"An elven bitch!" The shout from behind me was followed by a chorus of laughter and jeers.
I rose to my feet, my stance unwavering. The rage within me simmered, a crimson haze threatening to consume my vision. I was ready to paint the ground with the blood of the man behind me as I turned slowly, locking my gaze onto his.
"Say that to my face." I challenged, my hand slipping silently toward the hilt of my dagger.
Come on. Say it.
In that moment, duty was forgotten.
Astrid was no stranger to the trouble I brought to the Brotherhood. Countless times, brothers and sisters were dispatched to clean up the messes I'd made. Yet, she never truly banished or punished me for murdering outside the confines of a contract like Nazir did. She simply chose to turn a blind eye to my berserk rages.
Perhaps that's why.
As the man's mouth opened to retort, another voice rang out from behind the table.
"Don't, Nels."
The tall figure of Nels towered over me, his expression twisted with disdain, though beneath it, I could see the flicker of a hidden, burning desire.
It was a familiar look, one I'd seen countless times in men who laid eyes on me. My distinct appearance was an advantage, and I used it, it made the collection of a thousand souls all the easier when faced with weak-minded men.
With his friend's warning, Nels hesitated. I knew at least one of them would match my appearance to Ashenblade's—the snow-white hair and ashen eyes as cold as death.
"Come on, Nels, listen to your friend." Another voice cut through the air, this time belonging to an elven mage.
Frustration flashed across Nels' face. He let out a heavy sigh before spitting down at my feet, the glob landing just between the tips of my boots. Then, with a look of disgust, he turned and walked away—choosing to live another day.
I shifted my attention to the mage, but he had already turned his back to me as he walked back to his table, the matter clearly of no further interest to him. Determined, I wove through the throng of patrons, the murmur of voices fading as I approached his secluded corner.
His dark hair fell loosely around his angular face, its sharp features marred by the shadows of sleepless nights. Hollow eyes, pale blue and unsettling, seemed focused on the pages of a book in his hands, refusing to acknowledge my presence.
"You get used to it," he finally mumbled, his gaze still fixed on the words before him.
"Are you from the College?" I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.
"No." His reply was curt, "I left Winterhold some time ago. Now I stay here at the inn."
There was a bitter edge to his words, a contempt I couldn't quite place. Dagur's complaints about the smell crept into my thoughts.
"Because they don't like what you're experimenting with?"
His eyes snapped up from the book, which he closed with a rough flick of his wrist.
"And why would that be your concern?" His voice was cold, each word deliberate, as if testing my intent. "Shouldn't you be off, killing someone?"
Sensing my hesitation and the flicker of confusion in my expression, he leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a whisper that barely breached the space between us. "You're not here for me, are you?"
I shook my head firmly as I cast my gaze downward, fixing it on the worn surface of the table between us.
"I just wanted to know if you've heard anything about the dragon sightings." I murmured, my tone as quiet as the grave.
"I know what everyone else knows."
I lifted my gaze, "And what is it they know?"
His gaze didn't waver as he leaned forward, placing his arms on the table, "There was only one of them," he began, his voice a low rumble, "black as the void and colossal in size."
I tilted my head slightly, my curiosity piqued as I countered, "The witnesses say they saw another pair of wings."
"The soldiers swear the second one appeared out of nowhere," he continued, his tone growing darker, "from sand and ash, born of the very earth itself."
His words painted a vivid, haunting image that sent a ripple of unease through me. My brows furrowed as I tried to make sense of it. "How is that possible?"
"Unfortunately," he said, leaning back into his chair with a resigned air, "understanding this phenomenon is beyond my expertise."
Such a mage.
"Thank you…" I hesitated, but before I could ask, he offered his name.
"Nelacar." he introduced himself softly, the name slipping from his lips like a secret, and I nodded in acknowledgment.
The walls around me seemed to close in, my thoughts scattered by the raucous laughter and drunken shouts echoing through the inn. The noise made it nearly impossible to focus, to come up with any plan that could salvage the situation.
The day refused to end, as if mocking my growing sense of failure. This wasn't my way. I wasn't accustomed to wasting time in an inn-usually, a few hours of restless sleep were enough to carry me through a full day, so long as I kept my head down and avoided trouble.
But here, in the unforgiving north of Skyrim, trouble was not so easily avoided anymore.
"Long way to The Pale!" A soldier's gruff voice broke through my thoughts, drawing my attention. I watched as he and his men including Nels walked out, avoiding my gaze, their boots crunching in the snow as they descended the stairs of the porch.
The group was likely headed to the Stormcloacks camp in The Pale, the very place where dragons had been sighted. I knew this because Grodyl had spoken of their latest scouting mission over the Stormcloak camp, describing how they'd perched on a rocky hill overlooking the Great Lift of some ancient Dwemer ruin. His finger had traced eastward on the map, stopping near Fort Kastav. Where a ragged legion of soldiers were dreading the night when the Nords would cross the lake.
My plan was straightforward—to gather information, sifting through whispers and rumors while cloaked in shadow.
Being recognized by the Stormcloaks had been a mistake. But I knew I couldn't kill my way into obscurity. In the end, the dead served Father, and the survivors served my name.
As I waited for sunset, I wandered through the ruins that haunted Winterhold, my mind was a tempest of anxiety, churning over Nelacar's words.
A dragon, rising from sand and ash.
The mere thought sent a shiver racing down my spine as I gazed down at the ruined houses and buildings, remnants of a forgotten past that the Sea of Ghosts had slowly claimed over the years.
Dragons were a terrifying unknown—an inscrutable threat that twisted my insides with fear.
It seemed almost cruelly ironic.
For the past four and a half years, my life had been devoted to the embrace of the void, serving the very essence of uncertainty that now, seemed to paralyze me.
Lost in my thoughts, I barely noticed the first snowflakes drifting through the cold air. Their descent was hypnotic, a slow, graceful dance that seemed to echo the swirling chaos in my mind.
A Khajiit's voice, thick with a familiar accent, cut through the silence,
"Much snow in Skyrim, enough snow,"
My heart raced as I snapped my gaze up to the Khajiit, who had been nothing more than a whisper—a shadow of doubt or a trick of my imagination the last time I heard his voice.
Now, he stood before me, his fur a mix of tawny and white, his golden eyes locked onto mine.
His whiskers twitched as he finished,
"M'aiq does not want any more."
To be continued…