Brænna was old, though few could tell by looking at her. Her face bore the timeless beauty of someone untouched by age, but her eyes—those golden, draconic eyes—betrayed the weight of centuries. She was tired. Tired of the endless days stretching before her, the endless horizons, the countless sunrises and sunsets that blurred together into a monotonous eternity. She had done everything one could do in Tamriel, seen everything there was to see, and now, immortality felt less like a gift and more like a curse.
Her first memory was hazy, fragmented: "Hey you, you're finally awake." A throbbing headache, the jostling of a carriage, the cold bite of steel against her wrists. Helgen. Alduin. The rush to Whiterun, the desecration of Bleak Falls Barrow, and everything that followed. Marriage. Children. Sofia and Lucia, her wonderful daughters, now long gone. She had outlived them all by centuries.
She still kept in touch with her descendants, though they were so far removed from her now—grandchildren's grandchildren's grandchildren. The only one who truly understood her was Serana, but even she was busy with the growing, more widely-accepted Volkihar clan. They met every few years to talk about the world, with Brænna always trying to convince Serana to step down and see the world beyond her responsibilities.
Today, however, Brænna was alone. She stood atop the tower of the College of Winterhold, her fingers gripping the stone parapet as the icy wind whipped through her hair. This was her sanctuary, the place where she had mastered every school of magic, where she had created works of art that still bore her name centuries later. She no longer needed anything—no wealth, no fame, no power. She had it all, and yet, it meant nothing.
The trip outside Winterhold had been a rare change of pace. The current High King, a descendant of Ulfric Stormcloak, had asked her to make an appearance at a reception for the Emperor. Ingmar Stormcloak's request had been simple: "Be as imposing or intimidating as you can." And so, she had arrived on the back of Odahviing, clad in her ancient but meticulously repaired Archmage's robes, her status as Dragonborn and Archmage unmistakable. The festivities had lasted a week, and she had enjoyed the distraction. But now, back in Winterhold, the familiar melancholy had settled over her once more.
The sound of heavy wings broke her reverie. She turned to see Paarthurnax landing gracefully on the tower, his ancient scales glinting in the pale light.
"Hail, Dovahkiin," the dragon greeted, his voice a deep rumble that resonated in her bones.
"Hail, Paarthurnax," she replied, stepping forward to place a hand on his snout. "What brings you here?"
"I bring prodah, warning from afar," Paarthurnax answered, his eyes narrowing. "Across the horizon, zeymah. Beyond the edge of your world."
"Summerset?" she asked, her eyebrows rising.
"Niid, no," Paarthurnax said, his voice grave. "Far to the east, Dovahkiin. Something stirs in the darkness, vokun—past Oblivion, past Aetherius."
Brænna's heart sank. After the Civil War, the Dragon Crisis, and the thousand years of peace that followed, she had grown weary of the constant wars and bloodshed. "What does that mean? What have you heard?"
"Little, and less," Paarthurnax admitted. "Only whispers, krosis. Old magics awakening, vahrukt—ancient and forgotten."
"Thank you for telling me," she said, her voice steady despite the unease settling in her chest. "Please, come back if you hear anything more."
"Gah, Dovahkiin," the dragon replied, spreading his wings and taking flight into the snowstorm. "Zu'u los ni tahrodiis. I am not without care."
Brænna turned back toward the door, muttering to herself, "East? What lies beyond Akavir?" Before she could reach the door, something fluttered in the wind—a moth, its delicate wings beating against the cold. She caught it deftly, recognizing it as an ancestor moth.
"What are you doing out here?" she murmured, bringing the moth up to eye level. She stepped inside, chattering softly to the insect as she set it down on the enchanter. Her mind still on Paarthurnax's warning, she reached for one of her atlases, searching for anything east of Akavir.
But the moth had other plans. It flew at her face, startling her into dropping the book and stumbling backward. "Damn it!" she cursed, batting the moth away. "I suppose you think that was funny, don't you?"
The moth fluttered toward the center tapestry in the garden, landing on the fabric and staring at her with twitching antennae. Curious, Brænna approached, lifting the tapestry to reveal nothing but the stone wall behind it. But when the moth dove beneath the fabric, she followed, only to find herself face-to-face with a frosted window—and the wide-eyed gaze of an old, grey-bearded man.
She scrambled back, tearing the tapestry from the wall in her haste. The man muttered something softly, his eyes filled with wonder as he tapped a wooden staff against the frame of the mirror-like window.
"Who are you?" Brænna demanded, her voice sharp with panic. "What do you want?"
"I might ask you the same," the man replied, his tone calm but curious. "Where is Savos Aren?"
"Dead," she snapped. "Dead for nearly a thousand years. Now, who are you?"
The man's eyes twinkled with amusement. "Ah. My name is Gandalf. Gandalf the Grey. I was wondering if you could help me find a dragon slayer."