Upon his arrival into the city, Ulfric Stormcloak, accompanied by Isran, limped his way through the Riften Marketplace and over the bridge straight ahead, past the Scorched Hammer. They ascended the stairs leading to Mistveil Keep, and once the Guards saw his face, they moved aside, allowing him entry without question.

Jarl Laila Law-Giver ruled over Riften, a city of thieves and smugglers in the eastern corner of Skyrim. She had red hair and blue eyes, and wore a fine dress and a jeweled circlet that showed her wealth and status. She had a gentle face, but also a weary one, as she faced many troubles and challenges as the leader of a divided and troubled hold. She had to contend with the hidden corruption of the Black-Briar family, the influence of the Thieves Guild, the prior threat of the dragons, and the civil war that raged between the Stormcloaks and the Empire.

She supported Ulfric Stormcloak, the rebel leader, but she also had to contend with the fact of the Imperial Legion that guarded the bordering Jerall mountains due south of her hold. She was a loyal and proud Nord, but also a pragmatic and cautious one. She tried to do what was best for her people, but she often found herself in difficult situations that tested her resolve and her wisdom.

Anuriel, the Bosmer steward, stayed by her side as she sat on the throne. She had white hair in pigtails and wore brown Fine Clothes. She seemed to advise her Jarl with the very image of care and concern.

Her son came towards the throne with a fiery temper. He was angry and impatient. "Mother, how long must we put up with Saerlund spouting his nonsense about the Empire?"

Harrald, the son of Laila, was a proud Nord warrior with a fiery red mane that he kept in a ponytail. He wore a sturdy armour made from goat fur, a sign of his courage and skill in hunting. He was so engrossed in his protest that he did not see the Jarl of Eastmarch enter the hall. The Jarl was an old friend of his mother, and had come to discuss some urgent matters with her.

Laila bit it down under her breath. This was not a topic she broached lightly. And his contempt for his own kin disgusted her. "What would you have me do, send him to the gallows for treason? He's your brother, Harrald."

Harrald leaned back and crossed his veiny arms. "My only concern is your safety, mother. One can only imagine the sordid types he may be conspiring with to bring about your downfall."

Laila dismissed it with annoyance and abruptly stopped the conversation with hostile authority. "I will hear no more of this, Harrald. Do you understand me? No more!"

Harrald felt a surge of annoyance of his own and frustration as he spun on his heels, only to be at last confronted by the sight of Ulfric Stormcloak and Isran joining the fray. He barely avoided bumping into the injured Jarl as he moved out of his way. He lowered his gaze in respect to the leader of Windhelm and made room for him.

As he looked at the young boy, Ulfric felt a twinge of regret. He imagined how things could have been different if he had taken Cura to Riften while she was still alive. In another time and place, they could have lived as a real family. They could have enjoyed the city's attractions, the bustling market, the sweet mead, the bright banners. He could have found a suitable match for her with Harrald, Jarl Laila's son, and forged a strong alliance between Eastmarch and the Rift. And being magnanimous and forward-thinking, Jarl Laila likely would not have had qualms having a Half-Elven daughter-in-law. After all, her steward was a Wood Elf. But that was an impossible dream. Cura was no more, and this was their reality.

The Jarl gave the lad a cordial nod as he squeezed between him and the benches attached to the U-shaped longtable at the center of the chamber before the throne.

Saerlund, a lad in fine blue robes laced with brown fur, with auburn hair and Laila's outspoken son who was ostracized by his own family, though allowed to remain in the Keep, watched with a pale face as Jarl Ulfric entered the hall, and their eyes locked in a moment.

Unmid Snow-Shod, Laila's Housecarl - an auburn-haired Nord in elven armour, stepped forward to greet them first, as was his duty. "As Jarl Laila's housecarl, I would ask that you maintain a respectable distance from her at all times." he addressed Isran specifically.

Isran scoffed and crossed his arms with his usual brand of smugness on display. "I take it you protect the Jarl?" it was almost as if he couldn't take the elven-ensembled Nord seriously.

Unmid remained professional, though as stern as the dragon statues in Ustengrav. "Indeed. There have been multiple attempts on the Jarl's life. We're not certain if it's the Dark Brotherhood or simply Imperial sympathizers. We've also had run-ins with spies attempting to probe our security for weaknesses. I work with the city guard to make certain they fail. At the end of the day, I'm the last line of defense for the Jarl. I will not allow her to fall."

Jarl Laila Law-Giver leaned back in her high-backed chair, her gaze fixed on the flickering flames in the hearth. She sighed, her fingers tracing the rim of her goblet. As she saw Jarl Ulfric approach, a sudden fear crossed her face as he stepped into the light. She could tell that he'd been through a very violent skirmish recently, with his outfit caked in blood. He walked with an obvious limp, and seemed to draw heavy breath with every passing footstep. "Jarl Ulfric! By the Gods, what happened?"

Jarl Ulfric Stormcloak held his left side, which still bore the throbbing pains of his wounds. "Laila," he said, his voice gruff, "we cannot afford to ignore the signs any longer. Mehrunes Dagon stirs in the east. His cultists have grown bolder over the years... and the Daedric influence seeped into our lands. We were all too preoccupied... with this damn war to notice before."

Laila's brow furrowed as she stood up from her chair and approached the northern Jarl. "I've heard the rumors," she replied. "But what can we do? Our forces are stretched thin, and the Thalmor are watching our every move like vultures surrounding a dying elk."

Isran, the vigilant leader of the Dawnguard, stepped forward. His face was etched with determination, the scar across his cheek a testament to his battles against the undead. A sternness was plastered over his presence. "Dagon seeks chaos, destruction. He'll use our divisions against us."

"M-Mehrunes Dagon...?" Saerlund overheard from his corner in the room. His voice trembled at the mention. His voice was the only one that dared echo the room for the next minute once the name hung there above them like an oppressive cloud.

Ulfric turned to face Isran. "Agreed," he said. "But we have a plan. We cannot march blindly into the east. Mehrunes Dagon is cunning, and his beasts fanatical. He attacked Windhelm, and we only survived by the grace of Talos. And a group of Dragons, as well."

"Dragons?" Anuriel asked. "Didn't the Dragonborn destroy them, or something?"

Ulfric shook his head. "No. She felled the World-Eater. Without their leader, the Dragons seem to have taken on a more passive lifestyle. But they were there when we needed them."

"It's all so asinine." Jarl Laila massaged her brow on both sides of her forehead in attempt to soothe her headache. "We have to do something. I assume you've come to me because we, along with Jarl Korir of Winterhold are the last line of defense keeping them out, right?"

Isran nodded. "That's right. And if you don't mind me saying, my Jarl, you know you could always call upon the Dawnguard. We're volunteering our forces to aid you in this."

Jarl Laila looked a tad more relieved. "Good. That's good. And what of the Vigilants in their southern Beacon?"

"They're outside the city. Just waiting for orders." Isran confirmed. He'd gathered the roaming Vigilants along the way and led them to Riften. All it took was a small conversation and they knew it was a dire situation.

"Even still, we're not enough." Ulfric stated. "If Dagon storms down here we're done. Riften will never keep that beast out. Your walls could never hold him back, and the city being made mostly of wood is another strike against it."

It was true, for the most part. A large majority of the buildings of Riften were comprised of wood paneling and roofing. The city's streets were connected by wooden bridges, and lower walkways of wood. The only stone building was the Keep.

Jarl Laila's blood ran cold when she thought about what the Daedric Prince could do to her city. It was a might worse than what the Thieves ever could. She was stricken with the macabre image of the large, red four-armed devil stomping down the bridges and smashing the buildings with his axes. Flames engulfing the streets with every hateful footstep, trampling on the skulls of her people.

"That bastard isn't going to touch them!" she found herself blurting out loud without thinking.

Harrald, Saerlund and Unmid looked at her, as well as the city guard. The Jarl quickly course-corrected and snapped back into the peaceful present. "So, what's the plan? Do we parlay with the Empire?"

"That was the idea." Ulfric admitted. "We get Tullius on board, and he'll lend us soldiers to make up the numbers we're lacking."

"Jarl Ulfric, with all due respect, do you really think that General Tullius would agree to this? In his eyes, you're a war criminal." Jarl Laila reminded him of his position. She gazed at him as if he had an arrow protruding from his head when he proposed the foolish idea.

"I know what that coward thinks of me, and frankly, I don't care. Tullius may be a bastard, but he is not a fool. He will know that if Dagon takes Skyrim, Cyrodiil will be the next to fall." Ulfric stated. "Anyways, we have a plan to deal with him."

In that moment, Lucien and Inigo entered Mistveil Keep. When the door creaked open, the others turned to face the interlopers instead.

"By the gods. Speak of the Daedra. Look at what the cat dragged in." Isran said with a light chuckle upon seeing the blue Khajiit enter.

"Uh... is this a bad time? If so, we could come back later." Lucien proposed in that moment before the sight of Ulfric woke him up. "Oh my gods! He's alive! He actually survived!"

Unmid stood nearby, arms crossed. He was adjacent to Laila, as always, and turned his glance to the newcomers, and back to the Jarl, sensing a correlation. "What's the plan, Ulfric?" he grumbled. "We can't keep fighting this war forever. We know that, Tullius knows that. And Dagon knows it too."

Ulfric's eyes narrowed. "Patience." he replied. "We have an advantage—one that the Imperials don't fully comprehend."

Jarl Laila took a step forward and raised an eyebrow. "And what's that? Them?" She gestured towards Lucien and Inigo. The timing was too close. Harrald took one look at the pair and began to chuckle hysterically, as if they were a joke to him.

Ulfric's gaze shifted to the corner of the room, where Inigo the Brave, the Khajiit warrior, stood beside his Imperial friend. Inigo had fought alongside the Dragonborn, and their bond ran deep. The cat's loyalty was unwavering.

"Inigo," Ulfric said, beckoning him over. A proud smile stretched across his face. "Tell me, my friend. How well do you know the Dragonborn?"

Inigo approached the forum, bowing politely to Jarl Laila. His golden eyes shimmered with a blend of curiosity and caution. "I have journeyed alongside her for years," he stated. "Together, we have confronted ferocious dragons, repulsive Daedra, and the Thalmor. She has saved my life more times than I can recount, and I have reciprocated in kind. Our travels and battles were always shoulder to shoulder. A more valiant companion I could not have wished for." He motioned towards Lucien. "And Lucien was present as well."

"Oh, great, thanks. For a moment there, I thought I was forgotten," the blonde Imperial quipped, rolling his eyes.

Ulfric nodded. "Exactly," he said. "The Dragonborn was our best weapon. But the Imperials underestimate the power of friendship."

Laila scowled. "What are you getting at?"

Ulfric leaned in, his voice a whisper. "Inigo is our bargaining chip," he explained. "The Imperials want peace, but they won't listen to me. They fear my ambition. But they trust the Dragonborn."

Laila's eyes widened. "You're suggesting we use this Khajiit to negotiate?"

Ulfric smirked. "Not just negotiate," he said. "We'll play our hand carefully. Inigo will approach General Tullius as a mediator for our respective parties. He belongs to no faction, but the Dragonborn's own. They know him. He was present with Cura at the Peace Summit at High Hrothgar. He'll vouch for our cause, emphasize the Dragonborn's desire for unity."

Inigo shifted uncomfortably. "And if they don't believe me?"

Ulfric's gaze hardened. "They will," he said. "Because you'll remind them of the battles that threatened to destroy us from within. The Dragons, that nonsense in Winterhold. The Vampires. You'll appeal to their reason, their humanity."

Inigo glanced at the banners depicting the crossed swords on the back wall. "And if it fails?"

Ulfric's expression softened. "Then we fight and die alone and unaided in the east, and then Dagon leads his campaign to the west and leads Skyrim to ruin. He'll accomplish what nobody else has: he'll end this war." he clasped Inigo's shoulder. "Remember that we're not just fighting for Skyrim," he said. "We're fighting for a future where alliances matter more than borders. Inigo, my friend, you'll be our bridge."

Inigo nodded solemnly. "For Cura," he said. "and for Skyrim."

Ulfric smirked. "Remember an old Nord idiom," he said, "'Friendship can be a weapon as sharp as any blade.'"

"What is this bullshit?!" Saerlund took no quarter. Whatever possessed him to speak up nagged him for the past few minutes, until finally boiling over like a bubbling cauldron. "Oh, now you want to engage with the Empire? Not like I suggested it years ago, or anything!"

"Saerlund!" Laila gasped at her son's loss of composure.

Ulfric was here, now. Now Saerlund could voice his displeasure without being silenced. Come of it what may, but he was going to let Ulfric know exactly what he thought about him, consequences be damned.

"No! Don't try and stop me." Saerlund snapped at his mother and walked directly in front of Ulfric. "You pulled us all into your skirmish when you killed the High King, and everything's gone to hell since then. You're no High King. I wouldn't want you for a leader! All you do is destroy everything you touch."

Harrald reached out, seizing his brother by the shirt's back. "Mind your words, you fool!"

"Release me!" Saerlund commanded, shrugging off his brother's hold. The Law-Giver family's outlier stood defiantly before Ulfric, his gaze unwavering. His rage was almost tangible, tainting the air around him. "You're no liberator. You're merely a power-hungry wolf, tearing Skyrim apart for your own glory!"

Ulfric was silent. He opted to listen to his rant as he thought upon his own words.

"You fight for the throne," the furious Saerlund continued, "not for Skyrim. You've forgotten the men who bled on foreign soil, the wives who wept for their fallen husbands. You've forgotten that freedom isn't just about borders—it's about the people."

"I do fight for Skyrim," Ulfric at last retorted. "for our traditions, our way of life. I fight even now, to protect her and her people against the Daedra menace."

Saerlund scoffed. Of course Ulfric was going to lean on his usual claim. "Traditions? You mean the worship of Talos? A convenient rallying cry. But your heart? It beats for the throne, not the people."

As Lucien listened to Saerlund's rant, he agreed for the most part, but he had seen a different side to Ulfric, himself. So, he could not fully agree. He knew Ulfric did love his land. He accepted foreigners into Windhelm, and the commonfolk as well. He was not just a careless despot, as Saerlund made him out to be.

Ulfric's hand came down hard on the surface of the table, a clear sign of his frustration and fervor. Or, perhaps a veiled motion to conceal his battle injuries. "Do you truly believe I take pleasure in this? That I want to milk the Imperial Cow? I have sacrificed everything in defiance of it!" he declared with a booming voice. "I have seen friends die, watched our homeland deteriorate under the weight of apathetic Imperial dominion, and have risen in opposition, only to see our beloved mountains succumb to the tyranny of the Dragons, and now this."

"'Milk the Imperial Cow.'" Lucien muttered aside to Inigo with his head shaking in disapproval. And there went his sympathy.

Inigo couldn't help but let out a chuckle. "So, you're telling me I just stroll into Castle Dour, walk up to General Tullius and say, 'Hey! Uh, the Stormcloaks could use a hand.'?"

"No, what you need to tell Tullius is that if he wants his darling Empire to keep on ticking, he better pull his head out of his ass and lend us some muscle against the Daedra. We're holding our own, but there's only so much we can take on alone," Ulfric explained with a stern look.

"Fair enough." Inigo could not argue. It seemed as good a way to phrase it as any. The Khajiit tried to hide the fact he was still injured before the court, maintaining an upright posture. He had to show them confidence, especially in this time. Besides, he loved Riften. It was his favourite Hold in Skyrim. The last thing he would want to see is it collapsing under the smelly foot of Mehrunes Dagon.

Saerlund looked at his mother, his face overshadowed with disdain. "So this is it, then, mother? You've incarcerated me in this Keep for the last few years because I spoke out in favour of a civil resolution to this pointless war with the Imperials, and now, suddenly you've changed your mind? Just like that? Now it's okay?"

"Saerlund, you should be grateful that I've protected you from your own mouth this long." Laila was shaken by his harsh words, but she quickly retorted against her belligerent son. "You've heard what he said. Our world is in chaos right now! Would you rather I just let Riften get demolished?"

"Well, if Riften were to fall, it's only right its leader be spared, right, mother? Wasn't that what you said, once? Don't you plan to run off to Windhelm in an escape carriage like a milk-drinker?" Saerlund snapped back at her. His parroting, mocking recreation of one of her past statements caused her face to turn red, and in a moment of rage, the Jarl of the Rift raised her hand across his face.

The echo of the slap resonated in the space, leaving a palpable tension that even Lucien could not ignore. Saerlund, with a face etched in a blend of shock and deep sadness, held his mother's gaze for a lingering few moments. Without a word, he diverted his eyes from hers, moving past Harrald whose silence was as rigid as his posture, and beyond the regal seat of authority. With measured steps, he ascended the staircase that led to the seclusion of his chamber, leaving behind the heavy atmosphere of the hall.

The look of anger on Laila's face slowly melted, revealing a sad exterior. She rubbed the palm of her hand as she contemplated what she had just done. Her heart was heavy with remorse, but she knew he couldn't be allowed to continue on like that.

Jarl Ulfric observed the young man's behavior with a discerning eye, his expression revealing a mix of disappointment and concern. Having known Saerlund since his childhood, it pained Ulfric to witness such lack of discipline. As he approached the throne, he could sense Saerlund's resentment, an unspoken tension hanging heavily in the air. He turned to Laila. "You did what you had to. The boy didn't know when to stop."

Laila nodded with a hint of sadness, gazing at her reddening palm before she made her way to the tables.

Isran observed in silence from the doorway to the Court Mage's quarters. Meanwhile, the Bosmer mage, Wylandriah, peeked out to see what was transpiring. "Oh dear, I might need to concoct another Health Potion for him after that..." She tapped Isran on the shoulder. "Excuse me, you wouldn't happen to recall the second ingredient for a Health Potion, would you?"

Isran grunted and unfolded his arms from his chest. "What, now?"

"A Health Potion."

"Do I look like an Alchemist to you?" Isran retorted.

"No... not really." Wylandriah admitted. She scratched her chin as she tried to recount for herself.

Jarl Ulfric grunted in pain and his knees buckled. He pushed down against the table for support and sat down to ease his pain. Laila sat down with her old friend and poured him a tankard of Mead. "Here you go, Ulfric; this ought to help you a little."

Jarl Laila turned to Inigo and Lucien. "You both look exhausted. Take some supplies for your travel." she gestured to the court mage, who was clearly open for business now. "Free of charge. If you succeed in your endeavours, Riften will owe you a great debt."

"I thank you." Inigo bowed politely as he went around the table and headed to the wizard's chambers, followed by Lucien.

Wylandriah seemed to be trying various potion combinations when Lucien and Inigo walked in. She turned her face over her left shoulder and looked at Lucien who approached closer. Inigo stood nearer to her counter. "Excuse my disorganization, but I'm in the middle of some delicate experiments."

"I heard. Something about a Health potion?" Lucien asked.

"No, not this experiment. But hey, someone is actually interested in what I'm doing? Amazing! Well, allow me to explain. My experimentation involves a magical construct and a reagent that will allow the construct to maintain a field of permanent harmonic energy!" Wylandriah hit her hand with her fist.

Lucien reasoned that perhaps this was something she was thinking about, rather than doing. He would humour her. "Fascinating! Do go on..."

"Ah ha! So you're a student of theoretical applied harmonics!" the wizard's voice lifted with excitement at the prospect of encountering another academic in these dreary parts. "Putting aside Ralston's Constant of Universal Inversion for a moment, how would you approach the problem? Draw the harmonic energy into the reagent or allow it to generate its own field?"

Lucien scratched his chin as he genuinely pondered the question. "How about using calipers?"

"Calipers? That's utterly ridiculous. Maybe long ago, you could just find calipers in every household across Tamriel, but not anymore." Wylandriah dismissed it until something clicked. "Hold on, you've given me a brilliant idea. Just as calipers hold materials in place, a soul siphon can hold magic fields in place. Genius! And I'm sure you've completely worked out how to counteract complete dimensional collapse, right?"

Inigo decided to chime in. "Swallow a soul gem?"

"Inigo." Lucien said his name flatly. "Inigo. My friend. Really?"

Inigo simply shrugged his shoulders in response. How the heck would they know?

Wylandriah snapped at the Khajiit. "Are you completely insane? Swallow a soul gem?" her angry tone immediately subverted his expectations by switching to one of great excitement. "That has to be the most brilliant and unexpected solution I've heard in a long time. It solves all of my problems and keeps the field stable! Now all I need... wait, what were we talking about?"

Lucien slapped his forehead. "Oh, boy," he muttered. Was she serious? It was inconceivable that she had forgotten her previous question so quickly. However, the purpose of her experiment remained unclear. The more Lucien pondered it, the more his head spun.

Inigo saw a note opened and covered in dust in the corner of the shelf underneath the counter. His curiosity got the better of him and he crouched down in spite of his pain to read it. After all, who knows who is part of the Mythic Dawn these days?

A sharp pain struck his left side and he winced. His heart was racing, and a silent numbness rung hollow under his left set of ribs. He shivered; the air was cold.

As he carefully raised the note, a wave of nostalgic sorrow washed over him. The words, though faded by time, reminded him of a past steeped in warmth, fun, and affection. Each letter, though not addressed to him, was a testament to memories cherished and moments shared. In the time of solitude, he found himself transported to days long gone, yet vividly etched in the corridors of his heart as he looked over it again and again.

"Per Your Requests

Wylandriah,

Your letter sent to the College of Winterhold was rife with grammatical errors and incomplete thoughts, making them difficult to discern. Could you please clarify the points below for us to ensure we're on the same page?

We have no record of a "cloud emulsifier" device or anything involving the magical manipulation of the clouds. Second, we can't send you a sample of the Heart of Lorkhan for experimentation, as no such sample exists. And finally, in the fourteenth paragraph of your letter, you mention a substance called "greenmote." We're assuming this was a simple mistake and you meant to write "greenspore." If that's the case, we have contaminated skeever carcasses with the disease available if needed.

We'd also like to thank you for sending us your notes regarding your experiments, we've all had quite a grand time reading them.

Mirabelle Ervine"

Inigo paused, the note's weight heavy in his hands. The name etched on the parchment was a whisper from the past, stirring memories of youthful days spent within the austere halls of the College. There, amidst ancient tomes and arcane whispers, he had forged even stronger bonds with Cura, Lucien, and Serana - companions in study and mischief alike.

Mirabelle's lesson in her office echoed in his mind; her stern voice guiding his hands as he conjured ethereal arrows from the aether. Her teaching him Bound Bow had been a lifeline, allowing him to remain at Cura's side, otherwise protocol would have had him cast out for not being there to learn.

Though Mirabelle's demeanor was often cold, her intentions were warm. Inigo reflected on her rigorous critiques, delivered with a sharp tongue but softened by the glint of concern in her eyes. Her departure from this realm was a loss that cut deeply, a stark reminder of the fragility of life due to the pursuit of knowledge and power. Inigo folded the note gently, a silent tribute to a mentor whose legacy lived on in every Bound Bow he summoned.

It was uncanny; every time he brushed someone off as inconsequential, he would find himself faced later on with the reality that they were just trying to help him, even if he couldn't see it at the time.

Reflecting on the past, he fondly recalled the vibrant days spent outdoors amidst a gentle snowfall, partaking in a frozen breakfast with his companions. Those moments were not just about nourishment; they were a time of camaraderie and growth, as they diligently pursued their studies and honed their skills. The air was filled with laughter and the soft thud of snowballs and spells alike during their lighthearted target practice sessions. J'zargo's quick reflexes and Onmund's strategic thinking provided ample challenge, while Brelyna's clever spells added an element of unpredictability. It was in these light-hearted exchanges that bonds were strengthened, and memories were etched into the canvas of his mind, memories that brought warmth even on the coldest of days.

And he would never forget the chaotic escapade he and Lucien had with Azura's Star. They'd been admonished by Cura for their recklessness, but in the end, she was just relieved that they were alive. That she came in time to aid them inside the Star.

Despite the rumors of Mirabelle's discontent over the decision made by Cura and Lucien, her actions remained just. Her fairness allowed Cura to pursue her scholarly endeavors without hindrance, under the vigilant supervision of the Master Wizard.

Several individuals attempted to interrupt the Dragonborn's studies; however, Mirabelle delegated their duties to others. Was Cura aware of this? Inigo was privy to this information solely because he frequently roamed the premises during his leisure time for fun.

Times were simpler then, and Inigo would give anything to be able to return to then. The more he recalled the past, the sadder he became in the present. How did things go so wrong?

"Inigo? Are you all right there, buddy?" Lucien grew concerned as tears began to drip from Inigo's furry face.

"I... I will be. I just need a bit of time." Inigo immediately wiped them away when he realized he was under scrutiny. Those tears were not just sadness; but anger.

Wylandriah turned around and noticed that Inigo was behind her counter. "You're not supposed to be back there! Nobody is allowed there but me! Get away!" she shoo'd him with her hands.

Inigo obliged and walked towards the wizard. He cleared his throat. "I see you have connections to the College of Winterhold."

Wylandriah crossed her arms. "How do you figure that? Is it the robes? It's definitely the robes." Her blue robes had nothing to do with the College, though they were as commonplace as most mage robes were.

"We attended Winterhold!" Lucien exclaimed gleefully. He wasn't sure how Inigo discerned that, but he saw fit to tell a fellow mage. "But what happened there was... quite tragic."

"I heard something about a Thalmor and an Ancient Artifact from Labyrinthian, but the details are a little foggy." Wylandriah admitted gingerly, tapping herself on the right temple to hint at her awful memory.

"The Eye of Magnus! Inigo, why don't you tell her the story? You're much better at it than I am." Lucien volunteered his friend.

Inigo shook his head somberly. "I do not know. I am not much in the spirits of it right now."

"Come on, Inigo! Give it a try!" Lucien pleaded with his friend, nudging him in the ribs. He could see that Inigo was not completely with it, but he hoped this would, in some essence, cheer up the downtrodden Khajiit.

Inigo sighed and sat on the bench nearby as Lucien ordered several Health, Magicka and Stamina potions for the road. He handed Wylandriah the recipe, "A Blisterwort and a shred of Wheat" for a Health potion to help her in the job. It would be good to hear one of Inigo's stories to pass the time.

Once he'd thought on it, Inigo began, urged onward by his persistent friend. "Well, gather 'round, my friends, for a tale of frost and fire, of mages and dragons, woven in the threads of Skyrim's College of Winterhold. Let me bake this fantastical cake of a story for you, with a dash of whimsy and a pinch of ancient magic."

"Oooh." Wylandriah became excited by his effortless weaving of words.

"Labyrinthian; that name alone sends shivers down my spine. A place where secrets slumber, and echoes of the past dance upon the stones. Our hero, the Dragonborn, stood at its threshold, hands clasped around the Torc of Labyrinthian and Savos Aren's Amulet. The air tasted of forgotten spells and the promise of destiny. The ghostly specters of Savos and his companions of a time long passed materialized before the Dragonborn's bright verdant eyes. They were like faded parchment, etched with memories. Their voices echoed through the icy halls, recounting their ill-fated expedition." Inigo pieced bits together from how Cura had explained it to him. He was there, of course, but he saw nothing.

Still, he would improvise. ""Listen well," said Savos, his eyes aflame with purpose. "We sought the Staff of Magnus, a relic to quell the Eye of Magnus—a tempest of raw magic threatening our beloved College." And so, our hero ventured deeper into Labyrinthian. Skeletons crumbled beneath her stern, steel-plated boots, and the air hummed with dark energy. At the Ceremonial Door, the apparitions whispered secrets. "This way," they urged, and our hero followed, leading her group of friends into much danger."

"Did anyone die?" Wylandriah asked.

"No. We were very lucky, my friend! Sai must have sighed upon us. Anyway, the Skeletal Dragon awaited—a bony sentinel guarding the way to the Staff. Its breath, icy as a winter's dawn, threatened to freeze our hero's very soul. But courage prevailed. Spells clashed, and the Dragonborn emerged victorious. The dragon's bones clattered like dice on a gambler's table."

"It was quite daunting, that skeletal dragon." Lucien clenched his left arm tightly as he recounted the encounter. A shiver rode up his spine.

Inigo continued. ""Retrieve the Staff," Savos murmured, his spectral hand pointing toward the heart of the ruin. And there it lay—a twisted staff, pulsing with eldritch energy. The Staff of Magnus, a conduit for raw power, coveted by mages and madmen alike."

"The actual Staff of Magnus... incredible! Did she just run up and take it?" Wylandriah finished filling up three flasks with Health potion and continued to brew.

Inigo held out a hand quickly. "But wait! A dragon priest called Morokei, a disgusting, shrivelled husk of a mage, stirred from his slumber. His eyes glowed like dying stars, and his voice echoed through the ages. "You trespass, mortal. The Staff is mine!" His magic surged, but our hero stood firm. Spells clashed once more, and Morokei fell, his mask shattered like a fragile dream. Or, like the flesh sword of one of Maven's many paid consorts. You take a pick."

Both Lucien and Wylandriah chuckled at that crude comment, and she nearly spilled her magicka brew to the floor as she was filling the flasks.

Inigo continued, undeterred. "The Staff was ours, cradled in our hero's gentle, yet skull-crushable hands. Its weight spoke of forgotten empires and lost knowledge. Yet, the Eye of Magnus still raged within the College. The final act awaited—the confrontation with Ancano, the fart-sniffing Thalmor ambassador and 2-dimensional villain (if you ask me anyways.)" Inigo pulled himself upright. ""Dragonborn," Ancano sneered, "you meddle in affairs beyond your ken. The Eye shall be mine!" His arrogance dripped like honey from poisoned lips. But our hero had the Staff, and with it, she channeled its power. The Eye trembled, its chaotic energies bending to her will."

Wylandriah had moved on to the stamina potions now, and watched the brew carefully simmer and boil.

Inigo slapped his hands together with thundrous enthusiasm. "Ancano's wards shattered, and he staggered, eyes wide with disbelief. "Impossible!" he cried. But the Dragonborn was no mere mortal. She unleashed the Staff's might, and Ancano crumbled like parchment in a flame. The Thalmor's puppet strings snapped, and the Eye of Magnus subsided. And so, the College of Winterhold was saved. The ghosts of Savos and his companions watched from the beyond, nodding in approval. "Well done," they whispered. "The balance restored." And thus ends our tale, my friend. The Staff of Magnus, the Eye of Magnus, and the Dragonborn—their destinies entwined like ivy on a crumbling tower. May their names echo through the ages, as Inigo the Brave raises a tankard in their honor." Or a battle axe. I say let the Daedra come. I will tear down as many of them as there are snowflakes in the Pale."

"A bold story. I like it." Isran spoke from the doorway, having snuck up on the group and causing Lucien to jump.

"Yikes! Isran! How long were you there?" the frightened Imperial asked, holding a hand on his chest to still his racing heart.

"Long enough that if I were a vampire, you'd be only a heap of gooey flesh on the ground." the Redguard responded in his usual fashion.

Isran, the grizzled warrior, stood amidst the flickering torches in the stone room. His eyes, like flint, bore the weight of countless battles—each scar a testament to his unwavering resolve. "Inigo," Isran's voice rumbled, "I know you're down. I understand how you feel. That... anger. That resentment. Don't let it consume you."

Inigo's ears twitched, and he met Isran's empathetic gaze. "My friend is gone. The Daedras hunger for her essence, and Oblivion's jaws gape wide. I am... so angry... I could rend them all to pieces. Tear their heads off like popping a Dandelion off its stem." Inigo trembled with anger, clasping both fists together.

Isran closed his eyes. "Listen, cat," he growled, "we are but mortals, dust in the wind. But our choices—they echo through eternity. The Dragonborn's legacy lives on in us - her deeds etched in the stones of Skyrim."

"What am I to do then, if not unleash my fury?" Inigo's voice trembled, like a reed in a storm.

"We fight," Isran declared. "Not for wrath or hatred, but because it's what warriors do. We stand against the darkness, even when the odds mock us. The Daedra? They're like wolves, circling a wounded elk. But we're Dawnguard - we're the hunters. Hunters need to hunt with a clear mind. Do you not think I hate the Vampires? I do. But if I simply kill them willy-nilly, I'm more likely to end up on their dinner plate."

He paced, his boots scuffing the cold stone floor. "We choose valor, Inigo. We choose defiance. We spit in the face of Oblivion. We don't go leaping into its maw because it swallowed our friend. We cut its stomach open instead."

Inigo's tail flicked, and he straightened his worn armor. "But how?" he asked. "How am I supposed to think when I am this upset? I do not know what to do anymore. Not with the task at hand, but with me, Inigo."

Isran's eyes blazed. "With purpose," he thundered. "We hunt vampires, cleanse crypts, and guard the innocent. We forge alliances—Nords, Khajiit, and all who stand against the night. We become the beacon—the flame that guides lost souls home. That flame will encompass both the Imperials and the Stormcloaks. An all-consuming fire that will spread across the land."

"And the Daedra?" Inigo's claws dug into his palms.

"They'll come," Isran said. "They'll whisper promises, dangle power before our eyes. But we'll spit on their offers. We'll honor the Dragonborn's sacrifice. And when the Daedric Prince knocks on our door, we'll tell him to sod off." He stepped closer, his breath hot on Inigo's face. "Listen, cat. We're not just mortals. We're legends in the making. Our names will echo through the ages - the Dawnguard, the defenders of Skyrim. When the bards sing our tale, they'll remember the Dragonborn and the brave Khajiit, and Imperial," he gazed at Lucien momentarily. "who stood by her side. And the organizations that came together in unity, under her name. We will stand in valour for this land of ours, and we will show the Daedra a defiance unlike anything they could have dreamed of."

Inigo's eyes gleamed. He began to feel a spark of inspiration and confidence within himself. "Yes! Victory, or Sovngarde! ...That is how the expression goes, yes?"

"Aye," Isran agreed. "And when the Daedra come, we'll tell them this: 'Our souls are not yours to claim. We're Dawnguard. We're Stormcloaks. We're Imperials. We're Vigilants. We're the ruthless and the defiant. Defiant of all things unnatural and wicked."

And so, in the flickering torchlight, Isran and Inigo clasped hands—their resolve forged in steel, their hearts aflame. He gave Inigo a firm pat on the back as he squeezed his hand with eyes burning aflame with Stendarr's own resolution. The Dragonborn's legacy burned within them, a beacon against the encroaching darkness.

"To valour." Isran proclaimed.

"To defiance." Inigo replied.

This depressive funk Inigo was enduring was exactly what the Daedra wanted. And if the others would be dragged down too, it would minimize resistance. Dagon was expecting a demoralized province. Just as the Mythic Dawn demoralized the population of Cyrodiil with the assassination of Emperor Uriel Septim so long ago. Isran was right; he was acting unstable, allowing his emotions to dictate his actions. Thank goodness Isran was there to set him right.

Soon, Wylandriah had finally finished her brew and she placed the potions all inside of a rough sack. "You're all very brave. I can't imagine what it would look like, fighting a sea of Daedra. It must be terrifying. Dreadful, even."

Lucien nodded. "Oh, yeah. It's all that, and then some. Tell me, Wylandriah, what do you think will happen if Mehrunes Dagon wins?"

"Really?" Isran asked from the doorway, repulsed by the foolish question in light of his great speech.

"Ah, Lucien, the Oblivion Crisis echoes in my dreams. Mehrunes Dagon seeks dominion over Tamriel. His razor-sharp ambitions would carve our world into chaos." Wylandriah said frightfully.

Inigo twirled a dagger between his fingers. "Chaos? Sounds like a bad tavern brawl. But what happens to sweet Skyrim? Will it become a Daedric plaything?"

"Skyrim would burn. The Throat of the World would crumble, and High Hrothgar's whispers would fade. The Nords would kneel or perish. And, I do believe we would become fence decorations in his new world. I really don't relish the thought of passersby admiring my bones like artwork." Wylandriah shuddered.

"Though I could see the Vigilants being quite furious at the sight of Daedra dancing on their altars." Lucien invoked the image for the sake of levity.

"Please, don't let them win." Wylandriah grew fearful the more her imagination ran wild.

"See, Inigo? That's how you're gonna convince General Tullius. Show him that there are things far worse than simply siding with mortal enemies." Lucien proudly stood with his hands on his hips as he admired how he spun the conversation.

Wylandriah flew out of her chambers and passed Isran, and hurried up to Jarl Laila and Jarl Ulfric. "By the gods... please tell me the Imperials will be enough to stop them."

Jarl Laila was still saddened by how she'd slapped her son before the court, and was a tad distracted at the moment. She snapped out of her stupour and faced the wizard. "I hope so too." She pressed her forehead into her clasped hands as she silently prayed to Mara for forgiveness.

Inigo and Lucien stepped out of the lab and looked at the somber picture: all the warriors were crestfallen, riding on the hopes that their enemies will be willing to set their rivalry aside for the greater good. But could they?

Jarl Ulfric flagged them down, and Harrald looked at the pair with a neutral gaze this time around.

"Yes, my Jarl?" Inigo addressed the Nord lord.

"We all heard your tale from out here. About the Staff of Magnus." Ulfric smirked lightly. "Keep that artifact on hand if you still have it. You never know; it could be useful against the Daedra in some way."

Isran was inclined to agree. "Yeah - go to Stendarr's Beacon and speak to Vigilant Emma. She stayed behind with a couple of others. They could open the vault for ya."

Inigo nodded. "I had forgotten they had it. Oops."

"It's not a big deal, Inigo - we've been going through so much these days, who could remember?" Lucien comforted his friend. When his hand touched Inigo's shoulders, the Khajiit cried out in pain with a harsh grunt as his posture finally broke, and he collapsed. The immediate, sudden shock of pain cause him to fall unconscious to the horror of all present.

Lucien began to panic. "Inigo? Inigo! Buddy! Oh, my gosh!"

The Riften Guards hurried to his aid at Laila's command. The Jarl herself rushed to see what was happening, and her son Harrald and Housecarl Unmid too closed in.

Under Inigo, blood began to seep onto the shale floor tiles from a reopened wound in his side. Harrald's eyes met a small trail of blood that seemed to crease the floor all over where Inigo had walked, from the entrance door, to Wylandriah's Alchemy lab, to this very spot.

"Gods, he's been bleeding this entire time?" the Nord warrior exclaimed in shock at Inigo's resilience.

"Help the poor boy!" Jarl Laila barked at Wylandriah and the Guards in a moment of fearful passion.

Ulfric watched the display and a deep-rooted fear struck his heart. His daughter's friend lay there, unconscious and dying on the floor. The Jarl of Windhelm hurried to Inigo and scooped him off the floor into his arms. "Laila, I'm going to bring him upstairs. Is there somewhere I can lay him down?"

Laila massaged her brow as she tried to think of a place. "Perhaps the guest room. Yes! Lay him in the guest room; it's next door to my sons' bedroom."

Lucien was practically in tears as he hurried along with the Jarl. "Inigo, please... don't die. Please!" Lucien whimpered under his breath as they rushed up the stairs.

Isran watched from his corner of the room, and he felt a twinge of fear at the sight. He prayed to Stendarr that Inigo could be spared. He then prayed to Mara, to mend his wounds, and then to Arkay, to keep him in the cycle a good while longer.

If he were to die, then there would go the alliance.

Things were not looking good for Skyrim now, to say the least. At a time like this, Isran wished someone like Carcette, Florentius, Erandur, Colette, or Cura were present. Restoration was truly undervalued in Skyrim.

Sadly, Florentius was back at Fort Dawnguard. As was Erandur. Cura was dead, Colette was all the way in Winterhold, and gods only knew what Carcette was doing.

Isran elected to stay in the main hall, to remain out of the way. He would let Wylandriah the mage and Lucien handle it from here. Still, he did not want to see Inigo in this state. He sat down at the table and lowered his head, and clasped his hands together. He hoped silently that they still had time to prepare. That Ulfric was right about Dagon fleeing. That they had a chance.

"'The Battle of the Glenumbra Moors'

Who took up their arms that winter dawn,

Who to Glenumbria came

To raise their hand,

'Gainst tyrants stand

And to die in freedom's name?

Who stood on the field upon that hour,

Who answered Direnni's call?

Men Breton-born all came that morn

To defend the land for all.

CHORUS:

Rise, rise to freedom rise,

Arise ye Breton sons and daughters!

Ride, ride to freedom ride,

Truth and glory to the brave!

And when the battle it was joined

Alessians three to one,

The sky lit bright

With magic's light

And with magic it was won.

For all they stood on blessed ground

Whence all her power came

The rocks would yield

What might they wield

All in Direnni's name.

CHORUS REPRISE

So children of this Breton land

Ye best remember well

All those who for High Rock stood

Brian, Ancois, Rielle;

Men of the north,

All who stood forth

Till all oppressors fell."

Under the hideous skies of Coldharbour, Carcette was thankful for the helm she was wearing, as it guarded her eyes from much of the violent whirling sands. A large flight of stairs rested before her, leading towards the city. The sky rumbled above her, and shrieking winds spoke of untold horrors.

An echoing burst loomed over the skies as the Barrier Tower in the Northeast was disrupted. It was exactly as Jyggalag predicted. The roaring echo was a serene promise of reunion between teacher and student.

She tried to recall details of what she'd read in her long period in Jyggalag's library. She wondered that now, perhaps the Hall of the Vigilant was no more. Had Tolan escaped to Dawnstar with the horde yet? Had the mountain piled the forests in an avalanche after Stendarr intervened against the Daedra? There was no way of truly knowing from where she was.

The Hall of the Vigilant... destroyed again, once and for all. She could barely believe it, and yet, in her heart she knew it to be true. It stood there, as a guiding hand, for twenty years. She had many memories attached to that small building. It was another home, for a very long time. A sad prospect, all around.

Her thoughts traced to Inigo and Lucien. How were they doing? Has Inigo been greatly injured? Have the Dragons intervened yet? Has Lucien destroyed the stone bridge of Windhelm? Have they gained General Tullius' assistance?

The thoughts were distracting.

The more she sat around in meditation, impatience egged her. She was being nudged forward, urged to enter the city. But the doors were locked firmly, no doubt. What to expect atop the large flight of stairs beyond the statue of Molag Bal? Likely ferocious Daedra, or perhaps even Vampires.

Coldharbour was the one place she'd wanted to avoid. Never in a million years would she ever have seen herself here by choice, and yet here she was. She sat on one of the steps and scribed in her Journal.

"In the bleak, desolate expanses of Coldharbour, where despair seems to be the very essence of the atmosphere, I maintain my unwavering vigilance. As Carcette, now an acolyte of Jyggalag, I am pledged to sustain order in the midst of pandemonium. My spirit resonates with a sense of eager anticipation, for the prescient rumors have reached me - the Dragonborn is nearing.

The Daedric Prince of Order, Jyggalag, has interwoven my destiny within the vast expanse of the realm's tapestry. As a steadfast and resolute thread, I await the emergence of the mortal endowed with the dragon's essence. This individual defies the ordained path, manipulates the fabric of existence, and traverses the brink of Oblivion with audacious grace. They are my pupil, my cherished Cura.

In Coldharbour - a domain filled to the brim with anguish, where souls languish in perpetual agony - I have discovered my true calling. My tenure with the Vigilants of Stendarr, once firmly anchored to Nirn, has concluded. Now, I embrace a loftier vocation. Amongst the Knights of Order, I stand as a pivotal force amidst the scales that adjudicate cosmic equilibrium. It is I, Carcette, who serves as the fulcrum.

My armor bears the Amulet of Stendarr—the compassionate, the merciful. But within, etched unseen, lies the emblem of Jyggalag—the meticulous, the unyielding. A paradox, perhaps, but in this twilight existence, contradictions thrive.

Dearest Cura stands unique among beings, neither fully elf nor fully human, but a mortal graced by divine touch without being bound by divine decree. She traverses multiple realms with such grace that her steps imprint upon the very essence of existence. Her voice, powerful enough to echo through epochs, brings tremors to the foundations of reality itself.

And so, I wait, until our paths cross again.

The corridors echo with spectral whispers. Some of the souls here recognize me - an enigma in their suffering. A living mortal in the realm of the dead. They seek solace, redemption, but I offer only the cold embrace of duty. I can heal their wounds, though I cannot mend their fractured spirits. I see the misery, yet my eyes remain fixed on the horizon.

Will the Dragonborn emerge from the mists? Will she wield her Thu'um against the Daedric hordes? Or will she falter, consumed by the weight of destiny?

Jyggalag's gaze pierces the veil. His crystalline eyes, unyielding as the frozen stars, watch over me, even in his slumber. He knows - the cycle nears completion. The Graymarch looms, when he shall reclaim his dominion, reshaping the Shivering Isles. It begins here, with the conquest of Coldharbour. No doubt Sheogorath can sense the dread incoming. After all, if Molag Ball can be felled by Jyggalag unbound, what hope does the Mad God have in his realm adjacent?

But the Dragonborn - a rogue element, a fracture in the deterministic weave. In the book dedicated to Cura, I witnessed a few proposed outcomes. She may leave Coldharbour as Vigilant Cura, saviour of Skyrim, who will go on to found the Fifth Empire, or she could destroy Molag Bal himself, and swallow the Red Stone and become the Dominator herself. I am not certain of what that entails, but it does not give me comfort. Perhaps this is where I must come in.

In her encounter with Pelinal Whitestrake, the legend himself, he decreed that Kynareth showed him a vision; a prophecy of the "one who will plunge a sword into the snake." I believe this to be Cura - and the snake in question to be either Alduin the wyrm, or perhaps a metaphorical wording for Molag Bal. In either case, I know nobody who could impale a snake better than her.

She can defy the script, improvise upon fate's parchment. She is ordained by fate to lead the lands to prosperity, but I hadn't read too much into how she'd done it. Or rather, how she will do it.

And so, I stand sentinel. With hammer in hand, I will greet my protege, and I will test her virtues.

The darkened sun flickers, casting elongated shadows upon the desolate sands. I listen to the distant clash of armor, the echo of a distant shout. Is it her? The harbinger of change? Or merely another lost soul, ensnared in this cosmic game?

My warhammer rests against my shoulder, its enchantment humming - a beacon of Stendarr's light. I am ready.

Come to me, Cura. Cross the threshold. Let your footsteps echo through the void. For in this desolate expanse, Keeper Carcette awaits - a paradox, a bridge between realms.

May your Thu'um shatter the silence."

She closed her journal tightly and placed it back in her satchel and ascended the steps. No sooner did she reach the halfway point than a few Alessians who stood guard before the door to the city set upon her in a violent frenzy. "Halt, in the name of the Alessian Order!" the guard who blocked the way to the city ordered.

Carcette stood resolute below the shadow of the western palisade's crumbling Western Ruins. She was at a disadvantage, being a third of the way up the steps, while two of her foes stood above and one dared ambush her from below. "The Alessian Order, you say? Hmm. Interesting. Though I'll admit, finding you here in Coldharbour really isn't much of a surprise." Her voice was marred with smugness and amusement upon recognizing who these assailants were.

They were hideous and decrepit; a reflection of their condemning environment, and their red robes were torn and ragged. Even the two armoured Alessian Paladins in their rusted armour, lunged for her with stilted movements, two blades in hand.

Her silver armor gleamed under the sickly light, and her lost warhammer Pendulum, imbued with the righteous fury of Stendarr, rested heavily in her grip. As the first Paladin struck from the spectral mist, she butted forward with the shaft of her hammer, blocking the attack.

The foes' crimson robes billowed, and their eyes burned with zealous fervor. They wielded daggers inscribed with forbidden runes, each blade whispering promises of power and damnation.

It did not take much for her to realize from History who these were. And with pride, and the remembrance of how her people once stood firmly against them, Carcette squared her shoulders, her voice echoing through the ruins. "Alessian dogs! Your twisted faith has led you astray. Stendarr's light shall cleanse this blighted ground!" She'd neglected to mention Jyggalag's promise, as the Alessians were known for their hatred against the Eight.

Seeing them before her now, these wretched priests, these zealous crimson psychopaths, reminded her of an old song from High Rock, "The Battle of the Glenumbra Moors." The Bretons stood firmly against these wretches long ago.

The priests advanced, their steps deliberate. The first Brother raised his dagger, chanting in an ancient tongue. Shadows coiled around him, and he lunged, aiming for Carcette's heart. But she sidestepped with haste, her warhammer driven sideways in a blunt arc. The priest connected with it and was flung back. He staggered, dried, black blood staining his crimson robes.

The second fiend, eyes ablaze, flitted across the stairs like a wraith. He weaved illusions before her, mirages of torment and despair. Carcette's vision blurred, memories of lost comrades clawing at her mind. But she clenched her teeth, invoking Stendarr's name to draw her attention away, as Vigilants were instructed to do in those precise situations. One never truly leaves the Vigil behind, it would seem. The illusions shattered, and she charged, hammer meeting the fool wielding a dagger in a clash of divine will.

The third priest, standing directly in front of the city's large double doors, remained still. His eyes, hollow and sunken, bore into Carcette's soul. "Please," he intones, "we seek redemption. You pine after that scheming god Stendarr. You are blind to the truth - the Daedra are not our enemies. They are our salvation."

Carcette's resolve wavered for a moment. She remembered the burning Hall of the Vigilant, the screams of her fallen brethren. How Stendarr had eventually given her up to be sacrificed to Jyggalag, who took her in for his current endeavour. And perhaps for the rest of time. "Your twisted words won't sway me, Alessian."

Though she was a hypocrite now in her own right, she could never measure up with the hypocrisy latent to the Alessian Order in their centuries of slaughter in the name of Akatosh. They were a blight on history and best left forgotten.

"It is quite ironic. People believed the Vigil of Stendarr to be terrible, but we are nothing next to you." Carcette spat.

The Alessian drew a sigil in the air, and tendrils of darkness coiled around him. His dagger glowed with malevolence. "Then face your judgment, Stendarr-lover. We will throw you upon a pyre just like all the others."

The duel intensified - a dance of faith and cold steel as hypocrisy clashed with hypocrisy. Carcette's warhammer smashed through summoned Flame Atronachs that resembled nothing she'd ever seen before. The enemies tried to surround her, but a crescent swing of her hammer was enough to put them out of commission at last.

"Molag Bal,"the Alessian priest whispered with a sorrowful voice as he realized his tenure as the unwilling gate guard was about to come to an end, "forgive us."

He lunged, dagger aimed at Carcette's neck. But she pivoted to the right, deflecting the blow. Her hammer arced upward, striking the Alessian priest's chest. His body crumpled, andwas reduced to dust before her very eyes.

The dying Paladin fell to his knees as his rusted gauntlet scraped the wall he was using to balance himself. "We sought salvation in life," he murmured in his final moments. "but found only damnation."

Carcette sood amidst the fallen Alessians, her armor splattered with blood. The Western Ruins trembled, reality fraying. She gazes toward the distant Imperial City, its spires obscured by Coldharbour's mists. On the floor she found amidst the ashes, a key. A key to the western door.

And as the ruins whimpered, Carcette stepped up to the doors, her warhammer ablaze with righteous fire. The Vigilant's duty endures, even clad in gray, even in service to a Daedra, even in the heart of darkness.