"So, what's the plan?" Amon's voice broke the silence as we secured our steeds in the stable, his tone carrying an edge of curiosity that irritated me more than I cared to admit.
I was still lost in thought, the ache on my neck a persistent reminder of the encounter that had unsettled me. But I had to focus on my purpose—investigating the dragon sightings.
"We'll start by talking to the locals, see if they've heard anything about the dragons. Then—"
Amon's sudden chuckle interrupted me, unexpected and annoyingly smug. "Oh, that's why you're here, isn't it?"
His words only added to my frustration as he continued, "Bold of you, considering your men fled with their tails between their legs."
"Have you seen them?" I demanded, my curiosity piqued despite my irritation.
Amon's eyes gleamed with amusement. "Of course! The Dunmer and the old man. How could I miss them?"
"No, Amon," I sighed, exasperated, "I meant the dragons. Have you seen them?"
He tapped his chin thoughtfully, his gaze distant. "The wings, the eyes filled with fury and blood…"
I rolled my eyes, unable to suppress my irritation.
"Yes, I think I've seen them," he finally admitted, his tone light as I turned and began walking towards the Frozen Hearth.
"And?" I prompted, hoping for something more concrete.
"And I ran, like everyone else!" He replied with a laugh, strolling beside me as if the entire situation were a game.
I shot him a sharp look, but his nonchalant demeanor only underscored the challenge of our task. As we approached the inn, I steeled myself for the difficult conversations ahead.
As we entered the inn, the warmth of the hearth enveloped us, a stark contrast to the biting cold outside.
"Ouch!" Amon's voice cut through the murmur of the inn as he took a few steps back, feigning surprise at a little girl who had collided with him while running. Her wide eyes and flushed cheeks revealed her fright.
"Careful, darling," Amon said softly, giving her a reassuring smile.
"I need to hide!" The girl's voice was high with panic as she clutched at Amon's leg.
"Hide from what? Are you alright?" I asked, stepping forward to inspect her.
The girl looked up with a pout. "There aren't many people left in Winterhold, and I only have Assur to play with, and sometimes he's mean."
I raised an eyebrow. "Mean?"
"He always wants to play 'Hunt the Elf!'" she exclaimed, her gaze shifting to Amon, who gave a small, knowing nod. "And he makes me be the elf."
Amon cleared his throat and moved towards the counter. I leaned in close to the girl and whispered, "Next time, just kick him between the legs."
As I joined Amon at the counter, I could see the sly grin on his face.
"Good advice," he murmured. "Explains a lot."
I frowned, puzzled. "What does it explain?"
"Why you're still a virgin," Amon replied, his gaze piercing and unapologetically direct.
My heart raced, blood rushing to my cheeks as I struggled to maintain composure.
"Are you not?" His eyes locked onto mine, his question demanding honesty as if lying was simply not an option.
"How can I help you today?" The innkeeper, a woman with amber-colored hair and tired eyes, asked, her voice heavy with exhaustion.
Before I could answer, Amon stepped forward, his gaze lingering on me with an unsettling intensity. "A room, if you please. We've traveled through the night."
I raised an eyebrow at his choice of words, but kept my silence.
"Certainly." The innkeeper handed him a key, accepting the gold in exchange.
"Thank you," Amon said, his smile both warm and chilling as he glanced at me, a silent invitation veiled in his cold eyes.
The room was modest, its dim lighting casting shadows that danced over his chiseled features as he began to unfasten his armor.
"What are you doing?" I asked, my voice betraying a hint of frustration.
"I need to sleep." he replied curtly, his fingers deftly working to remove his armor.
"You can't travel in daylight, can you?" I pressed, frustration edging into my tone.
"No." he answered with a firmness that left no room for argument.
I crossed my arms, trying to contain my irritation. My plans to leave Winterhold that day and ride to Fort Kastav were now on hold for someone I barely knew.
As he disrobed, his skin gleamed with a ghostly sheen, pale and flawless, unmarred by any blemishes or scars. The sight was both mesmerizing and unnerving. I quickly turned my gaze away, struggling to ignore the strange heat rising in my cheeks.
"When should I wake you?" I asked, my voice steadier than I felt.
"We," he said, stepping closer, his movements deliberate and confident, "will wake at sunset. I wouldn't want you to be tired on the journey."
The implication of his words, of sharing such close proximity, was unsettling.
"You're crazy if you think I'll sleep next to you." I said, striving for firmness.
Amon's lips curled into a knowing smirk, his eyes glinting with amusement. "Oh no, darling, you're free to get your own room."
With that, I stormed out, slamming the door behind me with enough force to make it reverberate through the small inn.
"I need a room." I demanded sharply.
The innkeeper handed me a key, and I took it with a hasty, frustrated motion. As I entered the small room, I leaned against the door, my mind a whirlwind of conflicting thoughts and emotions.
Amon was right, the only person I had ever imagined sharing such intimacy with was long gone. And after his loss, I vowed to never seek it again, in anyone else, resigning myself to the hollow ache in my chest.
The sting of the wound on my neck only served to amplify my frustration. The sensation of the vampire's breath on my skin had awakened feelings that echoed the forbidden pleasure Elamoril had once ignited in me—elusive and maddeningly seductive.
I tended to the wound with quick, practiced motions, wrapping it in a clean cloth to soothe the persistent ache and try to banish the unwelcome feelings it had stirred.
Lying on the bed, my eyes traced the barren walls, Astrid's mocking laughter seemed to fill the silence in my mind, mingling with the shame and confusion I felt.
Sleep eluded me, as much as I longed for its embrace. The midday sun, though hidden behind Winterhold's perpetual clouds, kept me awake with its dim light filtering through the window. I rose from the bed, frustration gnawing at me, and began dressing, taking more time than usual to braid my hair. The strands slipped through my fingers, as if even they resisted my attempts to find some semblance of peace.
As I gazed out the window, I wondered whether Amon could travel under such a sky—clouded, but still touched by daylight. But a deeper part of me recoiled at the thought of speaking to him again.
I pulled my hood up as I left my room, my steps light as I made my way through the inn. The gazes followed me, their eyes full of suspicion and disdain, but I kept my head down, avoiding their stares as I sat on one of the stools.
"Can I get you breakfast?" the innkeeper asked, his voice devoid of warmth but polite enough.
I nodded, turning slightly to survey the room. A table of Stormcloak soldiers drank heavily, their laughter coarse and loud. In a corner, an elven mage in dark blue robes sat alone, his eyes fixed on a book. A few other Nord men lounged around the central bonfire, their faces flushed from the heat and their mugs of ale.
Nords and their ale, no wonder the Stormcloaks were struggling as they did—lost in their cups rather than their cause.
As I turned to meet the gaze of the man behind the counter, I was greeted by a fair-haired Nord whose icy stare mirrored the frigid winds outside.
"If you've business with the College, you're welcome to stay here," he said, his tone indifferent, though his eyes flicked toward the elven mage sitting in the corner. "Just don't experiment like that one over there. The smell is—" He wrinkled his nose in disgust. "—horrible."
"I do, in fact," I replied softly, keeping my tone measured. "I have to see the Arch-Mage."
The man's curiosity was piqued, his eyes narrowing slightly as he placed a plate of cheese and bread before me. "The Arch-Mage?" he repeated, the words heavy with a mix of respect and suspicion. "Must be something important, then."
I nodded, "Hard times are coming." My words hung in the air, and I could sense the concern they sparked within him. "The Arch-Mage should be informed of the return of our doom."
The Nord inhaled sharply, his rough exterior momentarily cracking as a flash of fear crossed his face. "Dragons."
Suppressing a smirk, I asked, testing the weight of my next words. "Have you seen one?"
"Me? No, the Divines forbid," he said, shaking his head vigorously. "But one of the Stormcloak soldiers was going on about a sighting the other night."
I glanced over at the table of soldiers, their boisterous voices filling the room. When I turned back to the Nord, I pulled a wedge of cheese from my plate, taking a deliberate bite as I prepared my next question.
"And the Jarl?"
He huffed, crossing his arms with a mix of frustration and disdain. "Korir? That prideful idiot never asks for the College's help," he muttered, lowering his voice as if sharing a well-known grievance.
Winterhold, one of the Old Holds, was deep in Stormcloak territory, and so was its Jarl. They hated us, the mer, simply because we had taken their god from them. Their resentment ran deep, a bitter wound that festered with every passing day.
I understood them all too well.
During my time with the Thalmor, we were not only indoctrinated into its agenda but also shown the depths of its methods—specifically, what they had done to Ulfric Stormcloak.
Despite having half the country rallying behind him, he could never truly break free, not after all the torture and the relentless agony. The techniques used to fracture his will were coldly dissected in the pristine classrooms of Clamcora, where we were taught to wield them without mercy.
"I'm glad to hear the Empire is still taking action," the man whispered, his words almost hesitant as they reached my ears, drawing my gaze to meet his.
Even as I carefully braided and concealed my hair, its silver-white strands still shimmered faintly in the dim light. He probably assumed I was an Imperial asset, sent here to deliver urgent news about the dragons.
Ancano, the true asset, was likely already entrenched in the Arcaneaum, his invisible strings wrapped tightly around Arch-Mage Savos. Whatever action the College might take against the rising threat of dragons, it would ultimately serve the Thalmor's purpose. To compare them to the Brotherhood was absurd. Feared though we were, our influence paled in comparison to the Thalmor's mastery of manipulation. They didn't seek fear for its own sake; they turned loathing into leverage, disdain into power.
I knew the moment I set foot on the College's bridge, they would recognize me—not for any overt ties to the Brotherhood, but for the whispered legends of the Ashenblade. The mer who had, over the years, claimed the lives of their own. The irony, of course, was that I had only taken the life of a single mage from the College. Those students who had vanished? Their fates had nothing to do with me.
A small, knowing smile played on my lips as I watched the innkeeper, his eyes alight with a naive hope.
But I had no intentions of strolling openly through the College's halls. The Brotherhood had its own ways of gleaning secrets, its own eyes and ears within those ancient walls. Grodyl whispered the College's darkest secrets directly into Astrid's ear.
"Dagur!" A woman's voice cut through my thoughts, drawing the innkeeper's attention. I recognized the woman from earlier, her amber eyes clouded with concern as she approached the counter. "Eirid's been playing 'Hunt the Elf' again," she complained, her voice laced with frustration.
Dagur's smile faltered, replaced by a look of embarrassed resignation. He nodded, stepping closer to her as they spoke in hushed tones. The rest of the inn might not have heard them, but I caught every word.
"It's just children playing, Haran. No need to fret." Dagur said, though his voice carried an edge of impatience.
"I'm not 'fretting,'" Haran retorted, her tone sharp. "I don't want Eirid playing those sorts of games!"
"All right, all right. I'll speak to her."
As I maneuvered through the bustling inn, my ears strained to catch snippets of conversation, hoping to uncover something useful.
"I can't believe it—of all people, you got the escorting job. Total bullshit if you ask me." one grumbled.
"Bjarke deserved the honor, you know that, Ulrar." another chimed in, his voice tinged with resentment.
"Not every day a Jarl gets an audience with the High King!" a soldier added, though his words dripped with cynicism.
"Torygg is no damned king!" spat a voice, brimming with disdain.
Near the warmth of the fireplace, I found a spot, subtly positioning myself within earshot of the soldiers.
"Easy, Bjarke," one of the others cautioned, sensing the growing tension.
"Why should I? Brother?" Bjarke's voice rose, loud enough to draw glances. "There are no Imperial dogs here! They're too scared to leave their fort!"
The air around me grew taut, the tension thickening as the Nords, emboldened by their ale, grew rowdier. I kept my gaze fixed on the flames, trying to blend into the shadows as my mind swirled around the implications of this meeting with the High King. Was the audience requested by Ulfric?
But then, with brutal clarity, I felt a sharp tug at my hood, the fabric slipping away to reveal my silver hair and pointed ears.
Fuck.
To be continued…