other Dunmer in the castle, you know." He scratched at his neck. "He's the one that turned me, you know. Came into a cave my crew was holed up, told me later he was looking for some magic ring. Good man, him, and not one to stab in the back." He grinned. "Strange, right? Dunmer from the homeland like him, you'd think he was one of those crazy ones like that friend of yours. Garan's all right though."

Serana was curious about this Garan Merathi, so she made her farewells to Feran, who just shrugged and turned back to his work. A rough one, but loyal.

She found Garan Marethi in a spacious chamber at the back of the laboratory and magical workshops. He was seated on a cushion amongst numerous tomes and scrolls, reading with an air of languid unconcern. He rose as she entered, bowing slightly. "Lady Serana."

She smiled at him, bowing back. "Master Marethi. It is an honor to meet you."

Garan Marethi made Velandryn look plump, so cadaverous was the vampire. Like Feran, his harsh Dunmeri features were distorted by the ridges that creased his brows and nose, proclaiming him a Volkihar of middling blood. Serana was long past finding the look repulsive, but she still gave thanks that her…purity…let her keep the face with which she'd been born. He wore deep blue robes of some shimmering material that seemed to steal and release the light as they flowed around him, and each of his fingers bore at least one ring. When he genuflected, his upraised hand glimmered in a half-dozen colors. "Please, my lady, just Garan will suffice. You are our princess, after all, and the honor is mine. How may I ease your return to our sanctuary?"

"I had some questions." She gave a little chuckle that was only half-faked. He certainly knew how to flatter. "I've got a lot of catching up to do."

Garan pulled himself up to his full height—perhaps an inch or two shorter than Velandryn—and gestured grandly about him. "As you can see, I've many answers. I hope some of them will be to your liking."

She didn't know if he had the answers she wanted, but he did have plenty of things. The walls were covered in shelves, and there was scarcely an open square inch to be seen. Books, scrolls, soul gems, one shelf of what looked to be urns and funerary containers, and more sat surrounded them. In one corner, she saw a cabinet of ebony bolted with a heavy silver chain, and the doors one either side of the way she'd entered suggested there was more beyond. "Tell me about yourself, first." Courtesies.

It seemed to have worked, for though his face did not change, she could see that he was pleased. "I saw your traveling companion so I surmise you are familiar with the Dunmer of Morrowind, but I wonder if you are familiar with the…unique place our race occupies. If I recall correctly, you…left us before the Battle of Red Mountain."

She nodded. "Velandryn told me about your history, and the tragedies and rebirth you underwent." She had chosen her words carefully, not wanting to offend.

However, Garan just gave a scornful laugh. "His name is Velandryn? The one who brought you here has the blood of Ashland scum? Just as well Lord Harkon did not favor him with the gift; degenerates like him would only sully our home." He snorted. "I'd not trust three words from filth like that."

"He was a priest of the Temple, he said, and never acted without courtesy and grace." She might not know as much about Velandryn's past as she might like, but she wasn't going to let him be insulted!

Garan laughed again. "Forgive me my disrespect, my lady, but your…forgive me, was he a thrall or an unwitting fool? Whichever he was, he was of ignoble and debased stock, and I would not take anything he said as true." He waved a hand, and a thick book drifted off one of the shelves. "I can give you some information on my kind, if you would prefer truth to whatever lies he told you." He settled back on his cushions, and waved at a pile across from him for her to do the same.

She gave it a try, liking the softness but feeling somewhat discomfited by the lack of support. "Is this how Dunmer sit, then?"

He laughed. "The crossed legs, yes, but not the cushions. Truth be told, I stole this idea from another of our clan who…fell afoul of an internal upheaval a few hundred years ago. He hailed from the Bangkorai lowlands, originally, and brought this fashion with him. I find it relaxing."

Serana wasn't so sure, but her mother had been fond of telling her that she should try everything once, so she let herself try to relax. "So, tell me more about Garan Marethi, and why everyone seems to think I should meet him."

"Ah, if only that were true!" He snapped his fingers, and one of the curtains stirred. "I'm afraid I'm just another member of the court, albeit," he grinned wickedly, "one with an interest in vampiric history and absolutely no stake in the idiotic games Vingalmo and Orthjolf have been playing for the past thousand years. Before that it was Aanitur—Vingalmo killed him with fire, you know, it was quite the scandal for a while— and Jasha, who usurped Kron the Bloody and then made the mistake of trusting big dumb Orthjolf. Let them scheme and squabble; I have made myself invaluable to Lord Harkon. And that is why they want you to meet me, so they cannot be accused of trying to seduce you to their own side." He licked his lips. "But talk makes me thirsty. Would you care for some refreshment?"

Knowing what was to come, she simply nodded. "Yes, thank you." I'll need to get used to this again.

He snapped again, and a golden-skinned elf stepped gracefully out from behind the curtains. Her hair fell free around her, reaching almost to her waist in a cascade of sun-gold locks. A few scraps of black silk theoretically concealed her modesty, but it took little imagination to visualize her body in all of its glory. She knelt between them, her beautiful silver eyes dull and lifeless, and waited.

Serana had seen a couple of the High Elves since waking; Velandryn claimed they attempted to imitate the vanished Aldmer in every way, and if Serana hadn't known the First Elves were extinct, she would have thought it was one of them before her now.

Garan ran a finger down her cheek, tucking a bit of hair behind her ear. "Some may enjoy the thrill of breaking new blood-cattle, but I have had Mintuile here for two hundred years, and I tell you truly, there is no comparison." He raised her wrist to his mouth, turning it palm up and licking it with a dark tongue. "I have shaped every bit of her to my desires, and I pity those without the patience to make themselves a slave like this."

He bit, and the sharp scent of blood permeated the air. Serana went rigid, wanting to drain this woman dry. Marethi hadn't been lying; whatever magics and training he'd used on this High Elf had turned her into a blood slave as fine as any she'd ever seen. Plus, she's gorgeous. It was all she could do not to take the other wrist and bite in.

The Dunmer lifted his head to study her. "Is something amiss, my lady? I had thought her prepared to the finest tastes, but if your time away has given you a different proclivity, I can procure—"

"No!" She quickly grasped the other arm; the High Elf let herself be pulled without any emotion. "She's exquisite, and I was just…" She trailed off, trying to find a good reason to explain her reticence. "I've been too long away to feed without worrying about others."

Garan smiled again, blood dripping from his lips. "Of course, my lady, and I thank you for accepting my humble offering."

Among the Volkihar—Serana had no idea if it was true for other vampires as well—to share a meal was a sign of trust, if not intimacy. She recalled that it had been a way to declare feuds and schisms over and done; to have the two parties drink together from a blood slave. She had no reason to distrust Garan Marethi, and she got the feeling he would be a good…ally to have.

From the moment her fangs pierced the golden flesh and hot blood spurted into her mouth, she was in bliss. Oh, Lord! It was all she could do not to collapse backwards onto the cushions, and she had to restrain herself from draining the woman dry. She raised her eyes to Garan. "I salute you. She is magnificent." There was a voice far back in her head that wondered how the poor elf felt about being so described, but she suppressed it. They are mortals, the cattle meant to sate our hunger.

The Dunmer chuckled. "Isn't she? There is something delightful about using one of the ever-so-superior Altmer in such a manner. Every time I take her, I wonder at how many generations of breeding for purity were needed to make her." He raised her lips to his, and bit into one, licking away the bead of blood that formed. "It is unfortunate that I was forced to destroy her mind."

Serana squashed an off-putting feeling in her stomach. "Her mind?"

"Oh, she struggled mightily. I had to expend tremendous magicka to keep her under control. Once her husband and children were drained dry and their bones added to the undercrofts, I had hoped that she would break, but her resolve only grew." He slipped a hand under her silks, and squeezed. "So, I took more drastic steps. Now, she is perfectly obedient, though at times I regret losing that spark. The look of pure hatred in her eyes as I fed was a delightful counterpoint to the flavor of her blood." He sighed. "Forgive me, I'm getting sentimental. Did you have more questions?"

She was glad to change the subject, and found her thirst quite abated. "Tell me about the work you do for my father."

As he drank, Garan pointed out some of his more interesting relics. He was on the trail of something he called the Bloodstone Chalice, and he made her promise to inquire with Lord Harkon to see if any of his agents had followed up on Garan's lead. As he explained, "I don't leave the castle much these days, and the age-old issue with sending proxies is that you can't control them yourself." He sighed. "Your mother had some interesting theories on the direct control of thralls, but her journals…I am almost tempted to ask him to let me examine the old tower, but…" He stroked his slave's cheek, and a shudder ran through her golden skin. "I have grown fond of this one, and the last time I suggested following up on Lady Valerica's work…"

"So, I'm guessing things never got patched up between my parents." She was still deeply curious about what had happened to her mother, but she'd also noticed the ruin of the door that had once led to her mother's tower and courtyard. I can wait to ask Father about it until he's in an excellent mood.

"I'm afraid I cannot speak to that. I came to the Volkihar long after your departure, and by then Lady Valerica was little more than an epithet in the mouth of the court. It was my good fortune to find some of her notes in the library below, and your father graciously permitted me to continue some of her work." He inclined his head in what might have been meant to be a sitting bow. "There is much that remains sealed in her tower, however, and Lord Harkon is adamant that none shall go there." He lowered his voice. "Vingalmo claims that she has cursed the tower, and any of the Volkihar who set foot within its halls will die in a most horrible fashion."

Knowing her mother, Serana suspected that it was more likely to be a set of traps and gargoyles, but it certainly didn't sound fun. "And Father won't let you get her journals?" Some of her spells had clearly made their way into the wider world—Movarth came to mind, using that shield—but Valerica had a passion for experimentation, and her rooms atop the eastern tower were likely a treasure trove of knowledge.

Garan shook his head. "Perhaps you can impress upon Lord Harkon the opportunity afforded us."

Serana smiled at him. "I'll see what I can do."

He nodded. "In that case, my lady, let me welcome you back once again with even more enthusiasm. Having gotten to know you, my wishes for your happiness are no less sincere, but my hopes for the future are higher than ever before."

She laughed. "You do have a gift for flattery, Master Marethi."

He rose, dismissing the High Elf as he did so. She retreated silently behind the curtains, dull-eyed and emotionless. "Not a gift so much as an acquired skill, my lady. My time in House Dres made me a practiced courtier, even as it brought me to loathe politics. Now, I simply enjoy a bit of flattery every now and then to ensure my tongue hasn't withered from lack of use."

She laughed again, though her gaze was drawn to where the High Elf—her name is Mintuile!—was waiting behind the curtain. She watched her family die, and then served as a plaything until her very mind was taken from her. She was only a mortal, true, but it was at times like this that Serana wondered if she wasn't a very good vampire.

Such thoughts, however, were of no use to her right now. "Thank you again for everything, but I would like to see what else of the castle has changed while I was away."

Garan bowed deeply. "Of course, my lady."

She left him then, and descended the stairs, deep in thought.

Is it just that I was away so long? She'd seen hundreds of blood slaves come and go, so there was no reason they should be affecting her like this. First Jolf, now Mintuile. I need to pull myself together!

---

There were others in the castle who she met over the next few days, but few made much of an impression. Most were simple underlings, vampires who, despite her father's claims of having the only pure court in Skyrim, probably had more in common with the scattered Volkihar out beyond the castle's walls than with her or her family. I guess we work with what we can get.

Of the inner circle, however, there was more to unpack. She was fairly certain that Garan was exactly what he appeared to be: a powerful old wizard who genuinely only wanted to serve her father and be left alone. Vingalmo and Orthjolf, however, could be trouble. Both advised her father, though it seemed at times as though they were primarily interested in tearing down each other rather than building anything constructive. Finally, there was Fura Bloodmouth, who commanded her father's warrior host, consisting of some eighty or so vampires trained in arms.

Feran had some sort of seniority, but he seemed content to serve under Garan, and so had effectively removed himself from the larger power structure. Somehow, she didn't think it was a coincidence that the two Dunmer—one of whom had turned the other, no less—stuck together, and she imagined Velandryn would find it appropriate. Well, assuming he didn't die of indignation first. Feran Sadri seemed to have no interest in the gods of his people, but Garan had made a few comments that made Serana think he had at one point been somewhat devout.

Other than that, there was the thrallmaster, in whose company she spent as little time as possible, and his wretched flock. She had seen Jolf now and then, but tried not to think about him too much.

To make it easier to avoid dwelling on unpleasant matters, she had access to the library, and Garan had done a good job of keeping it stocked. She was burning through the history of the empires, and found the entire thing fascinating. Velandryn hadn't been wrong about how much had changed, and part of her mourned missing so much history. But I'm here now.

In between reading, she had time to think, and to worry. I'm home, so shouldn't I be at ease? The entire time she'd traveled here, there had been that unspoken truth, that things would be better once she was home. That the wrenching uncertainty that lodged in her gut would be wiped away, either by her family together once more or simply by falling back into her old life, as though she had never left.

But I can't even do that, can I? She wasn't sure if her time away had changed her or if Castle Volkihar was simply different after so long, but things were bothering her that she'd never noticed before. For one, the cattle. They shouldn't have been anything more than furniture. True, she'd never relished having to feed on them, but this visceral unease when she saw them was something she'd overcome long ago.

That High Elf, Mintuile, in Garan's room also preyed heavily on her mind. She didn't doubt that the Dunmer used his possession for sexual pleasure as well as nourishment, but that should have been his own business. Not everyone had her…history, so it made sense that Garan would want to use the slave for that. She was beautiful, after all, and simply a mortal besides. The laws of her father and their lord were clear, and she had no grounds to object.

Still, it feels wrong. She didn't like thinking about that woman sitting up there, waiting to be used. She can't think, but her soul is still in there, isn't it? When she died, would all that had happened come back to her, or would she be spared the centuries she'd spent as a plaything?

Shivering, she closed her book and curled up in her chair. Her rooms were feeling like home again, but…

What would Velandryn do, if he were here?

If the Dragonborn had joined them, had been turned, and then had faced Garan Marethi and Mintuile, she had the feeling that one of the Dunmer would be dead right now. He might not strike at Marethi's face, but he'd know that what the vampire had done was evil, and take action. She still wondered about Garan's hatred of Velandryn's Ashlander blood, but she didn't feel like going back to that room. I'll always have time later.

Always…

She might be here at Castle Volkihar for a very long time, she recognized, and it did her no good to try and place an end date for her stay. When Father wants to let me go out, he will.

She still couldn't figure out why Mother had stolen away with her. The first she'd known of it was when she'd woken to Valerica's urgent voice, and even now she was still trying to piece together what had happened between her parents. Could it have something to do with the prophecy? Her mother had never put much stock in the stuff, but that was no reason to take such drastic action.

Was there some reason she didn't want the prophecy to be fulfilled? That might make sense, especially considering she'd taken both of the Scrolls they'd possessed. But blotting out the sun…

It was such a monumental idea that Serana wasn't entirely sure she could fully grasp it. Eternal night? It would change everything, and the thought of that was a little terrifying.

But she didn't know enough. Father was keeping his secrets, and she had to live with that.

For now, she just had to wait.

And worry.

---

Serana had rather given up on hearing more of her father's plans in the immediate future—or even seeing much of him, for that matter—so it came as something of a shock when Vingalmo knocked on her door. One of benefits of being Lord Harkon's daughter, as it turned out, was that people announced themselves unprompted after knocking. She liked that.

She'd been staring out of her window at the fog-shrouded sea, but quickly pulled the heavy drapes closed. It wasn't wrong to have windows open, but it was seen as somewhat odd, and the last thing she needed was for people to know how much time she spent thinking about the outside world. The castle is all well and good, but there's a whole world out there, and I've been asleep for so long. She realized she was structuring an argument she'd never use, and abandoned that train of thought. Rising, she called out for Vingalmo to enter.

The old vampire bowed deeply. "Lord Harkon would speak with you before dinner. He is in the Sanctum."

She froze. The Sanctum. She hadn't been back there of her own free will since—no, don't think about it. But if her father was summoning her, and he was there…

"I will attend to him immediately. Thank you, Vingalmo." That one of the most senior vampires of the castle was being used as an errand boy was something neither of them acknowledged. It was an unspoken truth that, for all of the political maneuvering about the court, there were two true ranks in Castle Volkihar. There was Lord Harkon, and then there was everyone else. The past week had seen many people trying to figure out if Serana fit into that second category, or if she was, like her father, above them all. And I'd kind of like to know as well.

As she drew closer to the heavy black door that marked the Sanctum at the castle's heart, she could feel the beating of her heart, and tasted something bitter in her mouth. It's just a room. Just the room where…she shut that thought down before her mind could snap back to that day. She took a deep breath and focused on trivial things. Tiber Septim was the first Emperor of his line. He was succeeded by his son Pelagius, who was succeeded by his sister Kintyra. Pelagius's sister, not Tiber's. Next came Uriel the First, who was followed by his son of the same name. Next—

With a start, she realized she had reached her destination. The doors were, as ever, closed, with a relief of the face of Molag Bal staring balefully down at her. Nothing to be afraid of.

The doors of the Sanctum were not intended to be opened quietly, and their echoing screech put her hair on end. The room within was cast in shadows, as what few windows there were had long since been sealed shut. This is not a place for light.

Serana's eyes let her see clearly, however, and she could easily make out what lay within. A broad hall with a depressed floor flanked by rows of rising steps, and at the far end…

I will be brave. She stepped in, and the doors slammed shut behind her, moving seemingly of their own will. But no, they serve my father, as does all in this castle.

That wasn't entirely true, she amended. In here, in this pit hallowed by atrocity, even Lord Harkon bowed before another.

Today, however, he was not bowing. He stood at the far end of the Sanctum, looking away from her at a great stained-glass window with the image of their god etched in black and red. That window was the only place in the entire keep where sunlight was permitted to shine, and she knew that it was enchanted to remove any hint of Magnus' Aetherial fire. So far as she knew, it was the only one if its type in the entire world, and her mother had needed the souls of over one hundred sacrifices to give it the necessary strength. The sun opposes us always.

Her father turned as she approached, and as he did so she saw the altar beyond. Her legs went rigid, and she almost fell. Her mouth filled with iron and fire, and her head began to spin.

The flesh tore, and she screamed. Her father moaned , and her mother, tears streaming down her face, clutched her hand so hard that the pain almost matched the agony below. Another thrust, and this time the burning became a stabbing—

No! She tried to force the thoughts away, but being here was too much. You Are Mine, Now And Forever. The voice had been like nothing she could imagine, and even now, the memory made her want to do nothing more than return to her rooms and hide. Curl up in my bed, and just wait for it all to pass. But she wasn't a child anymore, and she had no bed save the coffin that marked her as Volkihar. I can do this.

She focused, and the room swam back into focus. I'm stronger than you! She didn't quite know who she was talking to, but the affirmation gave her strength.

"—paying attention, Serana?" Her father's voice was far away, and she realized he'd been talking to her.

Focus! "Yes, Father. I was...nevermind. You sent for me?"

Lord Harkon waved at her to join him, which she did reluctantly. Every step towards the low stone altar and the jagged fountain looming behind it pulled at her like a weight in her stomach.

Standing beside him, she looked down at the altar, and tried her hardest not to think. I am more than my past. I am Volkihar!

"Does it trouble you, my daughter?" Her father's voice was soft, and when she turned to look at him, his face was almost sad.

She didn't have to ask what he meant. He knelt as well, in the end. "Less than it did."

He nodded. "Remember, we must give honor always to our Lord, who gave us our gifts." He extended a hand. "Pray with me."

The greater court did nothing like this, and she'd never known her father to be particularly pious, but she closed her eyes and bowed her head. As long as she didn't have to look at the altar and dreadful fountain, she should be okay. I'm stronger than this.

"Lord, hear our supplication. We who are nothing will do your bidding, and seek to bring all of Tamriel under you domination. Bless us with you favor, Prince of Rage, and let us become your holy will."

Serana couldn't suppress a shiver, though she kept her eyes tightly closed. The substance in the fountain black and thick and easily mistaken for blood, stunk of iron and fire. She thought she could hear the sounds of whispers, and a faint cold breeze put her unavoidably in mind of heavy shackles binding her hands and feet. Never again!

"Lord of Rape, King of Brutality, give us your favor in the days and years to come! We beseech you as worms before the black sun of Coldharbour to look favorably on our endeavors!"

Worms, are we? Serana wasn't so sure he wanted to be lumped in like that. And what is Father even doing? He'd never been the type to grovel, and if he was trying to curry favor with Molag Bal, a little bit of supplication wasn't going to cut it. So what's going on?

Her father had fallen silent, and she opened her eyes to sneak a glance. He was gazing forward, face stern. He turned his head slightly, and she was struck by the darkness in his eyes.

Lord Harkon had always been a hard man, and since they had first begun to dabble with Molag Bal, he had undertaken actions that many would call cruel or reprehensible. And yet…he was the same man who had her coffin lined with the sheets and stuffing of her old bed. The one who sat with Mother and me that first day, when the dreams came.

It was hard to reconcile those memories with the man who stood beside her, who looked at her with eyes that almost seemed not to recognize her. For the first time since her return, Serana felt truly afraid of Lord Harkon. Why exactly did Mother take me away? She tried to suppress the chill running down her spine, but failed.

Then, the moment passed and it was just her father standing there. "For momentous action, we should hope our patron is watching, no?" He smiled down at her, but she still wasn't mollified.

Is that why you were calling yourself a worm before him? What game are you playing? "Of course, Father." She looked at the fountain, and managed to keep her face still. "What is it you wanted?"

"A ship was sighted to the North. It flies the flag of the Dragon, the Empire in Cyrodiil. Garan tells me you've been reading of them?"

She nodded. Guess I should have known he was keeping watch on me. "I've been gone a long time."

Her father cocked his head to one side. "Has it fazed you? I had assumed—"

"I'm fine." It was part of being a vampire, seeing the world change around you. I just had it happen a little faster, is all.

He nodded. "Good. This ship left from Jehanna, and is bound for Solitude. One of our court is in that city, and reported a chest being moved under heavy guard."

She shrugged, momentarily forgetting where they were. "So? You think it has something to do with us?"

Harkon produced a scrap of paper with a drawing of a—is that a butterfly? No, she saw. "A moth?" Then, she understood. "The Elder Scrolls."

Lord Harkon nodded. "The chest bears the seal of the Moth Priests. What is within or why they chose to move it thusly I cannot say, but this is a stroke of good fortune we cannot ignore. You will accompany Feran Sadri and his team to retrieve the chest, and ensure that it returns to me undamaged."

Serana thought for a moment. "Why would you be sending Feran? Fura commands your host, and Vingalmo and Orthjolf stand higher in your court."

Her father turned to face her fully. "Fura, while loyal, has little in the way of subtlety. Were I to send her, I have no doubt that she would retrieve the chest, but it would necessitate the capture or destruction of the ship and all aboard." He pursed his lips. "While that would provide us with new cattle, there are Imperial dignitaries on board, including several bearing the arms of the Cumberlands of Wayrest." Shaking his head, Lord Harkon turned away to stare off at nothing. "Missing cargo or a few people disappearing is one thing, but the loss of a vessel entire won't go unnoticed. The last thing we need is for the Empire to start wondering if there is something more than raiders on these seas."

Serana nodded. "So we'll be going in quietly, then?" It made sense.

Her father nodded. "There will be an accident onboard to cover our trail, but I want that ship to reach Solitude."

She considered that. "And you're sending me and Feran instead of Vingalmo or Orthjolf because you can't trust them?"

His eyes narrowed. "Your time away has given you a spirit you previously lacked. This is good, but ensure you do not turn it against your master. You are going because I have commanded it." He softened then, and even smiled a bit. "It is not a lack of trust, but I do not know what lies in that chest. Both would try to learn what is inside to use against the other, and I refuse to gamble my plans on their willingness to set their rivalry aside. Feran has been raiding on my behalf for three centuries, and, just as importantly, he has followed his sire's example and remained aloof from matters political. In the days to come, loyalty will be as important as ability for those who serve us."

"Us?" It had been a long time since her father had named any other than himself as leader of the Volkihar.

"Of course, Serana. You are my blood, and a Daughter of Coldharbour besides." He smiled. "Did you think you were like the ones without, needing to scheme and scrabble for position? No, your destiny is written in the Elder Scrolls! You, my daughter, shall help me bring about the ultimate victory of our kind!"

Serana could feel a blush creeping upon her cheeks. How long has it been since he spoke like this to me? Lord Harkon was not a man to gush with affection, and she decided she likes this new behavior. Now all I have to do is not let him down.

---

Cirran opened the thick door to find the sky above the Golden Glory shrouded in thick fog. Damn it all. He marched down the stairs nonetheless, heavy footsteps from behind signaling that Ozgrub was doing the same. As soon as they reached the deck he sighed. Fog surrounded them, so thick that he could barely make out the lantern hanging from the bowsprit.

Makeld saluted with just a little too much enthusiasm. I would too if it meant I was coming off of my shift instead of starting it. "You have the watch, then?"

Cirran returned the salute. "Aye. Anything I should note?"

She chuckled and waved at the fog. "Nah. None of the Puffers want to come drink this soup when there's Milto's brew down below." It had been Cirran who'd noted how the Cumberland bankers puffed up like the fish he'd caught as a child when anyone didn't jump to obey them, but it was Makeld and Tuyrian who'd started using the term whenever the selfsame bankers were out of earshot. "Nobody else's even stuck their noses out in hours, and the sailors are off getting drunk belowdecks."

"Soldiers get the good cabins, at least. You ever served as ship's crew?" He'd earned his sea legs helping his mother run goods along the Hammer Coast, though this was his first posting at sea since joining the Legion. Probably thought if they put a Redguard from Stros M'kai on the sea, my pirate blood would take over. Well, the joke was on them. His family had smugglers in it, not pirates. Except for Uncle Jespin, I suppose. And that one time that fat Dominion trade-galley was just sitting there. He realized he'd got lost in reminiscing, and focused on Makeld, waiting for an answer.

The Nord shook her head. "Not a whole lot of sea near Bruma. Why?"

Cirran pointed up. "Weather like this, they'll be keeping the pace slow so they don't hit any ice. Means they need lookouts and not much else. Not so common down on the Hegathan Sea, but any time fog did roll in meant we'd all get proper thrashed." He smiled fondly, remembering. "Any excuse to drink at sea."

The blonde woman laughed. "It's cold! That's reason enough for me!"

Cirran had been transferred aboard in Evermore along with the other Legionaries, and their little squad had been assembled specifically for this mission. While he didn't know any of them well, Makeld at least was easy to talk to. He'd rather have her on watch with him than—he glanced over his shoulder at the bulk of his partner—Ozgrub.

With a grin, Makeld tapped her fist on the Orc's chestplate. "Take it easy, big guy."

Ozgrub grunted in response. He must be in a good mood. The Orc wore a full-face helm, and Cirran had never heard more than four or five words from him at a time. Most often, he answered attempts at conversation with stony silence.

Makeld waved at Juane Gessil. "Come on! There's ale and soup below."

"Don't remind me.," Cirran grumbled, and Makeld laughed. Blowing him a kiss, she followed Juane Gessil, the smallest Breton he'd ever seen and a perfect counterpoint to those of his kin who grumbled about 'tricky manmer,' over to the hatch. With a slam, they were gone.

Cirran blew air out through his nose, watching it steam in the cold. "Damn chilly." Damn Sea of Ghosts. Damn Skyrim. Damn Reachmen making the roads too damn dangerous.

Ozgrub said nothing, only moved to the opposite railing and stared out into the mist. At first Cirran had thought the Orc shunned him because Cirran was a Redguard, and their two peoples had never gotten along. Now, he understood that the big soldier just hated everyone. Probably why he was given this shit assignment.

Cirran was under no illusion about the nature of their little squad, or the vital import of their mission. A team thrown together from whatever dregs they had stinking up the Bangkorai, assigned to safeguard a pack of bankers and a chest that, if it was actually important, would have real soldiers guarding it. Instead, it had them.

There was Ozgrub, strong as anything but without even the slightest desire to cooperate. Makes you wonder why he joined up in the first place.

Makeld, who was capable enough while on duty but far too good-natured to make much of a warrior—and given that it's been more than thirty seconds since she got off duty, she's probably already half-drunk and shedding clothes faster than a scrubhopper does scales.

He had never met anyone who rivaled Juane Gessil for a complete lack of appreciable combat skills, and the fact that the little Breton tried far harder than any three other people he'd ever met didn't make her fumbling any better.

Their mage, Tuyrian, had been born under the sign of the Atronach, and therefore couldn't regenerate magicka. Or so he said. Why someone like that becomes a mage is beyond me. Of course, why anyone would meddle in that stuff was beyond him, but he supposed someone had to.

As for their intrepid leader, Sergeant Isselian, the less said about that drunken sot the better. If the Legion was actually at war, one of our own would have stuck a knife in his kidneys long ago and done us all a favor.

And then there's me. He was good with a blade, better with a harpoon, and could wing a gull from eighty paces with a stone. However, he had what his mother called a free spirit, although the disciplinary officer had termed it 'severe problems with authority.' The way he saw it, it was their own damn fault for trying to do his job for him. They say watch the bridge, who cares if I'm in the guard tower while I'm doing it? And anyone yelling in his face should have known that punch was coming. And even if the Lieutenant didn't see the first one, she should have been ready for the second!

Still, he could admit to himself that there were a few rough edges to smooth out. Maybe it's for the best I'm stuck up here in the frozen bunghole of nowhere. After this, he'd suck it up and hold his tongue, just so long as he never had to travel north of the Iliac Bay ever again!

A thump from over the edge drew his attention, and he poked his head over the gunwale to see. The fog was so thick that he couldn't even see the water, but something made him think all wasn't well. What bumps into a ship in the middle of the ocean?

"Hey, Ozgrub, you hear something?"

---

Feran steered their little craft with confidence, and Serana watch the ship in the distance drift closer. A Volkaihar's gaze couldn't pierce all mist, but the fog conjured from Valerica's arts parted when seen through their eyes. She glanced back at the five other vampires on board, each wreathed in grey and black, ready to raid or kill on Feran's orders. Or mine. It had been made clear to all of them that she stood outside the chain of command on this mission, and could order any of them, including Feran, as she pleased. I suppose Father wouldn't have it any other way. She couldn't help but wonder if any of those in the ship resented her for this, but she put that from her mind. If they do, they'd be fools to show it, and Feran wouldn't bring fools on a mission as important as this.

As they drew near the rear of the huge vessel, Feran gestured, and two of the vampires leapt into the water. They swam with effortless grace, and in moments were scaling the wood. They would find an ingress, then lower ropes for the rest. How many times have they done this? Feran had told her the plan as though it were beyond routine, and none of his team so much as paused before swinging into motion.

The vampires' boat was made fast with iron-tipped claws that bit into the Imperial ship, and moments later a rope dropped onto the deck. Feran pointed, and the rest of the team began climbing. Serana was second up, with Feran bringing up the rear. They scrambled through an opened porthole and just like that, they were in. Well, that was easy.

"Hey!" The shout came from the end of the hall, where a man in Imperial armor stood swaying. "Who the—BRAAP—fuck are you?" His words were punctuated by an enormous belch, and he stood there swaying. "I'm a—hic —sergeant of the Legion and I demand you—"

A vampire charged down the hall with superhuman speed, wrapping hands around the human's neck and twisting. With a sickening crack, the Imperial's head jerked to an angle it was never intended, and the new-made carcass went limp.

Serana felt sick to her stomach. He's just a mortal, she reminded herself, but still…

She turned to Feran. "That was unavoidable, but I want deaths kept to a minimum. We're keeping a low profile."

The Dark Elf grinned. "Don't worry, my lady. My raiders have been doing this since the Third Era; we know what we're about." The vampire who'd killed the Imperial dragged the body down the hall, while two more crept along the walls, checking each door. "The accident we have planned will mangle the body just fine, and we aren't using blades. Nobody will know the difference."

She nodded. "Let's be quick about this."

Feran handed her a potion. "Drink up." He emptied his own bottle, and gradually faded from view.

Serana grimaced. Chameleon spells always felt like her skin was trying to crawl off of her bones. At least I'll be able to open doors. Unlike invisibility, which she could cast with ease and gave her no side effects, chameleon allowed those affected to interact with the world around them.

She tested a door, and, finding it unlocked, looked at the room beyond. It was empty save for some nondescript boxes, and she moved on. Some rooms had people sleeping in hammocks and one had a pair of Nords playing cards on a barrel, but she quickly ducked out before she could make a sound that might draw their notice.

She climbed up a set of stairs, finding herself in a better-lit portion of the ship. More danger, but more likely to be near the chest. A Nord in rough clothing turned a corner and strode down the hall, humming, and she retreated into a corner, holding as still as she could. Don't let him look too closely. Chameleon was not perfect, and the telltale shimmer could be seen by the observant.

Fortunately, this one was more than a little inebriated, judging by the sway in his step, and far from perceptive. He stumbled past, and Serana stalked onward. Hearing voices, she peered around a doorway, and bit back a curse.

It was a larger room, well-lit, and in one corner sat a heavy chest of pale wood, bound in dark metal and inset with a heavy lock and thick bronze plate on which was etched an unmistakable symbol of a moth.

Unfortunately, that wasn't the only thing in the room. A pair of women, a Nord and a Breton by the look of them, were seated at a small table, talking in low voices. Serana focused, and their words swam into audibility.

"—just saying, you should go for it." That was the Nord, with a voice that sounded more than a little like Lydia, though her accent wasn't like any Serana had ever heard. "I'd bet you can pass the tests, become a battlemage!"

"Do you really think so?" The other voice was a light and piping thing, somewhere between songbird and cloying candy. And aren't I in a poetic mood today.

The Nord pounded the table. "Of course! You can do anything if you believe in yourself." Ah, so she's drunk. If the slur in her words wasn't enough of a clue, Serana had never heard anyone spout such nonsense sober. Is anybody on this ship not drinking themselves into a stupor?

Still, as heartwarming as these two were, Serana had a job to do. Quietly, she began to make her way along the wall, doing her best to stay out of their line of sight. Fortunately, I'd wager these two are a little too far in their cups to notice. Now that she was looking for it, the keg off to one side had a tap in it, and there were a couple of mugs on the table. She glanced at their clothing, which had more than a little red on the legs. Off-duty Imperials?

"Hey!" Serana froze as the Nords voice rang out, and she turned her head to see the tall woman peering in her direction. "Thought I saw something moving."

No no no! She could kill these two easily, of course; simple soldiers, especially drunken ones, were no match for a Volkihar. However, she didn't want any more bodies. No more killing. She could tell herself it was to keep things quiet, but she might as well be honest with herself: these two didn't need to die, and the thought of killing them made her stomach roil.

Still, she might not have much choice. The Nord was rising, and if this woman saw her, there would be bloodshed. She moved as quickly as she dared towards one of the corners, but the Nord was stumbling in her direction, eyes narrowed.

"Makeld, come on and sit down. You need to say more nice things to me!" The Breton's voice turned the Nord's—Makeld's—head, which in conjunction with her walking nearly sent the big woman to the floor.

"Whoa, Juane! You don't see it? It was right…" Makeld turned back, staring at the place where Serana had stood a moment ago, "there?"

By now, Serana was several feet away, pressed into a corner. No more killing tonight, please! With any luck, the Nord would write it off as a drunken imagining, and she could put them to sleep or remove their senses with an illusion.

Unfortunately, it seemed that a little more than a week with her family had made her forget just how…well, Nord… Nords could be. This Makeld was stomping around the room, muttering and waving her arms in something between drunken ranting and what appeared to be a genuine attempt to root out any unseen intruders. Unfortunately for me.

Still, even if she didn't want to fight them, there was no way she'd let their plan go down in flames. She raised a hand and concentrated, surrounding the room in her spell of silence, so that any sound made in here wouldn't travel to the rest of the ship. Now, you two can't ruin our plans.

Instantly, the Breton stiffened. "Magic!"

Makeld laughed loudly, still waving her arms around. "You hear that? We're on to you!"

The Breton—Juane, was it?—grabbed Makeld's arm. "I'm going to get the others!" She started for the door, but as Serana raised a hand to do…what? Stop her somehow…the smaller woman's foot caught on something, sending her sprawling.

Makeld spun again, and Serana knew it was now or never. I can't be seen. She sent a spell of calming, one used to incapacitate mortals before a feeding, towards the downed Breton, and the woman's body relaxed as she simply lay there. And it all comes back. Two weeks ago, it had been a half-remembered incantation, but her time in Castle Volkihar, among the trappings and knowledge of her clan, meant that much was returning to her. If only Velandryn could see me now.

Makeld knelt beside the Breton, shaking her to no avail, and Serana readied another calming. Agitated souls were more difficult to render into a stupor, but this spell was her mother's creation, and Lady Valerica had taken no chances when it came to her magic. This spell might operate on the age-old principles of calming magic used by healers and sneak-thieves alike, but it was more dragon than dragonfly. It would take a mighty soul indeed to resist its effects, and this Makeld, for all that she had sharp eyes, would go down in moments.

"What in Oblivion?" The shout came from—Damn it all! An Altmer in in red robes slashed with blue had come into the room. He glanced around, and then approached the two women.

The Nord looked up at him. "Tuyrian! Thank the Nine you've come! There's something wrong,"

The High Eld, however, did not seem to share her alarm. "Were it not for the spell of silence on this room, I'd assume this was nothing more than another drunken binge, one that has unfortunately drawn Miss Gessil into your sordid world. However, clearly something else is at work, as neither of you have even the slightest talent for the arcane." He arched an eyebrow. "Was it a scroll? Are you even literate, Makeld?" Somehow, that sounded almost…affectionate? Serana crept closer to the chest. As long as they keep talking, they aren't looking for me.

Makeld laughed, then grew serious again. "But seriously, something happened! Juane isn't responding, and there's dark magic afoot!" Serana paused, holding very still. That other human was a mage, and he might well be able to find her. If he thinks to try and detect undead, this become bloody. It sounded like the others hadn't been detected, at least. I wish I had some way to contact them. As quickly as the thought came, however, she pushed it away. I am Serana of Clan Volkihar, Chosen of the Lord! She would complete this mission, and no mortals could stop her. I will make Father proud!

The mage, however, looked as though he were finally taking Makeld seriously, and that wasn't good. He reached into his robes, and Serana decided it was time to act. Pulling on another of her mother's spells, she let her mind fall into a hypnotic trance, and stared at the two mortals who had yet to be knocked unconscious. No mortal soul may stand before our power.

And so, it seemed, they could not. Both slumped over – Makeld landed heavily on Juane, and Serana had a moment of absurd worry that the little Breton would be hurt by the weight across her legs. Not my problem.

In a way, it was almost unfair, pitting these mortals against Clan Volkihar. At least these ones don't have to die. She knew it wasn't a thought worthy of the Volkihar, but she liked the idea of doing this as bloodlessly as possible.

"Nice work, my lady." She spun, biting back a gasp of shock, but it was only Feran, the chameleonic effect of his potion fading away as he swallowed the counter-reagent. "I have to admit I wasn't sure if you'd be a liability on this mission." He grinned, and waved at the chest. "You have my apologies."

"None are needed, Feran." She smile back at him, glad to see someone she didn't have to worry about incapacitating. "Any problems to report?"

The Dunmer grimaced, and rubbed the back of his head. "Only one, and that's my fault." His face contorted into a grimace, and she was at once put in mind of Velandryn—red eyes on dark skin—and reminded of how far her onetime companion was—now it's vampires who keep my counsel. "I forgot to give you a signal stone." He held up a small smooth rock. "Could have been bad if you'd gotten stuck somewhere."

"Well, it's all right now." Something occurred to her then, and she gave Feran a studying look. "How did you know where to find me?"

He handed her a small bottle. "Here. Counter-reagent I prepared earlier. The crew's guarding the hall, so we should be fine, but sometimes the effect wears off piecemeal if left to its own devices." He chuckled. "Not everyone likes floating bits of themselves bobbing around."

She gulped down the bitter potion, and felt the chameleon roll off of her. "Thanks, but you didn't answer my question."

He looked…embarrassed, is he? "I don't suppose we could simply chalk it up to luck?"

"Do you need to be reminded of who I am, Feran?" She knew her father would tolerate no disobedience from his court, and she would do no less. "Are you keeping secrets from me?" She put her parents' steel into her voice. "I won't insult either of us by pretending to believe your lies."

"No! No, of course not, my princess." He bowed deeply. "It's a bit of a secret, but I'd be happy to—"

"Now." She waved a hand, and another field of silence sprang up around just the two of them. "You will have no secrets from me." In truth she was more curious than upset, but this tone of voice worked wonders for her father, and she needed to establish her place in the Volkihar court. I can't use my father's authority forever.

"Alright, alright." He glanced over his shoulder. "I make the potions, right? Been refining my chameleon for a hundred, hundred-fifty years. Part of that, well…" he licked his lips, clearly thinking hard. "My chameleon's effective, but I put an…exception in. Anyone who knows the formula can take a potion—"

"And then you can see right through it." It made sense, letting the ones concealed see each other. "But you keep it only for yourself."

Feran looked away for a moment. "You don't last long, in the court or as a bandit, unless you have something up your sleeve."

She could understand that, at least. "Well, the next time I'm with you, prepare a second dose for me."

He bobbed his head in assent. It wasn't quite a bow, but the meaning was clear. "I serve, my lady."

"Glad to hear it. Now let's finish this up. Load the chest and set the spell." She glanced at the small pile of unconscious Imperials. We might just pull this off after all.

---

"See? That's a boat."

Ozgrub, looking down over the ship's railing despite the nausea swirling in his gut, only grunted. Of course it's a boat. The question, of course, was what a tiny boat was doing in the middle of the Sea of Ghosts.

"The question is, what's it doing all the way out here? Too small for raiders this far out." He knew that the Redguard had been some sort of smuggler or pirate before joining the Legion—criminal scum—and he probably knew a thing or two about raiders. Too bad he never learned to shut up.

The human, however, had missed the most important part, and now Ozgrub was going to have to explain it. "Boat's empty."

"Well, obviously, I mean—" Cirran's voice cut off abruptly, and Ozgrub was pleased to see that even a thinskin could see the obvious if it was dangled in front of them long enough. "We're boarded?"

Obviously. His grandfather had taught him to think three times and speak once. Nobody knows a foolish thought, but everyone remembers an Orc's foolish words.

Ozgrub only turned, pulling the long-axe from his back. He could cleave a man in two with this thing. Well, probably. He'd certainly ruined enough training dummies, and left more than a few logs in pieces back home. How hard can it be to bring down a raider? He realized that it might be hard to swing the weapon—five feet of wise-grown elm topped by an axe-head of Orichalc and cold steel—in the cramped ships' corridors, but he'd already drawn it. If I put it away so soon, I'll look a fool. Perhaps he could do so quietly. Let Cirran step in front of me.

This was part of why he hated dealing with anyone who wasn't kin. He got so caught up in his own head, so afraid of looking foolish and reinforcing what they thought about Orcs. It was enough to make him wish he'd listened to his sister and courted Maga instead of running off with his tail between his legs. I'd be hunting game for the hearth, living a good life in Orsinium or Gortwog's Fast. Maybe have a kid on the way. Could teach the little whelp how to swing an axe, clean a kill.

But no, he'd wanted to go off and have adventures, to see the world. And they stick me on a ship! With humans! He didn't know which was worse, Cirran's incessant chatter and stories about his time running on the wrong side of the law, Makeld's bizarre friendliness that left him confused and uncomfortable, Juane's mixture of awe and awkward caution, the sergeant's drunken scorn, or Tuyrian's snide jokes.

Nobody likes the Orc. He'd been learning that the hard way. Well, at least now he had some raiders to fight. I wonder if I can kill them. He'd only ever killed for food before. And deer don't try and kill you back. Bears did, but they were even stupider than the humans thought he was. Think I'm deaf too, way they whisper about me.

He was brought out his thoughts by a rumble. Cirran looked down. "What was that?"

And then his world became fire and light.

---

Serana looked back guiltily. The ship was blazing in the night; their 'accident' had done its job well by the look of things. She'd dragged the bodies behind some crates, and hopefully they wouldn't die. It had been foolish and sentimental and she'd made sure that everyone else had cleared out before doing it, but she wouldn't just murder three unconscious people. They were just…living. They hadn't done anything wrong.

Glancing down at the chest in the center of the boat, she noticed again the moth on the chest. "What do you think's inside?"

Feran shrugged. "Lord Harkon'll tell us if we need to know." He nudged at the heavy black lock with his foot. "This gives me hope it's something good. Last time we grabbed a shipment with the moth on it, we just got a bunch of clothes."

"So, you've gone after the Moth Priests before?" It would make sense, she supposed, but it also risked the Empire's notice.

Feran, however, shook his head in a negative. "Not on purpose, but Lord Harkon's had standing orders for centuries, way I hear it. We see something with the moth, we bring it back. Garan knows more, but I don't need to." He shrugged. "I know my place in the court; you can tell Lord Harkon that."

And so even the loyal ones play their games. If Feran wasn't an idiot, he did know more, but also understood that her father might not be overjoyed at having that knowledge resting with a lowly raider. "Your understanding does your credit, Feran Sadri." She glanced over her shoulder again. "They will reach Solitude, and suspect nothing?"

He nodded. "We erased all traces, and the bodies should be badly mangled enough to dissuade too close of inspection. The worst that could happen is they file it as an unexplained tragedy, and there are more than enough of those near here." He smiled. "Such a cold and lonely place, the Sea of Ghosts. So easy for a mage to go mad."

Serana, however, had stopped listening. Her heart was in her throat, sheer horror filling her. I dragged them behind the crates. She'd saved their lives, and one of them was the mage. Four bodies weren't the same thing as a single body and three confused humans. They wouldn't be able to tell their superiors anything, of course, but it was possible that foul play would be suspected.

Then, she thought about it, and managed to regain some composure. Of course, it's unlikely they'll think it was a band of vampires after any information on the Elder Scrolls. Even she was having a little bit of trouble believing it. When Feran looked at her, she even managed a smile. "Father will be pleased with us."

The Dark Elf chuckled. "Damn right. We did good work, my lady."

---

Lord Harkon scowled. "Nothing! Worthless ledgers, clothes, religious icons! We launch a midnight raid on an Imperial vessel, and all we have to show for it is luggage!" He kicked the empty chest, sending it flying across the room and smashing to bits against the wall.

Serana watched his rage mutely. She knew better than to interfere, but she did find the…intensity of his anger somewhat odd. We've got an eternity to find what we need.

Some of the books were piled on a table not too far from her, and she picked one up. "So there's nothing in these at all?" Her father had had a few hours to look over them, and it was unlikely he'd missed anything vital, but…

Another scowl crossed his bearded face. "Inventories for food, bedding, and seeds. If I was interested in the minutiae of life at the Chorrol hermitage, this would have been a profitable raid. As it is? Not a single damned page on the Elder Scrolls!"

Serana leafed through the book in her hands. If she'd been interested in how many carts of potatoes the Moth Cult had purchased from Zehar Tuun in First Seed, she'd have a good read on her hands. Kind of worthless given what we're looking for, though. She put the book back on the table. "So what now?"

She received no response. Her father was pacing, head down, and Serana knew she wasn't really part of this meeting anymore. I might be more than the rest of the court, but that doesn't make me an equal. Silently, she opened the door and let herself out.

In the hall, she found Vingalmo, who bowed deeply at her approach. "Lady Serana, I am overjoyed to hear of the success of your mission. Is Lord Harkon available to receive me?"

She shrugged. I'm just ready to be done with all of this. "Maybe. Go in and find out."

The High Elf gave her a tight smile. "You jest, my lady. I shall meet with him later." He fell into step beside her as she set off down the hall.

Serana said nothing, but Vingalmo hardly let them get ten paces before speaking. "In the future, my lady, you might be interested to know that several of those who serve me are well-suited for missions of the sort you undertook. I have no doubt that they would be of immeasurable assistance."

Serana took a moment to respond, not wanting to give offense but having no desire to fall into political traps. "I'm afraid you think I'm doing more than I am, Vingalmo. I serve my father—"

"As do we all, of course," the Altmer interjected smoothly before falling silent again.

"As I was saying, I serve my father, nothing more. Bring the matter before him if you think he should change the composition of his raiding parties." Being Lord Harkon's daughter cut both ways, and not even Vingalmo would dare suggest such a thing to their master's face.

And, by the look on his face, the advisor knew it. "As you say, my lady." Still, he couldn't resist one more remark. "I would be careful, though. You may not know it, having slept for so long, but the Dunmer are a treacherous people, and while certainly those of our court who come from that bloodline would never fall prey to such base tendencies, it might not be unwise to familiarize yourself with their wicked ways."

She smiled at him, barely even bothering to disguise her annoyance. "I am capable of forming my own judgements, Vingalmo." And I like Velandryn a lot more than I like you.

He bowed again. "I seek only to offer counsel, my lady. The world has changed much since you went to sleep, and I wish only to see you take your rightful place."

She shot him a look. "And this has nothing to do with gaining an advantage over Orthjolf, does it?"

Vingalmo, to his credit, only smiled. "I make no secret of the fact that such a brute is completely unsuited to serve in such a high position. If you see things the same way, so much the better." He bowed once more, and then gestured at a hallway leading to the undercrofts. "I'm afraid I must leave you now, my lady. I have a gift I mean to give your father at the evening meal, and while you are welcome to come and see it…"

Serana waved him off. "I'll see it tonight, I'm sure." It was almost sunrise, and she supposed she'd better get to sleep. Well, to my room at least. Sleep, well…she'd see about sleep. After tonight, she didn't want dreams.

When she reached her rooms, she very deliberately sat as far from her coffin as possible. She didn't get tired like she had when she was human, but there was a thin feeling, not entirely dissimilar to blood-hunger, and the only cure was to sleep. And dream.

Shuddering at the thought, she pulled a book from underneath the cushions of her chair and sat down, opening it to the bookmark and continuing from where she'd left off. It was a slim tome, with the title A Dark Elf Primer. It was a recent book and assumed that readers would have some knowledge she did not—Exactly what happened at the end of the Oblivion Crisis? –but it served as a decent overview of the Dunmer from an Imperial perspective. It was a little amusing contrasting the views in this book with what she'd learned from Velandryn. I wonder if he'd appreciate being called paranoid.

A knock sounded at the door only moments later, and she sighed. I guess duty calls. She wasn't planning to sleep, of course, but it was considered a bit rude to call on another during daylight hours. Given her…unique status, there was only person who would send for her with the sun almost risen. I suppose we should see what Father wants.

---

What Lord Harkon had wanted, it turned out, was to see if she'd noticed anything else on the ship that might be related to the Elder Scrolls. It was beyond odd, he had decided, for a chest full of valueless junk to be transported in such a manner. Serana agreed with him, but nothing had struck her as out of place. A few bored soldiers, some sailors, nothing out of the ordinary.

Her father was apparently satisfied, and dismissed her with a wave of his hand. Serana returned to her rooms, and read until the sun went down. She finished the primer on the Dark Elves quickly, and returned to a book of Falmer poetry she'd been thumbing through since she'd received it on her eighth birthday. A controversial gift, if I recall correctly. Some of her father's men had thought it improper for a Nord to have anything to do with the Snow Elves, but she'd found the imagery delightful, and her parents had quietly acquiesced. Who gave it to me? It saddened her to realize she could no longer remember.

She couldn't have said exactly how long it was before the knock came, but she was half-expecting it when it did. Dinnertime.

The main hall, as ever, was full of noise and dark glee. Vampires feasted, laughed, and generally enjoyed themselves while their army of helpless mortals stood by and served in whatever way their masters pleased. Serana gave herself a little shake as she felt the direction her thoughts were taking. None of that, now. She wasn't here to help the mortals. They are the prey, we the hunters; that is the way of things. So, when a thrall knelt before her and offered its neck, she bent her head and drank. Adequate blood. Still, the memory of Velandryn remained. How sweet would his blood have been?

"My Lord!" Vingalmo, whose absence she had completely failed to notice, now entered from the far doors. "I have a gift for you!"

"Oh?" Her father was still in something of a dark mood, it seemed; his smile failed to reach his eyes. "Bring it here, then."

Vingalmo bowed deeply. "Not it, my lord, but them!." He threw an arm out, and another door swung open. From the gloom beyond came—

No. Serana could feel the bile rising in her throat. God, no. Don't ask this of me, my Lord. Don't do this, Father!

The children, five of them in a single-file line, had not been fully enthralled. They walked with the jerky movements of those trying to resist their body's command, and their eyes were flitting this way and that, alive with fear. No! She remembered the little ghost from Morthal. What had been done to her was monstrous. We aren't' monsters, are we? The Volkihar made use of mortals, it was true, but this—

Lord Harkon—Father—was speaking. "A most generous gift, Vingalmo." He wasn't outraged, it would seem. No, look at him; he's not even surprised.

She didn't know whether her father had known that children would be part of the meal tonight, or if he simply couldn't muster the simple human decency to care. This isn't who we are. Her parents had made the pact with Molag Bal so that they could transcend the limits of humanity, to be more than mortal and achieve the greatness they deserved. That was our promise, our purpose! Not this!

Her father, unheeding, gestured at the foremost child. "And how did you procure these delicacies, Vingalmo?"

Serana wanted to cry, to run out of here—I don't want to see this! She knew she couldn't, however. Father already worries I sympathize too much with the mortals. Still, a wicked voice deep inside whispered, children. Do you eat children now, Serana?

She could barely make out a coherent thought. One of those presented was a little Nord girl, no more than nine or ten years old. So pretty. Golden-haired, slender—and big blue eyes wide open in mute terror at the scene around her. Does she know what's going to happen to her?

Feeding on children had to be done delicately—their little bodies didn't hold enough blood to tolerate losing much. She knew that some of her brethren claimed they had a milder, more refined flavor, but she honestly couldn't tell the difference. It had always bothered her, and she'd never done more than reluctantly partake so as not to appear rude. I don't think I can, now.

She saw a little ghost in Morthal, scared and alone. But that was Movarth's work. He was evil. We're—

Her father knelt before the little blonde girl. He stretched out a hand, pushing her hair away from her neck. No, Father, please. You can't.

But, of course, he did. Or at least, she assumed he did. Serana's eyes were shut tight, though she didn't remember closing them. They felt warm, and wet. Am I…weeping? She hadn't shed tears since her transformation. I swore I was done with weakness.

Never again, she had sworn, but here she was. A different kind of weakness, but she had to overcome it. I am Volkihar!

The first thing she saw upon opening her eyes was her father, holding the little girl as he drank. Oh God. She forced herself not to look away. This is real.

Finally, after an interminable moment, Lord Harkon raised his head. A single bead of blood escaped his lips, but his tongue flicked out to catch it. The girl, swaying, would have fallen had not one of the thralls held her fast.

"Delicious." Her father's words were coming from very far away. She forced herself to focus, to not think about what was happening. I'm one of them.

Fura Bloodmouth, laughing, grabbed a boy who was even smaller than the girl and looked, if possible, perhaps more terrified. "Let's feast!"

When Feran Sadri rose, she felt a pang of hope. Maybe he'd denounce them, call this out for the wickedness it was and demand they stop at once. But then, as one of his raiders grabbed a dark-skinned girl and dragged her back to the where his raiders waited, she felt the strength go out of her. He isn't like me. Looking around, she got the horrific feeling that she was the only one who saw something wrong with this.

She heard a yelp, and turned to see a vampire pushed aside by another in more ornate armor. Between them stood another child, and the higher-ranked vampire dragged it away, licking its lips as it did so. Is this what we are? Is this what I am?

But it wasn't. She knew it wasn't, and even sitting her was impossible. She pushed herself up, fully aware that some at the high table had turned to watch her curiously. Her father, down there amongst the children, had not yet noticed.

With movements that felt like they belonged to someone else, barely noticing the halls and chambers along the way, she stumbled to her room, only fully regaining herself as her hand left the latch of her door. Her push had been forceful, and the heavy wooden portal slammed shut with an echoing thud. She collapsed onto her couch, shaking.

This was all wrong. They fed on children. She'd known they did, of course, but…

But what? Was it how casual they'd been about it? She couldn't break down exactly why she was so upset, but something about seeing those children—

No more. She was a pure-blooded Volkihar, given her gift from Molag Bal himself. I can't hide in here while they feast. She could return, confront the court—

And then what? Her father would never allow his daughter to challenge him openly, and she had no real allies. And even if I did win, what would my victory gain me? They don't feed on children anymore, or they just make sure to do it when I'm not around?

She didn't understand how it would have come to this. They had fed on children before, of course, but never with that kind of casual disregard. How did they go so wrong?

Then, she felt like a fool for not realizing it sooner. I've been gone for a very long time. Was it really so shocking that the court had changed? And how naïve was I to think they wouldn't? Still, the fervor in their eyes at the sight of the young meal sickened her. Would I be like that, if I'd stayed? Was I like that, before I left, and I just can't recall?

She exhaled, hard. Where do I go from here? Did she walk back out there and—her stomach roiled once more at the very thought of it—join them? She tried to imagine lowering her mouth to one of the—no, no she couldn't do it. Even the image was revolting. How in Oblivion did I ever feed from a child?

She saw, more clearly than ever, the gulf between herself and the life she'd lived before. We are the predators, they the prey. Once, that maxim had frightened her, when she was newly turned. Then, it had become no more than the obvious truth. And what is it now? That she was a predator, there could be no doubt, but she was growing less and less certain how she should behave. I just can't imagine them all being prey. Velandryn, if no one else, certainly deserved more. Grudgingly she admitted that Lydia as well probably deserved some recognition. She might not like me, but she has honor.

There was no knock when Lord Harkon entered, and Serana braced herself for his displeasure. He had never raised a hand against her in anger, but he had on occasion used physical discipline—she had been an unruly child, after all—and the look on his face put her in mind of those times.

She rose, bowing deeply once shed done so. "Father, forgive my—"

"Your what, Serana? Your rudeness? Your impudence? Your bald-faced repudiation of your lord?" That last was almost a shout. "Your absence was not of your doing and you have faced no punishment for abandoning your people, but I will not allow you to continue to act in a manner unbefitting of your status!"

"Abandoning my people?" Serana knew that raising her voice to her father was a mistake, but she was past caring. "I spent four thousand years locked away from the world because you and Mother had a damn fight!" His eyes narrowed in warning, but she didn't dare stop now. I back down, I'll never be able to say this again. As it was, only her rage over seeing what had happened to the children gave her the resolve to go on in the face of Lord Harkon's ire. "I suppose you all went and decided that playing with your food," she took a certain satisfaction in using the phrase he'd used to chide her when she'd been reluctant to feed, "is okay so long as it's tormenting some children. Is that it?" She could feel a sob rising in her throat, but she choked it down. "Did you all just become evil while I was gone?"

In an instant, Lord Harkon's face softened, and he was her father again. "No, my dear, but…" he sighed, sitting on the edge of the couch but making no move to come closer. Serana saw, truly saw then, her father, the man who'd loved her so much that he cheated death itself rather than leave her alone in this world. "They aren't…real, you know. It took me so long to understand that, and yet I keep forgetting that you haven't yet learned."

She knew what he was saying. "The mortals?"

He nodded. "Just so. Those lives are…torchbugs, beautiful in their way buy ultimately meaningless. When you are immersed in their world, it is easy to see them as full beings, but that is a trap." He shook his head, eyes downcast. "I confess, Serana, that in the beginning it was a fear of death that led me to seek out these gifts. I though immortality was no more than the elongation of life."

She chuckled. "Well, that's the definition, isn't it?"

Her father laughed as well. "Yes, I suppose it is. You are like Valerica in that way; I never had her cleverness with words." A brief smile stole over his face; it was the first time since her return he hadn't grown wrathful at the thought of her mother. "In time, you shall see it as we do." With a last clasp of her shoulder, he turned and left, though he stopped in the doorway and looked back. "Give it time, child. Soon, you'll be back in full."

She sat up all night and long into the day, thinking. Father wasn't wrong, she knew. In a month, she'd doubtless be able to feign being all right with every depraved thing the court did. A year, and she'd join in, no matter how reluctantly. And in a decade, or a century, it will be as though I never walked outside at all.

That was immortality, she realized. No matter what I do, I'll never escape them.

Except that wasn't true. Her mother had. Lady Valerica might be missing, perhaps even dead, but one thing she wasn't was here. So those are my options? Join the court forever or run? If she ran, she would be alone. I know two people in this time, and the one who didn't hate me before probably does now.

Thoughts of Velandryn, as ever, led her to recall their parting. Not my proudest moment. The look in his eyes, something she'd never seen their before, came to her sometimes. When it did, it was usually

She sometimes found herself wondering what spell or craft he'd used to vanish so suddenly; she'd never seen a teleportation achieved without an incantation.

Then, she usually remembered how long four thousand years really was. By the Lord, I've missed so much.

But, she'd been given an opportunity as well. I can see what they can't. Those outside, those born of this time, missed the threads stretching back through the millennia, and the Volkihar of the court lacked even the slightest sympathy for the outside world. It has to mean something. Surely she could use her perspective to…

To what? Her father wouldn't set aside four thousand years of planning and isolation because she'd met some mortals who'd been willing to work with her. He'd have killed Velandryn in an instant, and Velandryn would happily return the favor.

Sighing, she slid into her coffin. I'll just…stay away from the others for now. Maybe things would be clearer if she spent some time alone.

The moment she let her head fall against the cushions, however, she felt something else. Damn, I'm tired. She'd let her guard down after days and nights of avoiding sleep, and now it was inevitable. She halfheartedly tried to lift herself from the soft bedding, but she could tell that it wasn't happening. Damn it all. She didn't want to dream.

---

She was barefoot, and the stone beneath was burning cold. She rubbed at her arms—they're bare too. She looked down, and saw nothing but pale flesh. Shockingly pale, in fact. Her skin had never looked like that indoors. Where in Oblivion am I exactly? She wasn't in her room, it seemed. Oddly, she had no memory of how she had come to be—well, wherever she was.

Finally, slowly, with a heaviness that seemed to come from nowhere, she looked up, and the reality of her surroundings overwhelmed any concerns about her nakedness. In Oblivion wasn't far off!

She stood on a cliff, sheer black walls plunging down hundreds of feet into roiling seas. The stone was black and had no sheen, but the waters seemed to glow from deep beneath their surface. Behind her stretched through a forest of pale grey trees, out of which rose black and jagged peaks. The sky was pale as well, though its light seemed not to come from the sun, but rather an absence of darkness. Thin black clouds moved with impossible speed, veils whose shadows flitted over this strange and blasphemous earth. Am I allowed to call something blasphemous if I worship a Daedra?

Over the sea, a pair of moons squatted low in the sky; one was a great bloated void that drank in the light around it, and the other was a vibrant thing of blue and white, colors swirling, mixing and clashing on its ragged and irregular face.

There could be no doubt where she was. A vampire's dreams belonged to one and one alone, and Lord Molag Bal's realm, the Coldharbour, was said to be a twisted shadow of Tamriel. Guess I'm overdue for a visit. One could only go so long without a vampire dream, and she'd put hers off for a few thousand years.

Something rose out of the waves, a great black chain that hissed and moaned as it rose. Each link was taller than she, the metal thicker than her arm. It rose to the pale heavens, climbing and climbing into the clouds. She watched with bemusement, slightly relieved that this oddity was all she faced.

Then she felt the ground give way beneath her feet, and she tumbled forward. She fell, black sea and blacker cliffs spinning around. She squeezed her eyes shut. It's just a dream, it's just a dream, I am a Daughter of Coldharbour, and no evil can touch me in the night. It wasn't true, of course, but her mother's words—We are Daughters of Coldharbour, and no evil will ever faze us again—calmed her a bit. When I open my eyes, I won't be falling anymore.

And indeed, she was not. As her eyes slowly opened, she found herself seated at the head of a long table. A table seating, save for her, only corpses. On her left was the great draugr from the crypt where she'd awoken, the light in its eyes dull. She recognized bandits from the road and vampires' thralls from Morthal. Alva was slumped some ten feet away; her innards spilled out from a ragged gash down her nude torso and red eyes stared sightlessly upwards.

Shivering, Serana rose. The Feast of Blood. It was another dream vampires could expect, though it wasn't usually quite so…personal. She wondered why these people—Velandryn had been the one to kill Alva, after all—should appear just now.

Walking the length of the table, she made herself study each face. Some of them could have been anyone, but some few she knew she could never forget. Movarth sat rigid in a high-backed chair, his pale features twisted in a hateful sneer, the regal image marred only slightly by the fact that his head was placed on a silver platter before him. Charming.

Next up was—no. She squeezed her eyes shut. No!

The body of Helgi was not seated at the table. Given its state, perhaps it was a minor miracle that it was even recognizable as human remains. The ghost of the little girl sat huddled over the wreck of her flesh, sobbing. When Serana tried to reach out, her hand passed through the ghost, and she found her voice was silent, so she could speak no word of comfort. She had no choice but to leave the little girl there. It wasn't my fault. Of course, that didn't make it better.

Sitting next to Helgi was someone who must have been a thrall or one of the more pathetic bandits, as she couldn't recollect anything about him, not even if she'd truly seen him before. He was oozing blood from a thin line that began over his eyes and ran down his face and neck. If I killed you, I'm sorry, I guess.

After Helgi, she just wanted out. These dreams were never exactly pleasant, but she was terrified of what might come next. One face in particular haunted her thoughts, and the idea of seeing him—

And there he was. Seated at the far end of the table, directly across from her—how could she not have seen him before?—was Velandryn Savani, elven features somber as he gazed into space. His eyes were open but stared without sight, and there was no wound upon him. And yet…

Everything went black, and it took her a moment to realize that she had woken back up. Then, what she'd seen at the table came back to her, and she felt her chest rise and fall, distress forcing her body to take gulps of air that it no longer needed.

She thrust an arm out and sent the lid of her coffin clattering to the floor. She gripped the rim of the wooden box, pushing herself out and stumbling to one of her bookshelves. He had no wound. Wasn't it possible that he wasn't dead? But then why would he have been there? She ran a hand along the spines until she found what she was looking for.

So far as she knew, only one copy of this book had ever been made. It had no title, and in truth, it would be of little use to anyone who wasn't interested in one very specific topic. For almost three years, she and her mother had painstakingly compiled the dreams of every member of the Volkihar Clan they could get their hands on, even going so far as to accost them early in the evenings with demands that they recount the visions of their sleep. The result—aside from a number of people who learned to avoid the Daughters of Coldharbour in increasingly inventive ways—was at the time the most complete work on the topic anywhere in the world. Or so we thought, she admitted to herself. Vampires didn't share knowledge easily, after all, and it was possible another had done the same thing. Still, this should be enough to answer the question she wanted.

Collapsing into a chair, she rifled through the pages until she came to the section titled The Red Feast. Her mother's strong hand filled the pages, and Serana's sketches and annotations sprawled here and there. Order and chaos. Valerica had apportioned sections of each page for Serana's use, and the younger vampire had done her best to recreate the images described to her as well as those from her own experience. Right now, however, she only wanted one piece of information.

There. She ran her finger under the words, the archaic script coming to her more easily than the new Imperial styles used in this age. 'One aspect of the Feast that makes it unique among the dreams experienced by the Volkihar is how it reflects the mind of the dreamer. Guilt, or feelings of intense sorrow and conflict, have been shown to affect those who sit at the table. In many cases, the newly turned report seeing the loved ones they left behind. Some have even seen those they killed, although this seems only to occur when they feel remorse for the killing. Regardless, this dream should be viewed as nothing more than simple reflection, as Lord Molag Bal only rarely makes a presence, and little of import is likely to occur.'

The breath left her in a rush, and Serana collapsed back. She could feel her eyes growing hot. I will not cry! But still, he wasn't dead. No, he might not be dead. Some dreams, after all, were just dreams. And I'll never know.

No, that wasn't entirely true. If her father's plan came to pass, there was no way in Oblivion that Velandryn Savani would stand by and let it happen. So maybe I see him one more time. If that happened, she knew for a certainty that only one of them could walk away.

That thought wouldn't go away. How many of them could I kill? She tried to imagine plunging a blade through Lydia's chest, of snapping the neck of the Redguard sailor woman and standing on the docks of Solitude as her kin turned them into an orgy of violence and death. Of Solitude, full of screams instead of life and commerce, and of Morthal, the old jarl sitting helpless as her city fell around her. And, finally, of looking into Velandryn's eyes as the life went out of them.

She couldn't do it. She began to pace, trying to think of anything other than death and pain.

She stood at the window, tempted to throw the curtains aside and let the sun do its worst. We'd block it out. No more dawns, no more dusks. That would break Velandryn's heart. What was it he'd said? 'I very much like the dawn.'

Was this her father's endgame? The world made dark? Is it even possible? Even without the sun, Velandryn knew of their location now. He has the map. Lydia had a copy too, and he'd sent her away to who knew where. If he tells the Empire, they could attack us here. But, in eternal night, the Volkihar might well prevail. And every clan across Tamriel would rise up as well. It would take a very long time, but they were, after all, immortal.

She could see the future now. A world of darkness, peopled by vampires and those they let live to provide them the sustenance they craved. Even without the sun, the hunger remains. There was no way the court would embrace asceticism. And every mortal becomes cattle, or a fugitive. She wondered if they would be a commodity. As the Ayleids did, we could trade in manflesh. There would be wars, of course—nothing about vampirism changed that part of human nature—and it would be ruinous. How long until Clan Cyrodiil comes knocking, or Father decides to extend his dominion into lands some other lord thinks should be his? There would be more violence, more war, and the only difference would be that this time it would be the mortals who kept to the shadows, hoping for their chance to wrest power away from those who ruled.

It was exhausting, thinking like this. That future…it was so bleak, so…meaningless. It might not be that way. Perhaps Lord Harkon would hold dominion over all, ushering in the Age of Volkihar, where she ruled as a Queen over some land given to her. Maybe I could keep some mortals, let them live their lives. She could be merciful, she knew, and surely they would see that she kept them safe—

And then what? That Altmer woman, up in Garan's room, she was kept safe. The cattle downstairs were as well, and the children, for as long as they lasted. That's not who I am, though. Even as the thought came to her, she dismissed it. How many years before I become that? How long could she remain herself, if the mortals were nothing more than livestock. How long before I don't even regret losing that part of my soul? That thought frightened her the most, she decided.

I would, though. In time, she'd become just like them. There was nothing special about her, nothing to stop her falling prey to their follies. I've just been away. And now she was back.

Sick. She felt almost physically ill, thinking like this. That's not who I am. She didn't want that. Father would put the whole world in chains. She wanted to see the Whiterun that Lydia had sometimes described, a city where trade and the chaos of mortal life went hand in hand. I want to see Yokudans—Redguards, I mean—in their own lands. I want to meet a Maormer and the deserts of the Khajiit-land, and see the rings of White-Gold. She wanted Velandryn to lead her through Morrowind, the land of Daedra and ruin. I want to see the cities of the Dwemer, and…I want to see dragons, and know the secret of their return.

She wanted things. She wanted to find new things to want, dreams and fantasies she couldn't even imagine. The mysteries, the secrets, the little stories of every life. There was a world out there, and she could almost taste it waiting for her.

And she understood. At long last, she knew where she stood. I want the world. Not like her father did; she didn't want it kneeling before her. No, she wanted it teeming with life. She wanted Solitude like she'd seen, a city so much larger than her that she could vanish into its streets for a lifetime, learn a thousand secrets and walk away with countless more undiscovered.

I want the world to tell its stories, and I want to live them. And if her father was going to end that world…well…

She remembered Velandryn's parting words, and the look in his eyes. It hadn't been fear, but neither had it been hatred or revulsion. He'd seen the beast that lurked in her blood, and he hadn't turned away. He said I was better. Better than her father, better than the clan.

I'm not better than anyone, but at least I know where I stand.

---

It didn't come all at once, the decision to leave. Once she'd realized she opposed her father's plan—and, by extension, the larger goals of the court—she first considered trying to change their minds. That idea, however, had lasted for only as long as it took for her to imagine how the court would take it. Badly. The answer would be, badly.

Then, she'd wondered if it was possible to sabotage the prophecy, stop her father from getting his hands on the other two Elder Scrolls without directly confronting anyone. However, that would require her to be at least one step ahead of Lord Harkon and whichever of the Court were in on his plans, and she had even less idea than they did about where to find Elder Scrolls. Maybe the College of Winterhold? If they were still around, they might know something, but she doubted that even a pure-blooded vampire flying by night could make it to Winterhold and back before someone noticed she was missing.

Which leaves me with…leaving. Honestly, she was a little surprised it had taken her this long to seriously consider it. The certainty of everyone in the court that she belonged here had taken root, she supposed. However, once she began to entertain the idea of leaving Castle Volkihar a second time, the pieces fell into place with surprising ease. A week after the incident with the children, she had thought things through as far as she could, and was ready to take action.

She spent the better part of a day with Feran and Garan, buttering up the Dunmer with flattery and asking them a few innocuous but vital questions. By the time the sun began to rise Feran had shown her how to make a tincture that gave vampires a deep and dreamless sleep, and Garan was more than happy to bring down some works on the nature of dragons that had found their way to his library. He considered it a foolish field of study, as he was more than happy to tell her, but that only meant that he had no qualms handing them over to her. "If you want to read that drivel, go right ahead. I mean no offense, my lady, but lizards, even flying ones, are never going to matter much in the grand scheme of things."

At that, she had to quirk an eyebrow. "They're older than we are, and it looks like they're coming back from the dead. I'd think you would be a little interested in that, at least."

Garan snorted. "I could show you a hundred ways to bring a corpse back." He tapped one of the tomes he'd given her. "Look up what Saniviel has to say about the Dragon Cult. They had magic capable of large-scale necromancy, and I wouldn't be surprised if they'd treated the bodies to be resurrected. Fanatics do things like that, you know, and then one mad mage later, a dragon's returned." He shrugged. "Or it's a mockery, built from bones and spellcraft. There are dragon graves all over Skyrim, and if you gave me a few nights and some decent tools I could show you all the flying terror you'd ever need."

Serana kept her face as still as possible. Somehow I don't think that's what's happening. "Truly, you've opened my eyes." Garan was so pleased with outwitting Nord superstitions that he took her praise at face value, and cheerfully walked her out with the books.

If Velandryn is alive and free, these might help me get into his good graces. She had the feeling that, even with their many, many, disagreements, Velandryn might be her best bet for an ally beyond the walls of Castle Volkihar. And if he wasn't, well, there were still the dragons. And if I'm the one who got the Dragonborn killed, I'll probably need to chip in to help finish his work.

Upon returning to her room, she carefully tucked the books into her pack. The rucksack she'd chosen was a good one, heavy leather treated in oil and enchanted by Garan for resistance to fire, frost, and the elements. It was of a kind with those used by Feran's raiders, and was more than adequate for her needs. And he was so flattered when I complimented the thing, he practically begged me to take it.

All in all, things were progressing faster and more smoothly than she'd dared hope. One final test remained, however.

When she fed that night, it was from an old and sickly slave, one she'd long since noticed the Court considered distinctly undesirable. She'd quietly changed out his water down in the kennels earlier; the old man was far past being able to do anything more than the most basic functions required of a blood slave. He can't even speak. And yet, he served his function admirably.

By the time she went to sleep, she could feel Feran's concoction at work. She closed her eyes, only to open them with the realization that it was night again, and she had no recollection of the sleep she'd, presumably, just had. Perfect. It seemed that the potion could be transferred through the blood of mortals. And they don't even feel it.

Over the next two days, she managed to gather enough ingredients to prepare nearly a dozen full doses of the potion. The concoction had made the blood taste somewhat…off, and she figured that it would need to be diluted somewhat. I doubt it'll get them all, but some is better than none. She might be a pureblood and able to travel by day, but it would be far easier to escape without a horde of furious hunters dogging her footsteps. And so if they sleep just a bit deeper than usual, well, so much the better.

Those chosen to tend the mortals were not cleverest of the court, nor the most ferocious. When their lady visited them, as she'd deliberately started doing some days before, they were more than happy to give her what she wanted. And if the lady was displeased with the taste of the thralls and wished their water changed, well, they would of course comply. Serana even kindly brought them barrels of fresh snowmelt, which they poured into the drinking tubs with assurances that the slaves—all of the slaves, as she'd requested—would no longer drink the sewage they had been.

And then I wait. She didn't feed at dinner, but she made sure everyone else did. Nobody looked amiss, though she noted that as the meal progressed, some of the court were quieter than they usually were. Breath bated, she retired to her rooms, and waited for two long hours that felt like an eternity.

Castle Volkihar was all but deserted during the day. Most of the court lacked the ability of the purebloods to work day and night without pause, and so used the time when the hateful sun was in the sky to sleep. And so I go to work.

Her first stop, and the quickest, was the armory. One of the great Death Hounds—she couldn't even remember the name of the vampire who'd first bred them back after their turning, or what long and impressive titles he'd given them—turned to regard her, but made no other move. Other than that, the room was deserted, and in no time at all she'd taken her armor and sword from where they rested in a place of honor on the back wall. Perks of being the Lord's daughter, I guess. Both were in superb condition, and as she belted the sword around her waist, a feeling of rightness came to her. I wasn't meant for lounging around a castle.

From here, things got more dangerous. She moved as quietly as she could and slunk as surreptitiously as she dared; none went armed and armored inside the castle, and she'd have to answer awkward questions if she was seen. At best.

As she skirted the westernmost courtyard, she heard footsteps, and ducked into a corner. As she pressed herself into the stone, she heard the steps pause, and then resume. Fortunately, now they seemed to be receding. Still, she waited until they had faded to nothingness before continuing. She wasn't pleased that there was someone else about, but hopefully it was only a thrall. Or someone going off to bed. The sun was barely risen, after all.

It might be atmospheric to make an escape by night, but Serana was counting on the day. Every moment of sunlight is time they can't spend following me. She had two more stops to make before she could leave, and time was wasting.

Lord Harkon's chambers were the most secure in the castle, and Serana found herself wishing that her plan could have ended with only her departure. Unfortunately, if she was going to do something she would do it right, and she couldn't leave an Elder Scroll in the hands of her father.

Fortunately, Harkon—a title doesn't matter after what I'm about to do—had more faith in gargoyles, death hounds, and enchantment than thralls or underlings, and so his door was warded with guardians who failed to stop Serana. Well, it seems something good came out of Mother's failure to make a spell that could distinguish between the three of us. Then, with a lurch, she wondered if it really had been a failure. How long was she planning her betrayal? All she knew for certain was that the night of their escape—no daytime flight would do for the Lady Valerica—none of the guardian statues had even so much as trembled as they passed. And so they don't for me.

Her father's study adjoined his rooms, and Serana could only hope that he'd since retired for the day. I saw him drink, he has to be asleep. After all, she'd fallen deep into slumber after a comparable amount. I'm okay. Right?

Despite her worries, it seemed that she wouldn't be facing her father now. The study was empty, and a long case of dark wood on the back wall was the last place she'd seen Harkon deposit the scroll. Hardly daring to breathe, she eased the case open, making sure that her fingers avoided the tiny etchings that would stun her and likely alert her father to an intruder's presence. Four thousand years, and he still uses Mother's designs.

His complacency was her edge, however, and the case swung open to reveal…

My Scroll. She didn't know where it had come from or even what it really was, but that ornate case and faint but insistent feeling of pressure that came from looking at it for too long were unmistakable, and she'd made up her mind. A part of it was that she couldn't risk her father getting all three and going through with this prophecy of his, but there was something else at play. She'd been denying it all through her planning, but facing the Scroll now, she could no longer let it be. I deserve this. For some reason, her mother had locked her away with this…thing…for thousands of years. It sent me to this time, and I'm not going to let anyone else have it! She'd always had a possessive streak, and it was with no little satisfaction that she slid the case into its place on her back and exited the office.

The hall was still clear, and it was with renewed confidence that she made her way to the thralls' stables. One more wrong to right. The blood cattle barely even looked up as she passed, and she felt a pang of guilt as she walked by the empty cells that had briefly held children. None of them even lasted a week.

The one she'd come to see stirred as she stood over him, and managed a wince as she pulled him upright. Jolf looked as though he could be the father of the man who'd brought them to Castle Volkihar, with thin arms and a lined face that spoke of days spent motionless and nights serving as blood cattle. He gazed at her with dull eyes, and it might only have been her own desperate hope that showed her the tiniest glimmer of recognition.

I can't make everything right, but at least I can do this! She put a hand to the Nord's forehead, and concentrated. Slowly, taking care not to delve into the truth of his mind, she peeled away layers of enchantment with a surety born of having known these spells from the moment of their inception. There were a few difference from the designs of Lady Valerica, and during one particularly changed bit of the spell she felt Jolf spasm under her hand and worried that he might not exactly have all of his facilities once she was done, but she couldn't stop now. I have to make this right, at least!

Jolf gave one final shudder, and then his eyes opened again. This time, however, the dullness was gone, replaced with a look Serana recognized all too well. He opened his mouth, but she clamped her hand over it with inhuman speed. "Listen! You can escape, but you must do as I say! Your boat is docked outside the castle. You need to…" Something occurred to her then, but she shook it off. "You're going to follow me and…" This time, the voice in her head was more insistent. "Follow me and keep quiet! Can you do that?" He nodded against her hand, and she released him, not missing the look in his eyes. "Hate me all you want, but do it later. I'm the one saving you, and this could all go wrong very fast."

Jolf seemed more or less returned to his senses, and Serana gave silent thanks that Clan Volkihar didn't rely on seduction as the vampires in Morthal had. Brute magic was a quick and easy method to create low-level slaves, but it could be undone, and the victims would be themselves again. If he'd been taken by Alva or Movarth, he might well have tried to turn me in out of some misguided love. Love, false love, and hate. The vampire's gifts.

He also seemed able to follow well enough, though Serana suspected that once the terror and desire to be free wore off, he'd be an absolute mess. Right now, though, I need him to sail.

First, though, there was that voice in her head to take care of. It wasn't my fault, she tried to tell herself, but she couldn't just let it be. Sighing, she turned towards the laboratory and library, and the rooms of Garan Marethi.

Feran was nowhere to be seen, and Garan's coffin was tightly shut. With a small shudder of relief, Serana drew back the curtain that hid the far corner of the room, as well as her target.

"Mintuile." She wasn't certain if was her name or Serana's voice that did it, but the Altmer looked up with smooth nonchalance. She was still dressed in those wispy silks, though now she had a chain of silvery metal around her neck, just tight enough to dig ever so slightly into that smooth skin. The effect was horrifically erotic, and Serana forced herself to stop thinking in such a way. She's been turned into a piece of meat for Garan, and she needs my sympathy, not my lust!

In truth, lust had been a scare emotion in her since the night of the ritual, but even the faint stirring she felt here seemed a betrayal of the Altmer. She was here to help this poor woman. The only way I can.

There was no chance of removing the shackles on Mintuile's mind as she had for Jolf. Garan had spent somewhere between decades and centuries turning her into a tool without even a glimmer of defiance, and Serana doubted that there was anything left of the true Mintuile in there. I'm doing her a kindness. She brushed a strand of hair out of those gold eyes, so different from her own, and placed a gentle kiss on her unlined brow. May your soul find joy in the realms beyond.

Mintuile's neck was slender, and Serana had little difficultly closing her hands around it. Only the slightest pressure was needed to close off the Altmer's airway, and when Serana tightened her hands ever so slightly, the mortal's golden flesh took on a reddish pallor. Make it quick. A twitch of her wrists, and a snap as her neck broke, and Mintuile's body went limp. Serana released it, and the woman who had for so long been a slave slumped to the ground. It's done.

She remembered Jolf, standing mutely behind her, just as the Nord's eyes widened and he opened his mouth once more. She slammed her hand back into place, barely remembering not to use her full strength lest she smear him against the bookshelves. "Scream, and we're both dead!" Her voice was a harsh whisper.

She dragged him into the hall, and spun him around. "Hate me later! We're going to your boat, now! Can you sail?"

He nodded, eyes wide, and she let him go. "Follow me, and for the love of your Divines, keep quiet."

She led him through more shadowed corridors, shuttered against the sun outside. We're almost there. There would be a thrall in the main entrance and perhaps one of the Volkihar Guard, but there was a small door leading from one of the storerooms to under the bridge, only able to be opened from within, that she was counting on. It was here when my father took the castle, and I'd wager most of the court doesn't know—

"Lady Serana." There, in the storeroom, stood Feran Sadri, hand on the hilt of his sword. His eyes were bright, but his face was twisted with a scowl. "I had hoped it would be another I found here."

Serana froze, all of her plans skidding to a halt. She couldn't move for trying to figure some way out of this situation. Jolf too seemed paralyzed, though she suspected that he was simply to terrified to budge. She had to get them out of here, and hope against hope that Feran hadn't alerted anyone else.

She forced a smile. "How'd you know I'd be here?"

"You think I wouldn't recognize the taste of my own concoction? Clever, filtering it through the cattle like that. Took me months to think of using it that way." A grin, through gritted teeth. "Put an enemy to sleep, and in goes the knife."

Keep him talking. "I thought you and Garan didn't play politics." She strolled casually towards a table pushed against one wall. Keep him looking at me. Hopefully Jolf would be clever enough to get clear. There was no way she could subdue him if she had to keep a mortal safe as well. Not when we're all stuck in here.

It seemed to work, as Feran snarled and turned away from Jolf to glare at her. "He might have that luxury, but I wasn't given anything! Captain of the raiders, you think that was a gift for good behavior? Master of Alchemy, just handed to me? Princess Serana might get what she wants just by asking, but I've scraped and schemed for every ounce of my status!"

She smiled at him, trying to make it as smug and infuriating as possible. She was a bit hurt that he hadn't really thought her a friend, but it was her own fault for forgetting what kind of place this was. No friends in the court, just allies and everyone else.

"And?" She stepped closer while Jolf, finally catching on, leaned towards the door and very carefully took a single step. "What's next for Feran Sadri?"

He chuckled. "I'd thought you'd be my path to better things. No allies, could have used you." A shrug. "Shame you're a traitor. Still, I'll need to keep you alive. Might look bad if I present Lord Harkon with his daughter's corpse." A smile, eerily similar to one of Velandryn's practiced grins, stretched across his face, and he licked his lips. "Think he'll let me have a taste before he throws you in a cell for stealing his Elder Scroll?"

Serana pushed aside emotion. Now or never. Feran's pride and desire to be the one to bring her in could be his undoing, but she had to do this perfectly. Can't reach for my sword; I'll have to do it bare-handed. She'd have to take him out with a single blow, but he was probably expecting that. I'm a pureblood, but he's been fighting for centuries.

Feran had apparently tired of leering at her. "Nothing to say? Come on then. Go quietly and Lord Harkon might even let you see the stars again someday. You—"

She lunged, as fast as she could, straight towards him. To his credit, he had his hand on his sword and had half-drawn it in the quarter of a second it took her to close the gap and drive her fist into his throat. His head snapped back, and had he been mortal the impact would doubtless have killed him. However, a Volkihar would only be dazed. Her second blow was a kick to his gut that sent him into the wall so hard that the stone around him became a spider's web of cracks. He staggered forward, reeling, and Serana hit him one time more, a final blow with the weight of her whole body that sent him to the ground, and this time he stayed.

It was over within two seconds, and Serana was seized with a sudden desire to end Feran where he lay. Make sure he can't come after me. But there had been enough death tonight, and so she simply left him lying there, beaten but not near as broken as he could have been. "Give thanks I'm not you, Feran. And tell my father I'm done with this place." Jolf emerged from the doorway, face pale and drawn, and she opened the secret passage—which, apparently, quite a few people knew about—and motioned him in. And hopefully nobody else was as observant as Feran.

Feran coughed, blood spattering the floor. "Leave, you're damned forever." Each word sent more red flecks to the floor. "The Scroll—"

"Is mine!" She knew she had to go, but she wanted this heard. "You want it, come and take it from me." She leaned over him, making sure he could hear. "What's happening here is wrong, and I won't be a part of it." She kicked him once more, and this time she heard the breaking of bones beneath her boot. That was for the children.

"You'll," he coughed again, and Serana had no doubt that he was in excruciating pain, "fail." It was almost admirable, how doggedly he kept on speaking. Were he mortal, he would already have succumbed to his wounds. "Our time comes, and you…cannot stand against us."

You're better than this. She smiled down at him. "I'm not the one on the floor." She slid into the passage, shutting the door behind her. Time to be gone.

The sunlight was tempered by clouds overhead, but it was still unpleasant, and she pulled her hood up over her head as she stepped out from under the bridge. Not the worst sacrifice I'll have to make, I'm sure. Jolf was on the ship and she wondered how long he would have waited before sailing away without her. Fortunately, she didn't need to find out, and hefted her pack onto the boat before jumping aboard herself. "Go!"

The Nord didn't need to be told twice, and soon they were skimming through the fog. No magic stopped people from leaving Castle Volkihar, and Jolf needed no help heading east. Still, she felt the need to gesture onwards, perhaps just to feel slightly less useless. "Solitude, I think." She tried a chuckle. "No doubt you'll be happy to be back."

She wanted to bite back those words the moment they came out, and Jolf shuddered. "They can't find us, can they?" His voice was desperation and rage and impossible pain. "They can't…he was lying, the elf. I'll be…be..."

"You'll be safe." She wasn't lying, so far as she knew. They might want to hunt down and kill Jolf for seeing their castle and escaping, but she doubted they'd be able to find him in Solitude. And they're probably going to be looking for me with a lot more vigor. "Just maybe don't go on the North Sea for a while." She chuckled again, though it wasn't funny. What's wrong with me?

Jolf shuddered again, arms over his chest. "What they did…what you did…."

She sighed, and sank onto one of the benches. "We're vampires. You were enchanted, made to feed us. I'm…I'm sorry. Truly. I didn't think it would happen. You were supposed to take Velandryn back with you, and…I didn't mean for it to go like this."

"Why'd you kill the other elf? The one who came with you?" Jolf didn't sound accusatory, but rather as though he was trying to puzzle something out.

Serana, however, was honestly confused. "Who? Feran? He tried to stop us. And I didn't kill him." Maybe I should have, but I don't want another death on my conscience.

"No, Velan. That was him back there right? The Dark Elf."

"No, Velandryn escaped." She tried to figure out why he was getting the two Dunmer mixed up. "I don't know where he is." Then, she realized something about the unworldly Nord. "Do they look the same to you?"

Jolf shrugged. "Grey skin, weird eyes. Does it matter?"

Serana bit back a sharp retort; mindful of who she was talking to. He's not at his best right now. Instead, she looked out into the fog. "Velandryn teleported away. I don't know to where."

Jolf only shuddered again. "Glad he got away. Worse than dying, being there." He managed to glare at her, but there was too much pain in his eyes for it to bite the way he intended. Instead, he only managed to send her into another spiral of guilt.

He did as I asked, and his reward was to have his mind ripped out of his control. Instead of his home, he got to be a slave. I freed him, but how far behind does that make me?

No matter what Velandryn had said, she wasn't good. They all hate and fear vampires, and they're right, aren't they? Everything we touch becomes monstrous.

But he hadn't said good. She realized. You're better than this. She wasn't certain that he was right, but still. It's a lower bar, if nothing else.

As the day wore on and they passed from fog to clear sky, she thought on that word. Better. It was obvious what he'd meant by it—your father is a literal monster who's about to try and forcibly drain the blood from my body, and you manage to not be quite as terrible as he is—but the words had stuck with her, and she wanted to understand why.

I'm better than this. The way she saw it, this was everything around her at Castle Volkihar. She was better than them, than Garan and Feran and her father, and that meant something. That's where I can start. She was running away from the only people in Tamriel who were like her, and she knew why. I can't accept what they've done, can't support their evil.

I'm better.

She still didn't fully believe it, but that was an issue for later. Jolf was nodding off even where he stood—either she hadn't quite managed to purge his system of every spell laid upon him, or the stress of their escape was a bit fatiguing—and she wasn't much in the mood to make port and let the Volkihar catch up to them. So, she got a quick lesson on how best to keep the boat headed more or less east, and sent him to the back of the little craft top get some shuteye. Night would be here soon enough, and she wanted him well-rested for the time when the Volkihar could conceivably hunt them down.

Suddenly, she regretted not having taken the time to sabotage her clan's other ships in some way. Feran's raiders or Fura's guards might well be on their tail already; no doubt they could move in some limited capacity even by daylight. We have to keep moving. Once they reached Solitude they should be okay, but for now they were terribly vulnerable. So, she held the till as Jolf had told her, and kept the setting sun just to the right of their stern until it vanished, and then pointed the prow so that the distant shore stayed just barely in view.

As Jolf slept, she considered his fate. He might well be hunted if he came face-to-face with one of the Volkihar, but, as she'd thought earlier, it was unlikely that any would care enough to actually track him down. When we reach Solitude, I can let him go.

And then what? Her treacherous conscience, it seemed, wasn't quite done with her. You dragged him north, let him get captured and enslaved, fed on him—we can't forget that you did that, can we? —and now you just want to set him free to wrestle with nightmares and terror for the rest of his life? He's a tool to you, just like he was to your father.

The sad thing was, Serana wasn't entirely sure that voice was wrong. She wanted so badly to see Jolf to Solitude and walk away, secure in the knowledge that she'd done the right thing. Get on with my life, and leave him to his.

Her tutors had taught her the classic ethical paradigms, of course, but she didn't much feel like trying to reason her way to a conclusion right now. I just want to know that I'm doing the right thing. If she was being honest, she wanted someone to tell her that. Tell me that I'm a good person, that all of the horrible things in my past don't matter because I helped out this one poor fool.

Right. No matter what she wanted, she was a monster. Mustn't forget that. She had, for a while, when traveling with Velandryn. And back at the castle, I almost fell into their way of thinking. But she'd avoided that temptation.

And here's my reward. Stuck on a boat with a half-broken Nord who despised her. Not to mention a mind as full of doubts as it had ever been, and the near certainty that she had at most one person in the world who might be willing to help her. And if Velandryn's dead… well, she just had to hope he wasn't. Or else I'm looking at a long and lonely road, keeping the Scroll out of my father's hands.

She'd given some thought to what she could do if, as she feared, Velandryn was either dead or unwilling to help her. And that second one's not unlikely, especially given how we parted. She wasn't certain if she should approach someone powerful—perhaps the Moth Cult?—for aid, or if she'd be better off to vanishing into some remote village in Cyrodiil or Hammerfell where the Volkihar would never find her or the scroll. And I'd just have to keep it up forever. That was the problem with outwaiting immortals.

Jolf awoke, taking the tiller again, and Serana wrapped her arms around herself as she considered the future. It might be for the best, vanishing. She hurt people when she was around them, and some dim and inhospitable cave would make sure she never put anyone else in danger again.

And how many more children die because the court wanted a celebration? If she was going to hide, she had to acknowledge that she'd be letting her family so as they pleased. Even if Father's plan doesn't come to fruition, they'll still be there.

It seemed as though she was between a hammer and an anvil, and the pounding of her thoughts was almost more than she could bear. First, get to Solitude. Once Jolf was safely ashore, and she'd done what she could to atone for…what her family had done, then she could worry about the future.

Over the next two days, she tried to follow her own advice. She studied sky and sea at night, admiring the Aurora overhead and spying on the distant shore to the south. There was no sign of anyone following them, though she admitted to herself that they might well simply be too far behind to see. Jolf dragged a line through the water and pulled up a fish every now and again, which he ate raw, and once he even offered her a piece, though she demurred. He would not, however, meet her eyes even once through all that time.

When she saw the lighthouse where she'd told Velandryn the history of Haafingar, and he'd laughed with her about what it must feel like to walk in her boots, she felt a lump in her throat that hadn't been there a moment before. He isn't dead. She simply couldn't believe that Velandryn Savani, who'd apparently planned out not only how to return a vampire to her clan but also how to leave them all looking like fools as he teleported away, would just go and die. He's bound for High Hrothgar, as he said he would be. When she found him—

What? She couldn't think past that point. She'd have to talk fast, no doubt, lest he attack her or denounce her as a vampire to any who might be nearby. He probably hates me. Velandryn had an agile mind and was capable of great kindness and perception, but he also had tremendous passion and a temper to match. There was no way he'd just accept her walking back up to him and asking for his help, not with the way they'd parted.

I can figure that out once I reach Solitude. One thing at a time, after all. She gazed up at the magnificent lights that had erupted above them, and sighed. Once she was done with Jolf, she could worry about her onetime travelling companion, and how best to get back into his good graces. For now, though, nothing to do but sail.

---

Approaching Solitude from the north was very different than it was from the south, though no less impressive. Rather than endless dockyards, it was sheer cliffs and fortifications that rose out of the afternoon fog. Jolf too, though somewhat groggy after four days of intermittent sleep at sea, stared upward, though Serana was forced to admit he might simply be glad to be home.

As they approached the vast archway that would lead them to the endless docks below the city, a ship resolved itself from the mist and pulled alongside. Long, slender, crewed by a dozen or so men pulling at oars and fussing over a furled sail, it bore an Imperial banner atop its mast as well as a wolf pennant that had to represent the jarl of Solitude. Aboard, six soldiers watched them, and one raised a hand in greeting.

"Welcome back! Not much of a catch, by the look of things!"

Of course, they think we were fishing. They had to look ragged enough, Serana having hidden her armor under layers of tattered grey cloth. Just because she didn't get cold didn't mean she had to advertise that fact, and she'd rather not answer questions about her style of armor if she could help it.

Jolf nodded, grunting, and the guards passed them by. For a moment, Serana wondered at the lax security, but a moment's reflection made it clear. Even if we were Stormcloaks, it's more trouble than it's worth to try and search every boat coming in. She'd seen the docks below Solitude, and there was no way that two agents, no matter how dedicated, could make much of a difference in that chaos. I'd wager the palaces up over the arch are a different story, though. That Solitude had palaces beyond count, she did not question. It was simply a fact, and she decided then and there that the first thing she'd do once she'd seen Jolf off was head up into the city. One quick look at the…Blue, I think that river-captain called it, and then I can be on my way. She'd dreamed of this city since it was barely more than a war camp; she could take a day to walk its streets.

The docks were well lit in the evening light, and music drifted out over the water. Serana could make out shapes that looked as if they were dancing farther up, and too many buildings were festooned with torches for a normal night. What are they up to?

The moment their ship pulled into a berth, tension bled out of Jolf and Serana saw, for the first time, the man she'd met in Solitude. Still wary, still angry, but he might be okay.

The look he gave her, however, was not one of strength. "Thank you for helping me, but I never want to see you again." His accent couldn't disguise the fear in his words, nor could his downcast eyes conceal their pain. He's terrified. She had a hard time blaming him, however.

She reached out a hand, though she didn't know exactly what she was going to do with it. "I believe there's some money you're owed—"

"Just go!" He had flinched back as though her hand would burn him, and she withdrew, unsure of what to say. Finally, after a long moment, she turned away. If there's nothing I can say, maybe I should just go.

She had left everything—except the Elder Scroll, of course, which was wrapped and strapped in place on her back, just like before—in the storage compartment of the boat, and she hadn't intended to do anything more than give him a moment alone before returning to make her final amends and departure. However, the lights and sounds from farther in had caught her attention, and she was wandering away before she even realized what she'd done. I'll be back in a moment. A festival in Solitude was something out of a dream, and she just wanted to see what was around the corner.

I'll only be a minute…

---

Serana had lost track of both time and place, so caught up was she in the revels. Someone had told her that this was the Feast of Hearthfire, and then pressed a comically large mug of mead into her hand. She had little taste for alcohol, but didn't want to appear rude, so she sipped and made appreciative noises as the man told her about how they celebrated the coming winter each year, and how the jarl had given her blessing for the city to feast and be merry even in this trying time. "She's a fine one, is Jarl Elisif. Up there in her palace, never forgetting about the common folk."

Serana nodded—based on what she'd heard, the woman's heart was likely in the right place if nothing else—but made her farewells when the man took a little too keen an interest in her. She didn't mind saying she was new to the city, but anything beyond that made her acutely uncomfortable. So she made her farewells, and headed up the hill, hoping to see more new things. Nothing standing in my way now!

"Wow, you're pretty!"

The voice was high-pitched enough that Serana turned with a smile rather than a scowl for whatever man was trying to catch her interest, and indeed, it was a little girl, no older than seven or eight, who stood looking at her from a doorstep. "Thank you so much." She turned to go, but the girl's next words stopped her in her tracks.

"My momma's weaving flower crowns! You should buy one!"

Flower crowns? No story of idyllic country life was complete without one, but she'd never considered that they might be real. Mother wasn't exactly the sort to make them, and the cold meant the commoners never had flowers in abundance. Now, though, faced with the imminent prospect of actually having one of her own, she couldn't resist.

Three minutes later, she was the proud owner of a wreath of white flowers, and the little girl's smile as she placed it on her head—the child has insisted it had to be white, since "your hair is so black!" —sent a strange feeling through Serana. Suddenly, this girl was standing before her father, and Lord Harkon's pale hand reached out to stroke the girl's cheek—

Serana only realized that she'd moved when the girl gave a cry of shock. The wreath hung over her eyes, and she was standing now, a good ten feet behind where she'd been kneeling. I'm not in the castle. This little girl was in no danger. This is the Hearthfire Festival, and nobody's going to harm her.

Smiling, she reached out to the girl, who forgave her in an instant and ran up to her, laughing and asking how she'd moved so fast. Her mother, fortunately, was busy convincing a man to weave flowers into his beard, and didn't seem to have noticed anything. Serana pressed a few coins—she'd made sure to bring along coinage from this age when she fled—into the child's palm, and made her promise to be safe. The girl agreed happily, and moments later Serana was surrounded once again by strangers.

A trumpet sounded nearby, and when she turned she saw two dark-skinned Redguards dancing and whirling around each other as a watching crowd cheered. Each man bore a curved sword in one hand, and the dance seemed to involve getting a blade as close as possible to the other without actually striking. After a moment, Serana realized that she wasn't sure if it was a choreographed dance or a genuine contest. The crowds was treating it as a fine show, but the air between the two held the tension of battle.

Watching them, she wondered at the history of their people. When I left, the Yokudans were far away, barely more than legends. It was strange to think of their descendants living among other humans. Well, times change, I suppose.

She watched for a moment longer, but left before anything could go wrong. No need to tarnish this night with blood. Besides, she wasn't sure she wanted to be around the stuff right now. It might be a while before I can feed again. That was yet another part of her plan that she hadn't fully thought through. Maybe I can find someone who'll do it willingly. That was a long shot, however. First things first. She needed to get back to the ship, gather her things, and bid a final farewell to Jolf.

She got a sidetracked a few more times on her way back to the docks. Once, a cat-man—They're called Khajiit, remember?—offered to let her play a game in which she could 'win all the coin your heart desires!' Somehow, she doubted that was true. More than one group offered to let her join them, apparently offended at seeing her walking alone. If any were put out by her eyes or skin, both of which she had no doubt were verging on luminescent under the night sky, they hit it well.

She refused every offer—I really need to get back to Jolf—but when she heard the sound of familiar music coming from one tavern, she had to turn to see if her ears were playing a trick one her. No, that's definitely The Dragonborn Comes. Even when she was alive, the song had been ancient, and she supposed that given the current climate it wasn't shocking that people would want to hear it. She drifted closer, listening.

"It's an end to the evil, of all Skyrim's foes!" The singer had a decent voice, but her lute playing was… off, somehow. What's she doing wrong? Serana pushed through the crowd for a closer look, and peered at the bard with a keen eye. She'd spent quite a long time learning to play the—

What in Oblivion? The lute had eight strings on a neck with fretting unlike any she'd ever seen, and the body was fluted, though whether the adornment was purely cosmetic she couldn't tell. Regardless, she was fairly itching to snatch the instrument out of the mortal's hands. Easy, Serana. Clearly someone had designed a new kind of lute in the last four thousand years, and even though she had plenty of other things to worry about, this seemed a lot more fun.

"Beware, beware the Dragonborn comes!" that last line was shouted back to the singer by two dozen or so patrons who seemed to think that enthusiasm was the better part of musical ability. Here and now, they might be right. Her old tutors would have had fits at their singing, but this crowd was enjoying itself tremendously.

With that, she was lost. The next songs were unfamiliar to her, but seemingly favorites of the crowd. One was some sort of Imperial anthem, all about killing Ulfric and driving out the Stormcloaks; while the next was a love song just like a hundred others she'd heard. The one after that, though, was a ballad of the classical style, some twenty stanzas long, telling the tale of a Jarl Aldra who'd beaten back a Dunmer invasion. Or, as the bard put it, "Broke the tide of Dark Elf rage upon her shield-wall."

Serana loved books for what they were, but music would always be in her soul. Listening now, she felt the years falling away, and stood with Aldra and her shield-thanes at the shattered gates of Morvunskar. She could see the vicious Dunmer, who'd written profane devotions to their Daedric masters on their armor with the blood of the fallen.

"See their war-banners whip, hear their battle-Thu'um break, see the brave sons of Skyrim, see them fight 'gainst the fire!" The major chords evoked heroism and desperation, and the bard's voice soared as she sang the part of the jarl. "Onward my brothers, my sisters and sons! We are all of Atmora, and we cannot fall!" Serana was glad to see that the ancient style of heroic poem hadn't gone out of style, as both alliteration and the meter that altered itself to convey the mood brought her back to the bards of her youth. And none of that rhyming nonsense. It might be fine for a romantic piece, but a story had no need of it.

"With the Dunmer defeated, still some stood in the gate," The minor keys had a resonance that Serana knew wasn't possible with an old four-stringer lute and was damned hard to create with six; she resolved to get her hands on an eight-stringed instrument as soon as it was feasible. "Clothed in robes as red as the dawn. Their eyes alight with lust for blood, hunger drove them to remain." The note evoking the Jarl entered the mix then, cutting through the eerie tones denoting the Dark Elf champions. "Aldra drew steel, her black blade Granat. With her war-kin beside her, arrayed for glory, they faced the grim grey of the East."

For a fleeting moment, Serana wondered how Velandryn would have felt, hearing this account. I bet the Dunmer tell it a little differently. Although she could see him taking a perverse pleasure in being called an 'ash-sworn heathen, cursed to hate and burn.'

By the time she was done trying to imagine what similar epithets he'd attach to Jarl Aldra and her heroic band, the bard was fully into the climactic clash, where one Dunmer slew Morunn, father of Aldra's sons, and where the Jarl's bed-thane—wait, really? In my day we just called them mistresses—gave her life to slay a wizard who had called forth a mighty monster of Oblivion. Sadly the bard's descriptions were more flowery than useful, but Serana thought it might have been a Daedroth.

Whatever it had been, it fell before the might of the Nords, thought as Aldra slew the last of the Dunmer, a warrior called 'the savage son of Red Oran,' she was nicked with a poisoned blade. "The last of her thanes was fair Meytris, of Cyrod flesh but true Nord blood. She brought her then, to watch the dawn, and feel kyne's kiss upon her cheeks." And there, in the gate of the fortress she had held, watching reinforcement pour in from the Rift and Winterhold, Jarl Aldra died.

"And still she stands, in spirit and stone, watching for foes from afar. And on the day when the dread Dunmer stir, once more shall her Thu'um ring forth!" She had to admit the ending was powerful, accompanied by the music as it was.

Serana wasn't sure if she felt quite as strongly as most of the crowd; more than a few were sniffing or had wet eyes as the bard rose to thunderous applause. However, she had enjoyed herself immensely, even if she hadn't had as much alcohol as the rest of the audience. For a moment she considered approaching the bard, but when she saw how many others were doing so, she just pushed through the mass of people into the night beyond. I still have business to finish, no matter how many songs are playing.

I can enjoy myself once I'm done with Jolf. She had to get her final closure, make this last thing right. Somehow. Reluctantly, she left the lute player and the warmth of the tavern behind and set her path for the docks below.

She managed to reach the edge of the docks without getting further sidetracked—if I only spent a moment seeing what smelled so nice, it doesn't count! Besides, that biscuit was delicious—and was pleased to see that Jolf's ship was more or left where she'd left it. With everything that had happened and her family after them, it was nice to see nothing had gone horribly wrong.

However, as she drew closer, she noticed more that there was than one person on the ship. Not good. She's only been gone a few hours, but all sorts of things could have happened in that time. She glanced up, and saw a reddish light in the east. I was gone…all night? She'd lost track of time, to be sure, but that was…

That was completely understandable. She'd lost days before, deep in thought and untroubled by the hunger, thirst, or fatigue that afflicted mortals. And tonight it was music and companionship. Focusing, she brought her mind back to the here and now, and crept towards Jolf's little craft. If the Volkihar found me…

Except it wasn't them, not in the slightest. One, speaking loudly, was nothing but a soldier. It was in every word. Imperial. He was gesturing at the other who was—

No. She breathed more out of habit than necessity, but the poets' talk of being left breathless still managed to apply to her in times of great shock. As it would, when Velandryn Savani was standing on her boat.

She couldn't see anything more than his outline, bundled up as he was, but there was no mistaking him. His voice resonated on levels that she doubted mortals could hear, and the blood of dragons infected the air around him with its intoxicating scent. He's here. He wasn't dead, wasn't lost, wasn't far away in Morrowind or Cyrodiil or Oblivion. I can make things right.

The guard was already leaving as she pushed past him, desperate to reach her friend. Then, as her foot fell on the planks of the boat, she realized how foolish this well might be. The last time I saw him, my family tried to kill him. She hadn't even seen his face yet. What if I'm wrong? It might be someone else, or his time might have changed him. Or he just decided that I'm like all the rest of them. She wasn't a good person, after all. What if he sees what I've done when he looks at me? He'd be able to see the ship, the children, Mintuile. He would see it in her eyes, and she would be damned. He'll kill me, and I'll deserve it.

His back was still to her—clearly Jolf held his attention, and she couldn't blame him for that—and the thought of drawing the Dunmer's notice was strangely terrifying. I defied my father, stole an Elder Scroll, and likely insured that I'll be hunted by my kin for the rest of my life. Why am I scared to face him?

Because, she knew, she'd found the strength to do those things from the knowledge that it was possible to have a life beyond the court. Because Velandryn's parting words—"You're better than this"—wouldn't leave her mind, and she's wanted so badly to believe that he was right. But what if he wasn't?

If he turned, and saw only another vampire, then she would have no one. She would have abandoned her family, abandoned her blood and her four thousand year sleep, for nothing.

No. Even if he rejected her, even if he condemned and cast her aside, she had done the right thing. I'm not doing this because of him, I'm doing it so that my father's mad plan never comes to pass! She might not ever be good—I am what I am. I am what…I became, and nothing will ever change that—but maybe she could be better.

I was better than them. I can be better than who I was. The moment she left Castle Volkihar, she became better. When I saved Jolf, when I…saved…Mintuile, I wasn't good. She didn't have to be good. Maybe better is enough.

"Velandryn." The name sounded odd on her tongue, as words did when they'd lived only in her head for too long. When he turned, it was almost a shock to see that angular face, those red eyes alive with inhuman fire.

Those eyes knew her, and as Velandryn Savani stared at her, a terrible weight lifted itself from her body. She couldn't have said what he was seeing, but all at once, she was back. She was on the boat with him again, just like before. They'd spoken of what it was like, being Dragonborn and being a vampire, and somehow they'd found common ground. And now, she could see his eyes.

In Morthal, when they'd been dealing Movarth and his minions, Velandryn had fought with a passion spurred by disgust. She knew that his gods abhorred Molag Bal, and that killing vampires was practically a religious act. She'd seen the hate behind his eyes and felt the intensity of his presence when he killed Alva, even more so when he faced Movarth down in that cave. And now, in his eyes, she saw none of that potent rage. Maybe there's a chance for me after all.

She smiled, feeling lighter than she had in a very, very, long time. "Hey."

I might not be good, but better's not a bad place to start.

---

I have often pondered, in the small hours of the morning, why it was that Rona and I were chosen for this fate. It was not an easy path for me to accept my nature, and I will forever grieve that she could not. As I write these words, the pain of my beloved's passing is still more than I can bear, and I fear that if a century has not been enough time to mend my heart, that it shall remain broken forevermore.

And yet, of late I come to my writing with a curious sort of joy, especially when I review the older journals I have filled and long since filed away. The passage of time has given me insight that, if I may be so arrogant here in my own accounts, far surpasses that of mortal men. And, I fancy, my age has made the stability of my rule unmatched among my peers. I have watch six generations of the noble House Umbranox attempt to control Anvil and the Gold Coast, and perhaps vampirism is worth it so long as I need never entrust my rule to whichever of my children appears least incompetent!

Skingrad prospers, and all evidence points to my condition being of no concern to my people. I feed only on those of my subjects who come to me willingly, of course, offering blood as a sort of macabre tax. I have been told that it is considered an honor to give to the Count, and the notion of a noble who is truly sustained by his populace stirs some romantic remnant deep in my heart.

Vampire and Count. The terms seem almost incompatible, but I have made them work. It is not an easy road to walk, but I would no more give away one that the other. I am at peace, and hope to remain so for as long as…inhumanly possible.

—From the private writings of Janus Hassildor