"On the Knights of Order

by Diana Ranierius, aspiring Imperial Scholar at the Arcane University and outspoken supporter of Jyggalag

The transformation into a Knight of Order is not merely a change of form, but a profound metamorphosis of essence, a harrowing journey through the very fabric of one's being. It begins with the Call of Order, a resonant frequency that aligns with the core of the aspirant's soul, vibrating through their consciousness like a relentless storm. This call is an invitation, a challenge to shed the chaos of mortal life and embrace the immutable truth of Order.

As the aspirant accepts the call, they are enveloped in a cocoon of spectral energy, a chrysalis formed from the raw matter of Oblivion itself. Within this sanctum, the transformation is both physical and spiritual. The flesh is fortified with the crystalline substance of Order, becoming impervious to the ravages of time and decay. The mind is purged of all uncertainty, doubt, and fear, replaced with the unyielding clarity of Jyggalag's will.

The process is excruciating, as every fiber of the aspirant's being is dismantled and reassembled in accordance with the laws of Order. Their very thoughts are crystallized, their emotions solidified into a state of serene detachment. The pain of this rebirth is beyond mortal comprehension, for it is the pain of abandoning the self, of becoming a vessel for a higher purpose.

As the transformation nears completion, the Knight of Order emerges, no longer a creature of flesh and blood, but a being of living crystal, a paragon of Order's perfect vision. Their eyes, now glowing with a cold, blue light, see the world not as a tapestry of life and color, but as a grid of potential and alignment, where every entity must find its proper place.

The Knight's armor, once a mere protective shell, becomes an integral part of their new form, as seamless and natural as skin. Their weapon, too, is said to be transformed, its head now a flawless prism, its handle a rod of purest orderite. In the Knight's grasp, it is not a weapon, but an instrument of balance, capable of shattering the chaos that dares to defy the natural order of things.

With the transformation complete, the Knight of Order stands ready to enforce the will of Jyggalag, to maintain the structure and predictability of the universe. They are devoid of passion, of mercy, of the very qualities that make mortals human. They are Order incarnate, an avatar of a force as ancient and inexorable as the stars themselves.

In the end, the process of becoming a Knight of Order is a surrender, a sacrifice of the individual self to the grand, unchanging design of the cosmos. It is a horror to those who cling to life's fleeting joys, but to the aspirant, it is the ultimate ascension, a joining with the eternal symphony of Order that plays across the infinite planes of existence.

The first mission of a newly transformed Knight of Order is a solemn undertaking, a rite of passage that serves as both a test and a declaration of their unwavering commitment to the principles of Jyggalag. This inaugural task is not assigned lightly, for it carries the weight of the Daedric Prince's expectations and the immutable laws that govern the realm of Order.

As the Knight stands, a newly forged embodiment of crystalline perfection, their first mission unfolds before them like a tapestry woven from the very strands of fate. It is a mission that demands the utmost precision and adherence to the natural laws of the universe, a task that could range from the reclamation of a desecrated shrine to the restoration of balance in a world teetering on the brink of chaos.

The Knight's objective may lead them across the vast expanses of Oblivion, through realms where the fabric of reality is twisted by the whims of lesser Daedric entities. Here, the Knight must navigate a landscape that defies logic, where the ground may shift beneath their feet and the sky rains not water, but the shattered remnants of broken promises.

Their path is fraught with challenges that test not only their strength and resolve but also their newfound identity as an agent of Order. They may encounter beings of chaos, creatures that embody the antithesis of everything the Knight has become. These encounters are battles not just of might, but of ideology, as each strike from the Knight's crystalline weapon serves as a proclamation of Order's supremacy.

The Knight may also be tasked with the retrieval of an artifact of significant importance to the maintenance of Order, an object whose very existence is integral to the balance of the cosmos. Such a quest would take the Knight through trials that scrutinize their dedication, forcing them to confront the remnants of their former self and the temptations that once held sway over their mortal heart.

In some cases, the Knight's first mission might be one of defense, standing as an unyielding sentinel against a tide of chaos that threatens to engulf a realm. Here, the Knight becomes both shield and sword, a bulwark against the entropy that seeks to erode the foundations of existence.

The mission could also be one of judgment, where the Knight is called upon to dispense the cold, impartial justice of Jyggalag. In this role, they must weigh the actions of mortals or immortals alike, meting out consequences with a hand unshaken by emotion or bias.

Regardless of the nature of the task, the Knight's mission is always a reflection of the Order they serve. It is a demonstration of their transformation, a testament to the power of Jyggalag, and a warning to all who would dare to disrupt the delicate equilibrium of the universe.

Upon the successful completion of this mission, the Knight is fully accepted into the ranks of Jyggalag's chosen, their place in the eternal order of things cemented. They return to the realm of Order not as a neophyte, but as a true Knight, ready to undertake the endless duty of maintaining the balance that is the heartbeat of all creation.

Thus, the first mission of a newly transformed Knight of Order is not merely a task to be completed; it is a declaration of their eternal vigilance, a promise carved in the unbreakable crystal of their being, to uphold the structure and predictability of the universe against the ever-encroaching shadows of chaos. It is their genesis, their awakening to the grand design, and the beginning of their timeless watch over the realms of existence.

May Order ever reign!"


As Cura stepped onto the ancient stone bridge, her foot nudged a pebble, sending it skittering across the weathered surface. The stern faces of gargoyles perched along the bridge's edge watched her every move, their stony glares a clear sign of her unwelcome presence. In this moment, she contemplated a bold move against the vampires that lurked here, knowing it would send a dual message: her resolve was firm, but her mercy was still intact. With her chin lifted defiantly, she mentally rehearsed her proposal, unshaken by the potential threats the vampires posed. In her eyes, they were mere insects compared to the might of her allies.

She was hoping that some of them would see the error of their ways and defect against the Daedric Prince of Domination and Enslavement. A season of change was coming, and she was to be its herald. This did not mean that she had to stomp on everything and everyone. The wheel turns upon the Last Dragonborn, or so the legend says. She was hoping to turn that wheel in a more positive direction if she could.

Carcette walked forward and stood beside her, taking in the view that elicited feelings of both dread and nostalgia. She reminded her of that time, when they were among the Dawnguard, readying to face off against the Vampire Court. "The Volkihar haven't forgotten, Cura. They are going to be merciless. Do you truly think it's a good idea to offer them mercy?" She looked over the horizon nearby, where millions of crystal columns lined the horizon. Much of Coldharbour has fallen to the Graymarch already; it was only a matter of time before the army made it here, as well.

Cura sighed and shook her head. "No, probably not. But I also want to prove something to myself, as well."

"What's that?"

Cura looked at her allies, all beings of great renown and power, mighty enough to dwarf the Vampire Lords of this castle, and she exhaled lightly. "I want to prove to myself that I can be trusted with great power. That I will not abuse it. That I can have powerful people under my command and still have a heart for mercy." As a Dragonborn, Cura had an inherent inclination towards power and dominance; an inclination which she desired to keep reined in, lest she become like the monster who ruled this dimension.

Sabrina cleared her throat and appeared to stare at the castle. "Huh. I guess it's like offering them a chance to surrender as opposed to just sweeping the place?"

Mirabelle nodded in response. "An admirable goal, but I would still recommend caution be exercised here. They are Vampires, after all. Though some may be forthcoming, others may hide their intentions. For every Serana in the world, there are several who are far crueler." she did not have to tell them precisely why they could open themselves up for an unexpected slaughter in return for their mercy.

Sir Amiel nodded in agreement. "Yes, my lady; we must still be careful. Even if they accept surrender, they may yet soon turn on us when we least expect it."

Cura looked at her group. "We may not even get to that point. They might attack us on sight, like the lesser ones in the cemetery. We shall see once we set foot within." she turned her gaze back onto the large Castle across the curved bridge. It stretched high into the sky from atop the mountain, and the false sun cast an eerie glow on its spires.

Sir Ralvas stood near the bridge and fixed his eyes on the doors. "Dragonborn, while I respect your judgment, I think it wise that we all go inside, rather than a select few of us. In greater numbers, we may inspire submission more easily."

Savos Aren nodded in agreement as well, and approached Cura with a plan. "You have two of the greatest mages in Skyrim here with you, Cura. Mirabelle and I will take the flanks on either side. Surely the Volkihar Clan may have heard as much about us as we have of them."

Carcette took Cura's hand into her own. "I'm going with you, Cura. In case something goes wrong, I am prepared to fight. It wouldn't be the first time, after all." She looked upon her beloved student with a gentle eye, but one which held a secret behind it. Evidently, Carcette knew more about the future than she was letting on.

Cura looked down at her hand, and the former Keeper's grip tightening on it lightly. She gazed into her eye, seeing the confidence brimming behind it. "You don't have your Vampiric abilities anymore, Keeper. It won't be like the last time."

Carcette chuckled. "No; instead I have something greater. The Power of Order." She touched the chestpiece of her cuirass, her hand hovering just over her heart. There was a coolness about her; something quite different than in the past.

Cura looked away from her and surveyed her group, and began to consider the power she held in her hands right now. "We have you, Keeper, with that enchanted armour, we have Sir Amiel, Sir Ralvas, and Sir Torolf, three of the Knights of the Nine. Savos Aren and Mirabelle Ervine, the former Arch-Mage and Master Wizard of the College of Winterhold. We have Bourlor, the Archer with perfect aim and the blessing of Kynareth herself, Sabrina the Pailune Healer and former Dark Brotherhood assassin, Gloriel the Valkyrie, first wielder of Dawnbreaker and blessed with the essence of Meridia herself, Lord Varla, the son of Mara's Human aspect and Umaril the Unfeathered, a powerful man in his own right with the blood of the Ada in his veins, Mary, the human aspect of Mara herself and Korn, her Wolfven aspect. Mary's old allies and devout of Mara, Aria the Whisperer, a silent but quick swordswoman who wields a deadly rapier, and a Maram the Slaughterer, a large Paladin man in Golden Armour wielding a large maul. And lastly, we have me; the Last Dragonborn, Vigilant of Stendarr, and current Champion of Meridia."

All of these mighty warriors were Cura's to command, as well as followers walking onwards with hope of leaving Coldharbour.

Maram laughed at her description of him. "A large Paladin man in Golden Armour wielding a large maul. As apt as that description is, it trivializes me, I think." Beside him, Aria chuckled at her own description.

Cura shrugged at his reaction. "My point was more to summarize that you are something the Vampires definitely must be afraid of."

"Good." Maram clenched the shaft of his maul tightly with both hands as he faced the castle.

Cura cleared her throat. "Anyways; I want us to be organized. I will have sub-leaders at my side." she pointed at Sir Amiel. "Sir Amiel, I place you in charge of the Knights faction. You will keep Sir Ralvas, Sir Amiel, and Varla in check."

Sir Amiel nodded respectfully, but Varla barked in immediate protest. "You have got to be joking! I will not serve under him!"

Cura raised an eyebrow at his outburst. "You're not serving, you're following his lead in battle."

Varla shoved past Maram and Aria, positioning himself defiantly before the Dragonborn. "I led armies in war. I refuse to tread in the shadow of that glorified, rusted tin can!"

Sir Amiel, caught off guard by the bold affront, merely smirked. "Would you really spurn the Dragonborn's command, Varla? For shame."

Cura advanced, her gaze fixed upon Varla. "You will comply because it is my decree! Know your rank, Sir Varla." Her hand rested on her mace's hilt, a silent testament to their past clash at Fort Welkynd -a memory that gave Varla pause.

Varla's eyes darted from Sir Amiel to Cura, his resolve faltering. "Grant me autonomy to lead, Dragonborn. I'll demonstrate true leadership. My victories are numerous. This knight? Betrayed by an ally? Their order crumbled from within. Under my lead, the Alessian legions flourished."

Cura glanced at Sir Amiel, who cleared his throat and wiped his mouth, having little in the way of a comeback. Turning her gaze to the haughty Varla, she conceded, "Very well, Varla. Despite your attitude needing considerable correction, the results of the Alessian era have spoken for themselves. You may lead your own faction. But be warned, any further insolence will not go unpunished."

Varla looked at Gloriel and Bourlor. "You two will be led by me." he pointed at Sabrina. "You, as well, smartass."

Sabrina shook her head. "Heck no. You'd have me fall in a ditch intentionally. I'm Team Dragonborn!" She approached Cura quickly and grasped her arm. "Please, can I be Team Dragonborn?"

Cura laughed at her reaction and nodded, "Sure, Sabrina. My team will be comprised of Carcette, Savos, Mirabelle, and Sabrina."

Varla fixed Maram and Aria with a piercing stare. "You two will fall under my command. Come here!"

The pair of Maran cultists shared a look of apprehension before hesitantly moving to stand behind the half-Ayleid they had long despised. When they stepped up, Varla noted their apprehensive demeanour, and spoke up. "I see the displeasure etched on your faces, and I could care less. Can you not put your pettiness aside for the greater good? This cause transcends us."

Maram nodded. "We'll set it aside until we leave Coldharbour. Beyond that, however, we shall see."

Aria whispered, "Indeed; we may never fully accept you, bastard of Umaril, but we will follow you here, if it is Mara's will that we do so."

At last, Varla's gaze grew tender as he turned to Mary and Korn. His tone shifted from stern to gentle, filled with concern and affection. "Mother, you too shall join my ranks." He took a light breath as he addressed his reasoning. "I can keep you safe under my wing, and besides, we all know of the tale of how you destroyed the Vampires at Lake Ilinalta. That can certainly be put to good use."

Mary nodded serenely and stepped up to stand beside him, with Korn trailing behind. She offered no objections, for she would have it no other way. She nodded to Varla. "I shall do my part."

Cura took a sweeping glance of her troupe and began to move up the bridge with her mace and shield drawn. The Gargoyles seemed to lifelike to simply be statues. And sure enough, she was right. They began to shed their stony carapaces on the group's approach, and soon enough claws and fangs were bared.

The group engaged them in a firm combat, sword, warhammer, mace, and magic meeting the demonic creatures who could no longer contain their charge. Carcette buried Pendulum into the head of the last one and then kicked it aside and continued moving onwards next to Cura. She scoffed at how simple it was. And to Cura, as well; after all she'd endured since her first tangle with the Volkihar vampires, they truly have lost their bite, so to speak.

Cura approached the double doors and pushed them open, her group flooding into the castle behind her. The entryway was covered in dust and cobwebs: even by Coldharbour's standards, the visuals struck her. Perhaps it was because she'd set foot in the true place on Tamriel long ago. Not even Molag Bal's devoted were spared this tarnish.

Once resplendent with the dark opulence befitting a vampire lord's abode, the main dining hall of Castle Volkihar now lay in ruin, its grandeur swallowed by the relentless decay of Coldharbour. The once gleaming tables, where blood feasts were held under flickering candlelight, were now cloaked in a thick layer of dust and sand, the remnants of a realm that had succumbed to time and neglect. The grand chandeliers, from which light once danced across polished silverware, hung low, their crystals dulled and splintered, casting fragmented shadows upon the desolate scene below.

Chairs that had hosted the elite of the night were now but skeletal remains, their upholstery long since devoured by the mites and moths of Oblivion. The vast rug that ran the length of the hall, a masterpiece of weavers' art, was now indistinguishable from the dirt it lay upon, its colors faded into the monochrome of desolation. Upon the tables, platters that once bore the finest cuts of unwilling prey were now home to nothing but the bones of the past, scattered and stripped of all but the memory of their former feast.

In the corners of the room, where shadows clung like desperate spirits, the walls bore the scars of battles long forgotten, the stone pitted and scorched by spells of fury and fire. The once proud banners that displayed the Volkihar crest were tattered and colorless, hanging limply as if mourning their own demise. The air was heavy with the scent of mold and the iron tang of long-spilled blood, a testament to the hall's violent past and its even more grim present.

The silence of the hall was oppressive, broken only by the occasional skittering of a lone insect or the distant, hollow drip of water eroding stone. It was a silence that spoke volumes, telling tales of a glory that was no more, of a power that had faded into the annals of history. The very essence of the place, once thick with the anticipation of the night's hunt, was now just a whisper, a ghostly echo of its former self.

And there, in the center of the hall, stood the head table, a monument to the hubris of its creator. Its once magnificent upholstery was torn and faded, the woodworm-ridden frame creaking with the burden of its own decay. It stood not as a seat of honour, but as a chilling testament to the inevitable decline of all empires, be they mortal or immortal.

This was the fate of Castle Volkihar's main dining hall, a fate shared by all the grand structures that dared to pierce the veil of Coldharbour. It was a reminder that even in a world of eternal night, time waits for no one, and decay spares not the haughty nor the humble. The dust, the sand, the bones - they were the final banquet, a feast for the ages, served not upon silver platters, but upon the very threads of damnation.

Carcette narrowed her eye and glanced around at the familiar space. It was oddly satisfying to see it reduced as such. Though, she was certain it was not as abandoned as it appeared. She stepped forward and spoke aloud, "Come out and face us!" she was certain that if they recognized her voice they would be quick to emerge from their hiding places. After all, she played a large role in their downfall. Cura and her group began to descend the staircases on either side of the balcony, heading towards the central dining area itself, facing all entrances and forming a protective circle around Cura herself.

If the Vampires wanted a shot at the Dragonborn they would first have to earn it by getting through her allies.

The squealing and chirping of numerous bats filled the air as swarms began to pour in by the doors at the sides, entering from the forge area, thrall area, and rest area, respectively. The bats collected together at the center of the dining hall, regaining their proper shapes. As Vampire Lords, they were indistinguishable from one another, save for the males from the females. They returned to their human shape, their faces snarling and filled with disdain.

Cura and Carcette recognized the faces appearing before them immediately: Orthjolf, Vingalmo, Feran Sadri, Modhna, Fura Bloodmouth, Garan Marethi, Hestla, Namasur, Rargal Thrallmaster, Salonia Caelia and Stalf.

"You would dare set foot in here again, Carcette?" Orthjolf roared at her upon seeing her face. His expression was one of scorn and rage, though he appeared to hesitate when he looked upon the large crowd.

Carcette's eye fixed upon Stalf, who hissed lightly and made the gouging gesture with his left hand. A shiver ran down her spine as the memory of those claws tearing into her left eye returned to her in full force. He instinctively reached her hand to touch the eyepatch over her destroyed left eye. Cura stepped closer to her and rested a hand on her mentor's shoulder before stepping forward.

"Heed my words, Volkihar Clan, and heed them well." She approached Orthjolf and Vingalmo with confidence and stood before the wrathful court of the Volkihar clan, her silhouette a stark contrast against the creeping shrouds of dust which permeated the air. Her voice, firm and resonant, carried the weight of her formidable allies. "I stand before you now not as a conqueror, but as the harbinger of a simple truth," she began, her gaze unwavering as it met the cold eyes of the vampire lord. "the force that accompanies me is not just a band of warriors, but the embodiment of divine will and unyielding resolve. The Dawnguard may have defeated you before, but these warriors far exceed them."

She gestured to Keeper Carcette, whose armor gleamed with the essence of Jyggalag, symbolizing order and strength. "The Keeper of the Vigil keeps that Vigil no longer; and is instead embued with the power of Jyggalag; a cog in the machine of the Graymarch which ravages this realm." She turned to the Knights of the Nine next, propping them up like a salesman offering death rather than goods to the vampires. "With us stands the wisdom and power of the Knights of the Nine, Sir Amiel, Sir Ralvas, and Sir Torolf, whose valor is matched only by their loyalty to the cause of light." The air seemed to hum with the power of Savos Aren and Mirabelle Ervine, their presence a testament to the arcane mastery of the College of Winterhold. Their presence was felt, even as they hadn't yet casted any spell.

Bourlor, the archer blessed by Kynareth, nodded in silent agreement, his eyes sharp and focused, his prized bow held tightly in hand. Sabrina, the healer whose hands once dealt death, now offered life and restoration - to mortals, that is. Gloriel, the Valkyrie, radiated the fierce light felt of Dawnbreaker, a beacon of hope against the encroaching darkness, and her Dawn Spear stood at the ready for conflict. She could barely contain herself in the face of Meridia's despised.

"Lord Varla, son of Umaril the Unfeathered and Mara stands with us, his lineage a bridge between mortals and the divine," Cura continued, her voice rising with conviction. "And let us not forget Mary, the human aspect of Mara, and Korn, her Wolfven companion, whose devotion to peace and love remains unchallenged."

She paused, allowing the gravity of her words to sink in. "Aria the Whisperer and Maram the Slaughterer, once followers of Mara, now wield their weapons for a greater purpose. They, like all of us, seek an end to this conflict that honours the sanctity of life."

Finally, Cura stepped forward, her own aura of authority unmistakable. "And as you know, I am the Last Dragonborn, Vigilant of Stendarr, Champion of Meridia, member of the Dawnguard, and the wielder of Auriel's Bow. The blood of dragons flows through my veins, and with it, the power to bring ruin or redemption." she gestured to her group and observed the frightened looks on the Vampires' faces once the reality of their situation sunk in. She exhaled. "We can be your ultimate destruction or your salvation. The choice is yours."

The silence that followed was deafening. "Surrender, and live to see a new dawn where we coexist in peace, or stand against us and be swept away by the tide of change. I offer you this chance, not out of fear, but out of respect for all life. Choose wisely, for this offer comes from the heart of mercy, and it will not be made again." Her words echoed off the ancient stone, a solemn vow that hung heavy in the air, a crossroads between war and peace.

The Vampire Lord Vingalmo, ancient and inscrutable, regarded Cura with a gaze that had witnessed empires rise and fall. His voice, when he spoke, was as cold and unyielding as the stone which surrounded them. He looked down at the impertinent Half-Elf. "You come before us with threats veiled in promises, Dragonborn," he began, his tone laced with the age of centuries. "Yet, it is not the might of your companions that gives us pause, but the conviction with which you wield it."

Orthjolf stepped forward towards her, his movements graceful, predatory. "We are the Volkihar Vampires, children of the night, sovereigns of the shadow. We have feasted upon the lifeblood of mortals for more generations than you can fathom. But we are not without honour, nor are we blind to the tides of destiny that you carry upon your shoulders."

Garan Marethi walked among his kin, his presence commanding their silent attention. "This force you have assembled is indeed formidable. The enchantments of Jyggalag, the valor of the Knights of the Nine, the arcane mastery of Winterhold's finest, the blessings of the divines themselves - all woven into a host of undeniable power." He paused, his eyes reflecting the torchlight like deep pools of ancient knowledge. "But know this, Vigilant of Stendarr, Champion of Meridia: we do not bend to threats. Our will is as eternal as the stars. Yet, you speak of peace, of coexistence, and these are words that even the coldest heart must consider." The Dunmer vampire lord turned, facing his fellow courtiers, a silent communication passing between them. "We have thrived in darkness, but even we must acknowledge when the dawn approaches. You offer surrender, not as subjugation, but as a new path - a chance to survive the end of Coldharbour which approaches day by day."

Returning his gaze to Cura, he continued, "So, we shall stand down, not out of fear, but out of respect for the future you envision. A future where the old enmities can be laid to rest, and a new order can emerge from the ashes of the old." He sighed, and looked back at Orthjolf and Vingalmo. "We have spoken of this ad nauseum. When we first arrived here in Coldharbour, we could see the Graymarch looming in the distance. It must be what they call Stendarr's Mercy that the Dragonborn would arrive to us before them."

Fura Bloodmouth stepped forward and looked at Cura. "You're the one they call the Dragonborn, huh? You sure know how to make an entrance, I'll give you that." She placed a tentative hand on Cura's shoulder. "So, you're offering us what, a chance to return to Skyrim?"

Cura nodded in response, shocking the Court before her. "That's right."

Stalf laughed aloud. "This must be a joke! Escape from Coldharbour is impossible! I say we kill them and be done with it."

Gloriel's eyes sparkled for a second and she readied her spear. Orthjolf punched Stalf over the head. "Be quiet, you imbecile! Do you want to get us all killed over your big mouth?"

Stalf winced and rubbed his head. "S-sorry, master."

Vingalmo sneered. "He is correct, though. Molag Bal himself is trapped here. No creature can escape Coldharbour."

Cura shook her head. "I entered here through esoteric means. I am sure there is a way out if it can be breached into. And I have my theory as to how it will be done."

Fure Bloodmouth studied Cura's green eyes for any hint of wavering, but found none. "I want to return to Skyrim. My mother and my cousin live in Solitude. If I can have a chance to make things right with them, I'll take it."

The other court members murmured amongst themselves for a bit, considering the terrible conditions and impending doom in Coldharbour, and weighing the possibility of a return to Tamriel. A new dawn, of a new day. Many of them began to nod, seeing the benefits of leaving Molag Bal's realm. The Daedric Prince and Lord Harkon had promised them great power, but had delivered them only to ruin.

Hestla, the former member of the Companions-turned-Vampire spoke up next. "I would do anything to get out of this dump. Lord Harkon never said anything about our ultimate destruction when we would enter Coldharbour. And as it turned out, his prophecy was also a lie. I spent years of my life, serving him for a lie. I don't know about the rest of you, but I just want to live as my own person again."

Vingalmo narrowed his eyes and sneered, looking at the workstation area. "Minorne! Come out here!"

Cura's eyes widened as her face followed his direction, and she saw the Altmer Vampire from Ruunvald gingerly stepping out into the fray. As soon as she recognized Cura, her eyes widened. "Oh, gods - she's arrived here as well?"

Vingalmo walked over to her and narrowed his eyes at Cura. "Yes; the one who killed you unprovoked has returned."

"It wasn't unprovoked; she Charmed several Vigilants and used them as her own personal slaves." Cura explained, recounting that mission so long ago. She found it amusing that Minorne, once so haughty and powerful-seeming, saw fit to hide herself in the other room upon the entry of her group.

Author's Note: Minorne's encounter with Cura took place allll the way back in Chapters 13 and 14 of this story. It's nice to see old faces sometimes, eh? (Not in this case.)

Minorne turned to Vingalmo, however keeping her gaze partially fixed upon Cura in the same moment, untrusting of the Vigilant's words. "What do we do? Will she turn on us? Kill us when we least expect it?"

Vingalmo shook his head. "We wait and see if the Dragonborn is true to her word. If any of her little friends attack us, we will kill them all."

"If we kill them, we fall prey to the Graymarch, you idiot. Like all those other Vampire clans." Orthjolf spat. "Just what I'd expect from a damned elf."

Vingalmo growled at him in response. "I can see that we are in a bind, you oaf. I would like nothing more than to tear this little totsy Halfbreed in pieces, but..." he paused when he observed Cura and Dawnbreaker on her waist and Spellbreaker strapped to her arm, and Auriel's Bow casually rested on her back. "I don't... think we can. And, yes, the Graymarch is also a factor to consider. And Harkon would sit here and do what, try to fight the Graymarch? We cannot win this fight. We all know it."

Orthjolf turned to Carcette. "You're with the Graymarch now, right, witch? How's about this: you go and defeat Lord Harkon, and then we'll set our differences aside and join the cause."

Cura looked at Carcette with fright and shook her head. "I'm going with you. We'll fight together." She did not relish the idea of her mentor being alone with Harkon; it could not possibly end well.

Carcette shook her head and clasped Cura's hands in hers. Her gaze was warm, yet tempered. "No, Cura; this is a battle I must face alone. And Orthjolf is correct; the Graymarch must make its impression here. Jyggalag's presence must be felt." She offered a reassuring smile to her protégé. "Moreover, this will not be like before. Now, I walk with the combined strength of Stendarr and Jyggalag. Harkon possesses only the diminishing might of Molag Bal." Her gaze then turned stern towards Vingalmo and Minorne. "Where is Harkon?"

Garan Marethi interjected, "He is in the Cathedral, up the stairs. I would caution you; he will relish the chance to rip you apart."

Carcette lifted her helmet and placed it on her head. "He can try. But he will fall." She patted Cura's hands and left her student's side. Cura watched her go with a worried expression, but she had to trust that Carcette would prevail.

After all, Harkon was denied his confrontation with her before due to Cura and Serana fighting him in the Volkihar Cathedral on that day; perhaps now it was time for the Keeper to find her closure at last.

The Cathedral within the castle loomed like a monolith of despair. It looked similar to its real-world counterpart, but there were quite a many changes within its form. Its walls, forged from the darkest basalt, absorbed the light, giving the feeling of a structure that devoured hope itself. The grand entrance was a gaping maw, adorned with grotesque gargoyles that seemed to mock the very notion of sanctuary. Inside, the nave stretched forth like the ribcage of some ancient, fallen beast, the vaulted ceilings arching overhead in a mimicry of a skeletal embrace.

Each pillar was a testament to the macabre, twisted figures carved into the stone, depicting scenes of torment and decay. The new stained glass windows, desaturated with the colour of blood, now held a pallor of death, the images within contorting into nightmarish visages behind the large face of Molag Bal. The altar, positioned at the far end of the Cathedral, was an edifice of terror, an unholy shrine where light faltered and shadows reigned supreme. The Lizard's face rested atop it and blood poured forth from his mouth like a spring, collecting in a sharp basin below.

The very atmosphere was oppressive, as if the Cathedral itself was breathing - a slow, labored breath that spoke of centuries of torment.

The transepts branched off like the arms of a malevolent entity, each section within holding its own dark secrets, the relics and icons that now lined the sides depicted the Nine Divines in cruel mockery, twisted into blasphemous parodies of their original intent. Akatosh, with his human head devoured by its dragon half. Arkay, a puppet hanging from his mystic prism. Julianos, an Owl laying dead upon a pyramid. Dibella, depicted in an unflattering position like a harlot. Zenithar, slumped over his anvil, dead. Stendarr, gouged and tormented by Imps. Mara, devoured by a wolf, her knot tied around her neck. Kynareth, laying dead with an arrow in her heart, her feathery wings strewn about in painful contortion. And finally, Talos, his mouth covered in a gag and his hands bound behind his back in submission. The floors, inlaid with marble, were cold to the touch, a chill that seemed to seep into one's very bones, a constant reminder of the deathly aura that pervaded the place.

In the cloisters, the shadows danced with a life of their own, the light from the flickering torches casting an eerie glow that gave the illusion of movement to the statues of Alessian saints and martyrs, their expressions contorted in silent screams of anguish. Bones littered the floors just as they had on Nirn, giving the appearance of a Charnel, more than anything.

The Cathedral in Coldharbour was a masterpiece of horror, each element designed to instill a sense of dread, a monument not to the divine, but to the infernal. It was a place where the boundary between the material world and the realm of nightmares was thin, where the echoes of ancient evils still resonated with a chilling clarity. It stood not as a house of worship, but as a harbinger of the darkness that lay in wait, eager to ensnare any who dared to tread its unhallowed grounds.

Carcette was a figure of conviction. Striding through the halls of sacrilege, she gripped Pendulum with resolute determination. The desecration of the Divines stirred a profound rage within her, one that defied words. But it was the scornful travesty of Stendarr that truly ignited her spirit, unleashing a fervent, righteous fury.

Surrounding her, the air was thick with the scent of ancient stone and impending doom. Carcette stood resolute, her eye a mirror to the righteousness that fueled her spirit, while Lord Harkon, his form a shadowy silhouette against the demonic altar, was the embodiment of vengeful darkness. His back was to her as he knelt in supplication to the Lord of Domination. However, he recognized her presence without having to look. "You dare to defile my court with your sanctimonious presence," Harkon's voice thundered, echoing off the walls with a force that seemed to shake the very foundations of the Cathedral. "You have sown the seeds of ruin in my domain, and for that, you shall reap a tempest of blood and sorrow."

Carcette's response was a calm, unwavering torrent of conviction. "Your court fell by the weight of its own corruption, Lord Harkon. I am but the hand of justice, delivering the retribution that your heinous deeds have wrought upon yourself and your cursed land."

The tension between them was a palpable force, a maelstrom of fury and faith clashing in an invisible storm. Harkon's eyes glowed with a malevolent light, his fangs bared in a snarl. "Justice? Your justice is a farce, Keeper. You have taken what was mine by right, and for that, you will suffer a fate worse than death."

Carcette's grip on her warhammer tightened, the metal gleaming with a holy light that seemed to pierce the gloom. "It is you who will face judgment, vampire. Your reign of terror ends tonight, and with it, the suffering of countless innocents shall be avenged."

Their words were like the prelude to a symphony of horror, each sentence a note that built towards an inevitable crescendo of conflict. The Cathedral, once a place of worship, now stood as a battleground for two formidable foes, each the antithesis of the other.

As they prepared to engage in a battle that would echo through the annals of time, the air itself seemed to shudder with the weight of their enmity. Harkon sneered. "I hadn't had the chance to properly engage you before. I take it my Court have turned their backs on me and allowed you entry into this sacred house?"

Carcette nodded. She spoke monotonously as she fixed her gaze on the Vampire Lord. There was a coldness to her unseen before as she addressed her old foe. "They recognize the folly of standing against the light in a time where Order is coming to the darkness."

Harkon's eyes fixed onto her gray armour and he came to a realization. "So, you have joined the ranks of the Daedra, after all. You are subservient to Jyggalag now. I will admit, this is something I had not foreseen."

"I am no Daedra, Harkon." Carcette informed him, pointing her warhammer towards him. "I may have the power of one in me..."

Harkon's laughter emerged slowly, a series of low, ominous echoes. "You have yet to grasp the full extent of it," he observed, his gaze fixed on her increasingly puzzled face. "You have become an Agent of Order. Observe the silver strands in your hair, the dulling hue of your eye, the fading of your skin's warmth and graying colour. Your lack of a heartbeat, your loss of emotion. You are transforming into a Daedra, my dear. With every passing moment. And soon, when you cast off your mortal guise, your true nature will be revealed to everyone, yourself included."

Carcette shook her head. "It doesn't matter. I've come for your head, Harkon. Perhaps it will only aid me in that regard."

Author's Note: for this battle, play "Elden Ring Shadow of the Erdtree OST - Messmer, the Impaler" Thanks for reading! :)

Harkon's eyes flashed with an eerie red light and his body began to twist and contort in shadow as veins of blood surfaced over him. With a roar and an eruption of darkness, he reemerged as a Vampire Lord, wearing his proper mantle. However, his form was different now: rather than his skin being clammy and blue, it was black and sleek, covered in light fur, and his eyes glowed luminous red. His wings, formerly short and stout, were large and batlike, and his claws and fangs were long and threatening. "So be it. I shall end your wretched existence!"

The duel commenced with a clash that echoed through the hollow halls, a symphony of violence that would determine the fate of many. Harkon, cruel and condescending, unleashed a barrage of arcane assaults, each strike intended to belittle as much as to batter. "It's ironic that you would spend your pathetic life in fear of Coldharbour only to find yourself driven there by Jyggalag instead."

Carcette ducked under his mighty claws and whacked him across the chest with her warhammer, causing him to stumble backwards. He shifted into his mist form and whirled around the warrior. "You Vigilants always condemn the rest of the world, ready to kill anyone for Daedric collusion, and yet you've given your soul to one just to slay me. I would almost be flattered, were it not so pathetic."

He manifested again before her and dug his claws into her armour, causing her to pull backwards. Harkon was confused by the lack of a reaction from the Keeper. She fought him with a coldness that was seemingly uncharacteristic of herself.

He blasted her with a bolt of red energy, causing her to stagger, and yet there was no life to drain from her, much to his confusion. Harkon wondered how deep Jyggalag's power was running in her.

Carcette, undeterred, met his ferocity with the stoic bravery of the Order she represented, her warhammer a blur of righteous fury. With each blow she brought down upon the fiend, his mighty claws dug into the Armour of the Bastion, scraping its surface. However, with each blow, the cuts ran deeper and deeper. The armour, seemingly indestructible, was now being worn down.

Carcette thrust forward with Pendulum, shaking him off of her with a powerful forward strike. Once he slipped over to the side, Harkon's attacks were relentless, each blow raining down like a curse from the heavens. He moved with incredible agility, striking seemingly from all angles, his voice a constant stream of venomous taunts. "You are weak. You are nothing next to the power of Coldharbour; of one who is beloved by the night."

Carcette, her armor scarred and dented, fought with the desperation of one who knows the weight of their duty. This was not just about Cura's mission, but also about Jyggalag's honour. And about the honour of the Nine who were so blasphemed in these halls.

Lord Harkon, his form a grotesque masterpiece of vampiric evolution, circled Keeper Carcette with predatory ease. His voice, a sibilant whisper, dripped with disdain. "Is this all the vaunted Order has to offer?" Carcette, her eyes ablaze with a steely resolve, swung Pendulum in a wide arc, the warhammer singing through the air, a hymn to the justice she serves.

With each pass, Harkon's claws carved sigils of pain into the air, aiming to etch them upon Carcette's flesh beneath the protective pale shell. The gray armour absorbed the brunt of the blows, its surface shimmering with a spectral light.

Carcette countered with a barrage of her own, her warhammer a blur of motion, each strike a counterpoint to Harkon's cruelty. Thanks to that very armour, she was capable of doing things impossible to her mortal self. But was it entirely the armour, she wondered?

The tide turned when Harkon, with a display of his vampiric might, raised up his clawed hand and inflicted a wound so grievous that the very air seemed to pause in shock. His claws tore open her cuirass, causing Carcette to fall backwards as the venomous points injected her flesh. She hit the floor and rolled over in anguish as the searing pain entered her system despite the armour's enchantments.

Harkon licked her blood off of his claws. "Oh, Keeper. Where has all that bravado gone now? Stand up or I'll force you to your feet."

Carcette pushed herself back up and cast a Healing spell and spared a purifying prayer, cleansing the venom from her system. Her resolve was beginning to falter, and she felt the essence of Jyggalag surge within her, a silent call to embrace the Order's ultimate sacrifice and submit to Jyggalag's power. The air around her began to shimmer, a subtle dance of light and shadow playing across her armor. The gray plates, inscribed with the runes of Order, started to pulse with a serene glow, countering the oppressive aura of Harkon's malevolence. Carcette's eye closed for a fleeting second, and when it reopened, it blazed with a crystalline clarity, a reflection of the unyielding order that defines Jyggalag's realm.

With a cry that resonated with the power of the Daedric Prince of Order, Carcette's form shimmered and shifted, her humanity slipping away as she began to change, slowly taking on the aspect of a Knight of Order. The ethereal energy that had begun to swirl around Carcette coalesced into a brilliant aura, enveloping her in a cocoon of pure, unadulterated power. As the aura intensified, Carcette's form began to change. Her once-human features become more defined, more statuesque, as if carved from the very essence of order itself. The gray armour began to meld into her skin, becoming a second exoskeleton, both protection and emblem of her newfound power.

Harkon watched as Carcette was enveloped in the chrysalis of white light. The Vampire Lord hovered a few feet backwards and narrowed his eyes. "Hm. I suppose it's only right you assume your true form, as well. Let's see how much of you remains, Keeper of Order." he spat mockingly.

Carcette's cries filled the air for a few moments before the light dimmed down, revealing herself, with silver hair, luminescent stonelike flesh, wearing a repaired Armour of the Bastion, which was now crystalline in its matter. Her left eye was still covered by the design of her spiked helmet. Her visible eye glowed a luminous white. Her warhammer Pendulum, now glowing with an otherworldly light, became an extension of Jyggalag's will in her hands.

Harkon, sensing the shift in power, halted his assault, his eyes narrowing as he witnessed the metamorphosis before him. The cruel smirk that once played upon his lips faded, replaced by a begrudging respect for the force that now stands before him.

The Cathedral, once echoing with the sounds of battle, now resonated with a different frequency echoing through the air and all about: it was the sound of order asserting itself, of equilibrium being restored. Carcette, as the avatar of Jyggalag, moved with a precision that was both beautiful and terrifying. Each step she took was measured, each swing of her warhammer an edict of order. With a quick step she brought her warhammer down upon Harkon's chest, a sentence to death, coldly declared. The crushing blow caused him to stagger backwards as blood splashed against the cold stone floor.

Harkon looked down at the hole torn into his chest and his eyes widened with fear. "What is this?! This cannot be! Molag Bal sustains me!"

Carcette walked up towards him silently, her warhammer held in both hands. She tapped its head against the palm of her crystalline hand and her cape flowed behind her with Divine authority: she was to be his judge, his jury, and his executioner.

Harkon was a gnat to be crushed under the unfeeling, unfaltering foot of Order.

As the battle reached its zenith, the air crackled with the energy of their confrontation. Each strike from Carcette's warhammer resonated with the inevitability of Order's decree, while Harkon's counterattacks became more frenzied, a testament to his unwillingness to yield.

The two combatants were locked in a dance of chaos and order, each blow from Harkon met with the unyielding force of Carcette's will. The air crackled with bright and dark arcane energy, the very stones of the Cathedral vibrating with the intensity of their battle. In this moment, Carcette was more than a Keeper; she was the embodiment of Jyggalag's relentless order, a force that even Harkon, in his arrogance, could not dismiss.

Harkon's laughter echoed, a sound devoid of joy, as he unleashed a maelstrom of dark energy. Fear gripped his undead heart more than ever before as she approached. Carcette braced against the onslaught, her armor glowing brighter, a beacon in the encroaching gloom. She felt the weight of her duty, the burden of the mantle she carried as a Keeper, and it fueled her strength. With a defiant roar, she channeled the power of Order, her warhammer alight with a fierce, crystalline energy.

With a rush of black light, Harkon's form blurred, shifting between the corporeal and the ethereal, his attacks a testament to his vampiric mastery. Carcette moved with a grace born of necessity, her every step a calculated dance with death.

As the Keeper of Order, Carcette's presence was unyielding, her strikes methodical and precise. She was the embodiment of the equilibrium she fought to preserve, her every action an extension of Jyggalag's will. Harkon, sensing the shift in the tide, redoubled his efforts, his form a whirlwind of destruction. The air was alive with the crackle of colliding powers, the very essence of Oblivion at stake. Harkon owed it to Molag Bal to fight against the Gray Horde coming their way. And now, one of them was in his midst, wearing the face of the woman who ruined him the first time.

"CURSE YOU! I WILL DESTROY YOU, AND YOUR WORTHLESS LITTLE PUP!" the Vampire Lord hissed as he fell onto one knee. Harkon's cruelty was met with Carcette's unwavering determination. She was unphased by his threat. She merely raised her warhammer over her head, ready to conclude this farce of a duel.

In this moment, Carcette was more than a mere combatant; she was the avatar of a cosmic principle, her every move an act of defiance against the entropy that Harkon embodies. The duel was no longer just a physical confrontation but a war of ideologies, a struggle for the very soul of reality itself. Harkon, who once sought to destroy the cosmic balance by darkening the sun, stood face-to-face with one who stood for the Sun existing. Who stood for the cycle of day and night, of warmth and of cold, of the dawn and the twilight, of the seas and the rains. Of life, and of death. Of light, and of darkness.

Order.

A powerful strike sent Harkon reeling into the blasphemous statue of Akatosh, destroying not just its mockery, but its enclave, in the process. Carcette gripped Pendulum tightly, and examined the weapon under new light.

Pendulum was far more than a mere weapon of war. It was a symbol of the balance she strived to maintain in her role as a Keeper, and now as Champion of Jyggalag. Initially created to serve as her badge of office, it appeared to have been fated for her grasp, even beyond her tenure. Each swing of Pendulum was a stroke of justice, a physical manifestation of the cosmic scales that weighed chaos against order.

In the hands of Carcette, Pendulum became an extension of her will, a tool through which the power of Jyggalag was channeled. Its strikes were not random acts of violence but calculated applications of force, intended to restore harmony to a world besieged by the entropy of chaos. The warhammer's name itself is evocative of its purpose; like the steady motion of a clock's pendulum, it represents the unerring passage of time and the inevitability of order's triumph over disorder.

The warhammer's presence in the duel was a testament to the enduring struggle between the forces of order and chaos. It is a struggle that is as old as the universe itself, played out in countless forms across myriad planes of existence. Pendulum, in its unwavering constancy, is a symbol of the hope that order will ultimately prevail, that the structure of reality will hold firm against the onslaught of chaos. It is a declaration, a promise, a commitment to the fight against chaos. It is a reminder that, no matter how dark the night, the dawn will come, and with it, the steady hand of order will guide the world into the light of a new day. It is a symbol of the eternal struggle, and a beacon of hope for all who believe in the enduring power of order.

Harkon crawled out from the rubble and Carcette clenched her hand, summoning a cage of crystal spikes which shot up from the ground and surrounded Harkon, binding him to her purpose. Unburdened by anger, by joy, by sorrow, or by fear, Carcette merely faced Harkon with what he himself had done, seeking to administer justice against the one who would side with Domination and Enslavement. Harkon struggled against the cold stone, gripping it tightly. Blood poured from his mouth and his lips curled into a twisted smile. "Keh... I suppose all of that "Mercy" and "Justice" are gone from you now."

Carcette said nothing in response. Rather, she clenched her fist, causing the crystal prison to implode upon itself.

Harkon, however, was quick to action and transformed into mist, narrowly escaping his doom. His mist crept under the Cathedral doors and he began to flee out into the castle. He rematerialized in the hallway and dashed for the balcony overlooking the Dining Hall, where Cura and her allies, as well as his court were gathered. He leaned over. "You miserable collection of turncoats! Why did you not try to stop them?!"

"Because you would just as soon see us rot under the heels of the Graymarch, Harkon!" Orthjolf shouted at their former Lord. "We have served you faithfully for centuries and you repaid us by having us dragged into this dustbin, surrounded by enemies!"

Cura drew Auriel's Bow and nocked an arrow onto it, and loosed it towards Harkon. The arrow missed its mark and hit the railing in front of him, but the explosion of sunlight harmed him just the same.

Harkon leapt backwards and transformed into a black wolf. He leapt over the railing and rushed straight ahead to attack Cura. Korn leapt in the way and sunk her fangs into his neck and began to throttle the Vampire Lord. The two hounds flipped around violently, rolling along the floor before detaching and circling one another.

Harkon growled lowly and viciously, his eyes ablaze with the dark power of Molag Bal, and faced the White Wolf Korn, a radiant being of pure light and righteous anger. The air crackled with energy as Mary nearby, with a voice that resonated like a bell, denounced Harkon for his heinous acts, "Harkon, once a devoted follower of mine, you have strayed from the path of compassion and slaughtered innocents I swore to protect. Your betrayal cut deeper than any blade."

Alarmed by the sudden shift in Mary's demeanour, Varla, Gloriel, Bourlor, Cura, and the others shifted aside to allow her to walk forward. She was not speaking as herself, but as Mara; her true self.

The black wolf snarled, a sound that chilled the very stones of the castle. "Mara, your piety is weakness. I have embraced true power, the might of Molag Bal, and with it, I was to reign eternal!" With a ferocious howl, Harkon lunged for the priestess in green hooded robes, but Korn was swift, her white fur shimmering with divine light as she parried his attacks. Paws met paws and snouts collided as the wolves danced in a tempest, a whirlwind of snapping jaws and flashing claws, each strike from Harkon met with the graceful yet forceful counters of Korn.

The canine aspect of Mara moved like a gust of holy wind, her presence filling the hall with a palpable sanctity. She fought not just with physical prowess but with the conviction of her love, her every move a prayer for the fallen and a rebuke to the corruption that Harkon had become. "You have forsaken your humanity, Harkon, given up the love of your family and the warmth of Mara's light for a hollow immortality. An immortality that long faded, and banished you to this horrible realm, as well as those you've infected with this curse." Mary's voice was both a lament and a condemnation, echoing off the walls that had witnessed Harkon's descent into darkness.

As the battle raged, the very essence of the castle seemed to take sides. Shadows cast by the flickering torches reached out like dark fingers to aid Harkon, while the stones themselves seemed to glow with a soft light, bolstering Korn's resolve. It was a battle of wills as much as strength, a conflict between the sacrilege of Harkon's ambition and the sanctity of Korn's purpose.

In a final, desperate gambit, Harkon summoned the full extent of his dark powers, the air around him darkening, a maelstrom of unholy energy. But Korn stood resolute, her form radiating an aura of serene determination. With a howl that was both a battle cry and a benediction, she charged, her form blurring into a streak of white light. The impact when they collided shook the very foundations of the castle, a shockwave of divine retribution that echoed like the wrath of the gods.

As the light dimmed, the floor of the dining hall stood in ruins, coated in thick dust and cinders. In the midst of the destruction, the black wolf lay vanquished, transforming back into Lord Harkon, the man, his eyes brimming with the acknowledgment of his mistake, as well as the horror of Divine judgment which he had eluded for millennia coming upon him. Korn, the White Wolf Aspect of Mara, towered over him, not with a sense of victory, but with dignified composure. Harkon let out a desperate groan as he attempted to crawl away from the white wolf. Orthjolf, Vingalmo, and Garan Marethi, unsettled by the events they had witnessed, stepped aside for Mary, who approached the retreating Harkon. The sound of her leather clogs echoed on the stone floor, each step booming in Harkon's ears like thunder.

Harkon faced Orthjolf and Vingalmo. "Do not just stand there! Kill her! Stop her! Please!"

Varla advanced and unsheathed his swords. "You will not lay a finger on her!" he bellowed authoritatively, reacting to the threat against his mother. He towered over Orthjolf, who defensively raised his hands.

"I'm not getting involved." Orthjolf declared, reassuring him.

Harkon covered his face in fear as he desperately tried to escape the gentle woman and the white wolf walking towards him. Harkon's voice, once proud, now faltered, "I... I did not foresee the desolation of my own heart. The power I wielded... it has cost me more than I ever imagined."

Mary's words softened, a whisper of a mother's love amidst the storm of retribution, "There is still a flicker of that once noble spirit within you, Harkon. Even now, in the twilight of your deeds, redemption's hand extends towards you."

But Harkon, his eyes now pools of darkness, could only whisper, "It is too late for me, Mara. The chains of Coldharbour are unbreakable, and the finality of it all... it is done. My allegience is with Lord Molag Bal; I have given too much to turn back now. I will not bend, even to you."

And with those words, the echo of Mara's lamentation filled the halls, a testament to the tragedy of Lord Harkon's fall from grace. "Then, so be it. If you reject the grace of the Aedra even now, perhaps you are beyond salvation. All that remains is judgment." She gently caressed Korn's head, stroking the wolf's fur softly.

Harkon forced himself to stand upright and prepared to blast the Priestess with a burst of dark energy in retaliation; a final act of defiance against Mara, when suddenly his concentration was broken by the surprised glares of the crowd before him. He felt a sharp pain, and realized that gray crystals now bound his feet to the floor. He tried vehemently to break free, but he could not.

Carcette walked around the table on the western corner of the room and approached him. She grabbed his jaw with one hand and conjured a sword out of crystal in her other hand, and with a clean swipe, took the Vampire Lord's head.

His head wailed in anguish for a painful few moments before disintegrating; becoming dust in the wind, the rest of his body following suit. Carcette stood with her back to the group. She watched as the fiend was deconstructed before her, and expelled her sword. "Justice has been served." she said coldly before turning around to face her allies.

Cura's heart paused when she looked upon her mentor. "K-Keeper?"

Carcette stared at Cura and her allies. She looked at Cura with a still gaze. "Now, we must go to Jhunal's Library. We must not tarry. Conclude your business here, and we will set off."

Cura stared at her blankly. "Th-that's all you have to say? You just killed Harkon!"

"Harkon would have stood in the way of our mission." Carcette said plainly. "Even if his Court were to stand aside, he would undoubtedly have come upon you in the wastelands or the Imperial City. Your crusade against Molag Bal is of the utmost importance."

The once warm and guiding presence of Carcette had been transformed, her emotions stripped away in her ascension to a Knight of Order. Her armor gleamed with an otherworldly sheen, a stark contrast to the soft glow of the torches that lined the walls. Cura's heart swelled with a mix of reverence and sorrow; the mentor she once knew was there, yet not there. She looked at this being that stood before her now: the transformation was stark; where once there was the gentle guidance of a mentor, now stood a Knight of Order, her visage as stern and impassive as the stone around them. Even the Volkihar Court appeared unnerved by the change from the small time they'd known her.

Cura approached tentatively, her eyes searching for a flicker of recognition in Carcette's stoic gaze. Cura's heart ached at the sight, a tumultuous mix of reverence and sorrow swirling within her. She reached out, her voice a soft plea, trying to stir the embers of their past camaraderie, "Carcette, do you not remember the days when you trained me in the ways of Restoration? You spoke of the importance emotion played in the weaving of the magic. You taught me then the importance of empathy. Of compassion. Do you remember?" She seemed to be searching the Keeper's stone face for any reaction, but she was straight-faced.

The words fell on deaf ears, for Carcette, now a Keeper of Order under Jyggalag, was devoid of the emotions that once defined her. Her eye, once warm and inviting, was now a cold mirror reflecting nothing but the rigid order she was sworn to uphold. Cura persisted, her words laced with memories of battles won and lost, of lessons learned and laughter shared. She spoke of the people they had protected, the lives they had touched, and the difference they had made in the world. Examples including the Vigil itself, as well as her friends Inigo, Lucien and Serana. Yet, with each word, the chasm between them seemed to widen, as if her pleas were but whispers against a gale.

Cura's desperation grew as she attempted to reach the woman who had been more than a mentor, who had been a friend, a confidante, a maternal figure, a beacon of light in a world often shrouded in darkness. She implored, she reminisced, she argued with a passion that was met with silence, with a stoicism that seemed unbreakable. The realization dawned on her, heavy and suffocating, that the Carcette she knew, the Carcette who had guided her with a gentle hand and a kind heart, was gone, replaced by an embodiment of Order, unyielding and absolute.

The reunion, if it could be called that, was a poignant reminder of the impermanence of things, of the cruel twists of fate that could transform love into indifference, warmth into coldness, life into mere existence. Cura's words eventually tapered into silence, her efforts to reason with her mentor ebbing away like the last rays of sunset on a winter's eve. She stood there, a solitary figure of melancholy, in the presence of a mentor who was now as distant as the stars above, her heart heavy with the loss of what once was, and what could never be again.

Carcette did not raise an eyebrow, nor did she shrug or react intuitively. She merely walked towards the remainder of the Volkihar Court, all of whom were afraid of what she became, and she spoke. "You have heard the Dragonborn's ultimatum. When she is ready, she will summon you by firing an arrow from Auriel's Bow into the sky. That will be the signal. We expect you to meet us at the Tower of Sacremnor at the heart of the city. From there, the battle for freedom will begin. You will be there, if you value your lives at all."

Minorne and Vingalmo exchanged glances. Then Vingalmo nodded. "Yes, we will be there, Keeper Carcette. Anything would be better than this drab place. And perhaps I'll be the new Court Leader, now that Harkon is gone."

Orthjolf laughed. "Ha! As if! We all know if anybody is to lead, it will be a man with sense; like me."

Stalf stared at Carcette with a mixture of curiosity and apprehension. He was expecting retaliation against himself for their history, and yet, it did not come. She glanced over at him when he moved closer, acknowledging his presence, but she was unbothered by the man who took her eye and destroyed her home. She turned her back to him and looked upon Cura's group.

Sabrina shivered beside Sir Amiel. "She's like a walking statue. Man, this is screwed up."

Savos and Mirabelle stepped forward to examine the Keeper.

"I... I've never seen anything like this." Mirabelle admitted, her tone shaking with awe and horror. "She's no longer a Breton, that much is certain..."

"I think she's become one of Jyggalag's creations." Savos Aren scratched his chin.

Tears began to run from Cura's eyes. "Is there nothing that can be done? Nothing at all? I can't bear seeing her like this." Truly, this was a fate worse than death; even under vampirism, at least, a person has some semblance of who they were as a mortal. Some emotion, some tether to Humanity, or care. The woman that stood before her now was a parody of the Keeper she knew. She had about as much emotion in her expression as a Dwarven Centurion.

Varla examined the Keeper, looking at her from different angles. "Huh. I think the armour is actually part of her."

Gloriel shuddered. "It... it's unnerving. Is this what the Graymarch is comprised of?" She waved a hand in front of the Keeper of Order's face. "Carcette, can you hear me?"

The gray knightess turned her face to look at Gloriel. "Yes. I can hear you. And I can see you." she looked at Cura again. "Now, you must continue onwards, Dragonborn. You have much to accomplish in this world and on Nirn."

Cura sighed sadly, "Do you feel nothing? Nothing at all?" she took Carcette's hands into her own. She examined the crystalline gauntlets. They were cold like steel, though they were no match for her gaze.

Carcette stared at her. "What I feel or do not feel is inconsequential. Let us continue onwards." She removed her hands from Cura's grasp and began to walk up the stairs leading to the exit door. Each footstep measured and orderly. So orderly that it seemed almost unnatural.

Cura turned to Mary and Korn with pleading eyes. "Mary, please... please tell me there's something you can do..." her voice was breaking from the sorrow she was feeling.

Mary shook her head sadly and placed a kind hand on Cura's shoulder. "I cannot, Cura. Only Carcette can do something about this." Korn panted lightly, and turned her head to look at the ashes which lay on the dining hall's ruined floors. A sad squeak came from her throat and she rejoined the others leaving the castle.

Once outside, Cura followed Carcette down the bridge, and over the dark horizon she could see the crystal obelisks and massive stalks dotting the landscape. The skies further off were gray, as well. And that grayness extended above Castle Volkihar, now. It was all but guaranteed that Molag Bal had to be shaking in his boots by now.

Some distance away, soaring the skies still, was Cura's Dragon Soul, shining in brilliant white fire. And yet, still out of reach. Carcette pointed to the Dragon Soul. "There it is, Cura. Your Dragon Soul. Soon it shall belong to you once more."

Cura sighed sadly. "Keeper, even if I get it back, losing you wasn't worth it."

Carcette paused for a second and turned to look at her defeated pupil. "You have not lost me, Cura. I am with you, even now, standing before you. Focus on the task at hand."

Cura's eyes lit up. "Hold on... do I detect a hint of annoyance? And... and..." She pondered for a second, The fact that she felt the need to reassure me must count for something, right?

The still-faced Keeper stared at her silently for a few seconds, before continuing her walk down the mountain.

Sir Ralvas cleared his throat. "Er, this is my domain, now. The reason why I have my head back, after all. I will lead you all to Jhunal's Library! Just wait until you see it. It's... interesting, to say the least." He rushed ahead of Carcette to lead the way.

The group trailed behind them as they continued their descent of the winding mountain road towards the cemetery below.

Cura's feelings towards the subtle revelation of Carcette's lingering humanity were a complex tapestry of hope, sorrow, and determination. She felt a surge of hope, a bright flame in the oppressive darkness of Order, that the mentor she revered, the friend she cherished, the woman who raised her, is still within reach. This hope was tempered by sorrow, a deep, aching sadness for the mentor who has been lost to the rigid dogma of Jyggalag, for the warmth and guidance that once defined their relationship now veiled behind a mask of indifference.

Despite the pain she was feeling, Cura's spirit was unbroken. She found strength in the fragments of Carcette that remained, in the subtle shifts of expression and the echoes of emotion that slipped through the cracks of Carcette's composed exterior. It could have been wishful thinking on her own part, yet Cura clung to these sutle signs like a lifeline, each one a testament to the enduring power of their connection, a connection that not even the will of a Daedric Prince can extinguish. Molag Bal tried, and failed. Maybe Jyggalag would, too.

Cura's feelings were a testament to the resilience of the human heart, to its capacity for love and its tenacity in the face of adversity. She is a beacon of hope in a realm where hope is a defiance, her love an act of rebellion against the many Daedric orders that seek to quash it. Her journey appeared to her a poignant reminder of the lengths to which people will go for those they care about, of the battles they will fight not simply with swords, but with the unwavering belief in the bonds that define them.

So, she decided ultimately, that she will keep her head held high. She cannot afford to give up on hope for any little thing. Lest she plummet into the rabbit hole of despair like countless others, and ultimately become Soul-Shriven.

What they had done today was monumental: Harkon was finally judged for his evils, by Mara and by Jyggalag. The Volkihar Vampires were willing to align themselves with the party to begin a new life on Nirn rather than face the Graymarch. There were a lot of positive outcomes today. Perhaps there was more to celebrate than to lament.

Cura hurried to meet her mentor once they reached the bridge over the dark sea, and she took her hand into hers. "I won't give up on you, Keeper. I promise." She looked to the party which followed her. "I won't give up on any of you."


Author's Note: I think this actually may be one of my favourite chapters! :) A few lost threads have been tied together into a nice bow, and the battles were so much fun to write.