The Eagle and the Dragon

by Ibracadabra11

After ending Al Mualim's attempt at a reign of terror in the Holy Land, Altaïr was seemingly destined to become the Brotherhood's next Mentor. However, fate has different plans for the young Assassin as the Treasure instead sends him to a land unlike his own - A frozen corner of a crumbling empire. Will he be able to find his way back, or perhaps he is destined for something else?

2. Chapter 2

It was not a grand battle like before. No clash of mythical creatures. Instead, the vision was disturbingly familiar. Masyaf – his home. But it was wrong. Snow covered the fortress, the once-proud stronghold now a desolate ruin. The walls, once a symbol of strength, were crumbling, the courtyards empty and silent, as if abandoned for centuries.

The scene shifted inward. Dust hung thick in the air, stone walls cracked and weathered by time. In the gloom, a figure lay face-down on the cold ground. His robes, though familiar, were different – grey, lightly armoured. He bore the unmistakable bracers of an Assassin, twin hidden blades affixed to each arm. Yet, curiously, his ring fingers remained intact.

Armoured guards emerged from the shadows, seizing the fallen Assassin and dragging him through the halls. They climbed the ancient stairs to the castle's highest platform, where a tall, bald figure in heavy Templar armour awaited. The Assassin struggled against his restraints, but they held firm. He was led onto a wooden platform – one that Altaïr himself leapt from during Robert's siege.

The Templar reached out, gripping the Assassin's hood and yanking it down. The face revealed beneath was eerily familiar, bearing the same scar on the lip as Altaïr, but the man was much older. Greying black hair framed his face, a full beard masking his jawline.

A noose was slipped around his neck, the rope pulled tight. For a moment, the Assassin stood still, then with sudden force, he struck the Templar with his elbow, reversing their positions. The rope looped around the Templar's neck instead, and the Assassin leapt from the platform, pulling the rope taut.

The guards reacted swiftly, slicing through the rope and sending him falling into the depths below. But he did not plummet to his death—his fall was broken by a lower platform, its aged wood groaning under the impact.

Once more, the vision shifted.

Now, atop a tower, the Assassin and the Templar faced each other again. Both were wounded, battle-worn. The Templar's expression twisted with frustration.

"What does it take to kill you?" he snarled, breath ragged. "Why won't you die?!"

The Assassin did not respond. Instead, he raised his arm, a small mechanism clicking into place.

A deafening explosion shattered the silence. The Templar staggered, clutching his bleeding shoulder, his eyes wide with disbelief.

Slowly, the Assassin stepped forward, his hidden blade extending smoothly from the bracer. With a swift motion, he drove the blade into the Templar's chest.

The armoured figure collapsed, gasping, his life fading with each breath.

And then, the vision dissolved into darkness.

---

The unfamiliar wooden walls of the room he woke up in were confusing to Altaïr at first. He had been too focused on his strange dream. Just what was that?!

It didn't feel like a dream. If anything, he felt the same sensation as when he touched the Piece for the first time. It was more like a vision. But of what? And who was that Assassin?

Altaïr's mind went back to the present time, however. Memories of the day before came flooding in, and he remembered the predicament that prevented him from going back home.

Skyrim, it was called. The strange realm that he had woken up in after the defeat of Al Mualim. He did his best to ignore the oddities of this land as much as possible – his priority was, after all, returning home to Masyaf. No matter what, or however long, it took.

Altaïr rose from the bed. He had remembered the blacksmith's request, to inform the ruler of this land of the dragon attack, and to send troops into this village. In truth, Altaïr had doubted whether a few additional troops would help – Helgen had both soldiers and fortifications, yet nothing seemed to hurt the dragon. Still, he figured that it would be better than no troops at all.

As he opened the door and exited his room, Altaïr wasn't surprised to see that it was still early in the morning. The inn wasn't quite bustling with patrons as it was the day before, with only a few men enjoying their meals. Both of the innkeepers were awake, and seemed to be having an argument.

"The corn stores are getting low again, Orgnar," the woman said with an exasperated tone. "You'll take care of it, right?"

"Don't I always, Delphine?" the man responded, clearly bored.

"…I don't suppose I could convince you to take care of it now, could I?"

"No."

Delphine sighed and turned her gaze toward Altaïr. "Morning. Need anything?"

"The same as before," he said, placing a few coins on the counter.

She took them, then hesitated. "You hear about Helgen?"

Altaïr kept his expression unreadable. "No, what happened?"

"Some travellers came through last night," she said, lowering her voice slightly. "Claimed a dragon burned the whole place down." She scoffed. "Sounded like hogwash to me."

Altaïr merely shrugged, though his thoughts raced. News travelled fast in Skyrim, it seemed. He had hoped for more time before rumours began to spread.

"Where did they go?" he asked casually.

"They left earlier this morning," Delphine replied, narrowing her eyes slightly. "You sure you don't know anything?"

"I don't," he said simply.

Orgnar slid a plate of salmon steak across the counter, and Altaïr took it without further conversation, taking a seat at one of the tables. He listened to the soft murmur of the inn, his thoughts still lingering on Delphine's words. In truth, it didn't really change much – he wasn't the only survivor from Helgen, after all.

The dream lingered in Altaïr's mind—strange, yet vivid. He couldn't shake the feeling that it was more than just a dream. The Assassin he saw, the unusual weapon that caused an explosion, and the hidden blade used without losing a finger—it all felt too real to ignore. Perhaps the Treasure was still affecting him in ways he didn't fully understand.

---

Riverwood was already awake, with people going about their morning routines. Some were chatting in small groups, while others were busy with their work. The sound of the mill turning filled the air, blending with the steady flow of the nearby river.

Passing the forge, Altaïr noticed Alvor was nowhere to be seen. He decided to take a short walk before heading to Whiterun, taking in the surroundings. Despite being smaller than Helgen, the village had a certain charm, with its peaceful environment and scenic views.

Near the mill, he spotted a familiar face from the inn. The young musician was among the workers, hauling logs. A man and a woman also worked the saw, while another worker caught Altaïr's attention – a short, pale man with sharp, pointed ears. It was unlike anything he had seen before. He studied him briefly, but his thoughts were soon interrupted.

"Hello!" The woman's eyes lit up as she noticed him. "You wouldn't happen to be Altaïr, would you?"

"Peace be upon you," he greeted. "Yes, that is my name. How did you know?"

"You know my brother, Ralof," she explained. "I'm Gerdur, and this is my husband, Hod."

The man extended his hand, and Altaïr shook it firmly.

"Pleased to meet you," Hod said with a brief smile, but his expression soon turned serious. "I still have trouble believing what Ralof told me about Helgen."

"I will be leaving for Whiterun shortly," Altaïr informed them. "Alvor asked me to speak to your Jarl and request soldiers for the village."

"You'd do that for us?" Gerdur asked, surprised. "Do you need supplies for the road?"

"Yes, that's why I'm waiting for Alvor. He asked me to meet him before I leave," Altaïr replied.

Gerdur turned to Hod. "Can you gather some supplies as well?"

Hod gave a nod and began walking off.

"You don't have to," Altaïr said, hesitant. "I wouldn't want to impose."

"Nonsense," Gerdur dismissed with a wave of her hand. "You saved my brother's life. It's the least we can do."

Altaïr shifted uncomfortably but nodded. "Very well. Where is Ralof now?"

"He's already left for Windhelm to rejoin the Stormcloaks," she said with a hint of worry.

Altaïr nodded in understanding. A thought crossed his mind, and he lowered his voice. "That man with the pointy ears... what's his story?"

"Faendal?" Gerdur raised an eyebrow. "Never seen an elf before?"

"...No. Is it some sort of affliction?"

Gerdur blinked in surprise before chuckling. "No, no. Elves are a different people, not like us humans. Faendal is a Wood Elf."

Altaïr's gaze lingered on the man thoughtfully.

Before their conversation could continue, Hod returned with Alvor, both carrying small bags and linen wraps.

"Good to see you again, my friend," Alvor greeted, handing over the supplies. "Hod told me you were here. Take these – some food and coin for your journey."

Altaïr accepted the offerings and tucked them into his leather pouch. "You have my thanks."

"We should be thanking you," Hod said. "Some guards here would help with the dragon threat."

"Perhaps," the Assassin shrugged, still not quite convinced of it. "What can you tell me about that Jarl of yours? Is he reasonable?"

"Jarl Balgruuf is a good man," the smith nodded. "He's a bit over-cautious, but these are dangerous times. So far he's managed to stay out of the war."

"It won't last," Gerdur said with a hint of disapproval in her voice. "I don't mean to be disrespectful – Balgruuf's ruled Whiterun Hold well for years, but he's going to have to pick a side. And I just know he'll pick the wrong one."

The Assassin stayed silent, sensing some tension between them. Alvor was about to retort, but Hod stopped him, raising his hand. "Alvor, Gerdur, please. Let's not go through this again."

"You're right," the woman sighed, relenting. "Well, then. Safe travels, Altaïr."

"Safety and peace upon you all."

The three bid him farewell as he set off toward Whiterun.

---

Altaïr was not quite used to such lengthy travels on foot. Masyaf was quite far away from the major cities, which meant that he always relied on horseback to reach Acre, Damascus and Jerusalem. Thankfully, it seemed as though Whiterun was relatively nearby, at least judging by Alvor's directions. As instructed, Altaïr crossed the bridge over the river at the edge of the village.

The sign at the bridge pointed out that Whiterun was on the right. The Assassin obliged it as the road stretched out before him, winding through towering pines and rugged hills. The crisp mountain air carried with it the scent of damp earth and pine sap, a stark contrast to the arid landscapes he was accustomed to. Every now and then, he passed a lone traveler or a wandering merchant, their wary eyes studying him with curiosity before moving on.

Altaïr took the opportunity to appreciate his surroundings, something he rarely had time for in his past travels. The journey was made more bearable by the noticeable change in climate. This part of Skyrim was far warmer than the border region he had first arrived in, where the chill had bitten through his robes. Here, the air carried a refreshing coolness without being harsh, and the sun, though pale, offered a comforting warmth.

However, Whiterun was not as close as Alvor had made it seem. By Altaïr's estimation, at least an hour had passed since he set out, carefully following the signs along the road. Yet the city was nowhere in sight.

As he continued along the road, Altaïr spotted a carriage in the distance, driven by a lone merchant. It had been stopped by a group of four armed individuals—three men and a woman. Most of them wore crude armour made of fur and hide, but their leader stood out in a set of iron armour. Their stances and demeanour left little doubt about their intentions. It was a robbery.

None of them had noticed Altaïr, which was to his advantage. He silently veered off the main road, moving through the trees and undergrowth with practiced stealth, drawing closer. As he approached, the conversation became clearer.

"…It's dangerous to travel alone, friend. Best hand over whatever you have," one of the bandits, a 'wood elf' with a bow, was saying, his voice thick with menace.

"P-please," the merchant stammered, clutching his coin pouch. "I don't have much…"

The leader, chuckled darkly, gripping his battle axe. "We're doing you a favor. Less weight, faster travel."

Altaïr was finally within striking distance, concealed behind a pine tree. He took a brief moment to assess the situation before making his move. With practiced precision, he drew a throwing knife from his pouch and sent it flying. The blade found its mark in the temple of the elven archer, who collapsed with a loud thud. The sudden death startled both the bandits and the merchant.

Seizing the moment of confusion, Altaïr dashed from his hiding spot and lunged at the nearest bandit. A metallic click echoed as his hidden blade shot out, plunging into the man's exposed stomach, tackling him to the ground. The bandit released a choked gasp, clutching his wound as life drained from his eyes.

The two remaining bandits snapped out of their stupor. The leader snarled at the Assassin as he swung his axe in a wide arc, but Altaïr sidestepped effortlessly, drawing his sabre in one fluid motion. The woman lunged at him with her sword, but he deftly parried, his blade gliding against hers before striking her arm. She yelped and lost her grip, sending her weapon clattering into the woods.

Hearing footsteps behind him, Altaïr waited for the perfect moment. With a swift turn, his sabre sliced cleanly through the air. The bandit leader froze mid-step before collapsing, his head rolling lifelessly to the ground.

The blade of Altaïr's sabre was pressed firmly against the woman's neck. She raised her hands in surrender, her breath quickening.

"Leave," the Assassin commanded in a low voice, his tone brokering no argument.

The bandit woman nodded rapidly, eyes wide in fear. She turned and fled, disappearing into the trees.

Altaïr sheathed his sabre, before ripping out the throwing knife out of the dead elf's corpse. He then turned to the merchant—a portly, elderly man who was visibly trembling, his eyes darting between the fallen bandits and the Assassin.

"Calm yourself," Altaïr said, placing a hand gently on the merchant's shoulder. "I mean you no harm."

"I… I…" the man stammered, struggling to regain his composure. After a few moments, he took a deep breath, his voice steadier. "Thank you, truly. If not for you…"

"There's no need to dwell on it," Altaïr cut in, his voice soft but firm. "Tell me, are you traveling to Whiterun?"

"Yes, yes I am," the merchant replied, still shaken but now more in control of himself.

"Would you allow me to ride with you? I am headed there as well."

The merchant smiled, his gratitude clear. "Of course! It's the least I can do after you saved my life."

Altaïr nodded and climbed into the carriage as the merchant took the reins. With a gentle snap, the horses began to move, and the carriage slowly rolled forward toward its destination.

The ride wasn't silent for long.

"I'd like to know the name of my saviour, young man," the merchant said, drawing Altaïr's attention.

"Altaïr," he replied simply. "And you?"

"Sjorvar," the old man said with a small smile. "New to Skyrim, are you?"

"I arrived just yesterday," Altaïr admitted, his gaze drifting to the passing scenery. "Is this… a common occurrence here?"

Sjorvar let out a gruff chuckle, tinged with bitterness. "Skyrim was a safer place before the war. Less soldiers to guard the roads these days."

Altaïr considered that for a moment before glancing at the merchant. "I come from a distant land. I know nothing of Skyrim or the Empire," he admitted. "What caused this war?"

Sjorvar looked at him with mild surprise. "You're not an Imperial? I'd have thought–"

"I am not," Altaïr cut in, his tone even but firm. "Could you explain?"

The merchant sighed and gave a nod. "Fine. The Empire and us Nords got along well enough for centuries. We fought for them, they looked after us." His expression darkened. "Then came the Great War, thirty years ago."

"What happened?"

"The Aldmeri Dominion—the Thalmor—invaded," Sjorvar said, spitting the name like something foul. "Ever heard of them?"

The Assassin shook his head.

"It's a country of High Elves," Sjorvar explained. "Proud, arrogant, and they hate us humans. Always have."

Altaïr's mind still struggled to grasp the concept of elves. From what both Gerdur and Sjorvar were telling him, they were not human. But how is that possible?

"The war was brutal," the old man continued, his voice quieter. "I fought in it myself. We lost. The damned elves forced the Emperor to sign the White-Gold Concordat, and part of that deal banned the worship of Talos."

"…Why outlaw a single god?" Altaïr asked, frowning.

"Talos was once a man," the merchant said. "Tiber Septim. He was the one who founded the Empire. The elves didn't take kindly to the idea of a human becoming a god."

Altaïr scoffed quietly. The idea of men killing each other over faith was all too familiar to him – after all, the Crusades were no different.

"So, your people rebelled because of a ban on this… god?" he pressed.

"Not right away," Sjorvar said with a shake of his head. "We paid no mind to it at first. Everyone still worshipped Talos in secret. But then Ulfric started making noise about it, and the Thalmor took notice. They sent their agents, and the Empire stood aside, letting them arrest and kill our people. That's when the fighting began."

"I see," Altaïr muttered, piecing it together. "Does Ulfric have the support of the people?"

The old man sighed, shaking his head. "He has some support, sure, but I wouldn't say most of Skyrim stands with him. Even among us Nords, opinions are split. I certainly don't support him." His expression darkened. "And it's not just that—Ulfric isn't exactly fair to the other folks living here."

Altaïr nodded, mulling over the old man's words. At first, he had assumed that the Empire was the oppressor, tightening its grip on the people of Skyrim – the Nords, as Sjorvar called them. But now, it seemed as though the true instigator of the war was the Aldmeri Dominion, perhaps orchestrating events to their own advantage.

He disapproved of the ban on worship, of course. Such a decree was a clear violation of the people's free will. However, Ulfric's response appeared short-sighted – rather than uniting with the Empire against their common foe, the Thalmor, he had chosen a course that only deepened the suffering of his own people. At least, that was the conclusion Altaïr drew from Sjorvar's explanation.

Alvor's instructions had been accurate—after passing a picturesque waterfall, the city of Whiterun finally came into view on the horizon. What he had failed to mention, however, was just how long the journey would take. On foot, it had been a slow, tiring trek of over an hour, while the carriage ride had stretched for about an hour and a half.

From a distance, Whiterun stood as a testament to time. The city's wooden structures, much like the other villages Altaïr had seen in Skyrim, bore the marks of age and exposure to the elements. The walls, though sturdy, had clearly weathered many years, their stone foundations showing cracks and signs of wear. The city itself, he noted, was comparable in scale to Jerusalem—large, but not overwhelming.

As they approached, the road widened, revealing a bustling scene outside the city walls. Makeshift shacks and tents were scattered along the outskirts, forming what appeared to be a lively market. What caught his attention next, however, forced him to take a second glance. Among the crowd, figures that seemed to be neither entirely man nor beast moved with an uncanny grace. Their feline features – sharp eyes, pointed ears, and fur-covered faces – were unlike anything Altaïr had ever seen. They walked upright, their long tails flicking lazily behind them, and despite their exotic appearance, they blended effortlessly with the crowd, conversing and trading with the locals as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

He found himself staring, unable to mask his curiosity, though he quickly averted his gaze and refocused on the task at hand. Questions continued to pile in his mind—first elves, and now these feline people—but he forced himself to set them aside. There were more pressing matters to attend to.

As he adjusted the hood of his robe, he joined the flow of foot traffic, making his way up the gently sloping road leading to the gates of Whiterun. The path was quiet, with only a few travelers moving in the same direction. He paid little attention to the sounds of distant chatter or the low hum of the wind. His mind was focused on the city ahead.

As he neared the gates, he noticed that the entrance was not bustling with activity as he had expected. It was eerily quiet, save for a few merchants and travellers lingering at the foot of the hill, waiting for their turn to enter. The city's main gates were higher up the hill, where two guards stood watch. They were clad in armours made of leather.

Altaïr slowed his pace as he approached the guards, mindful of their watchful eyes. As he neared, one of them raised a hand, signalling him to stop.

"Halt," the guard called out, his voice firm but not unkind. "The city's closed with the dragons about."

Altaïr paused, his gaze steady and unfaltering as he looked up at the guards. Irritation stirred within him, but he kept his voice neutral. "I have information for your Jarl about the dragon attack."

"What do you know? We've only heard rumours, nothing solid," the guardsman questioned, somewhat skeptical of Altaïr's claim.

The Assassin sighed. He was quite cautious not to divulge this information before, but it seemed as though the guard would not let him pass otherwise.

"I was there at Helgen," Altaïr finally made up his mind. "The dragon attacked and destroyed the village."

The guard's eyes widened, and he turned to his companion, who remained silent but observant. After a moment of deliberation, the first guard nodded and turned back to Altaïr.

"Fine," he said. "You shall speak with the Jarl. I'll escort you to Dragonsreach."

With that, the guard opened the gates, motioning for the Assassin to follow through.

Altaïr was no stranger to large cities, having visited many during his missions in the Holy Land. However, he had to admit that he had never seen a place quite like this. While it wasn't as large as Damascus, it was still unfamiliar and somewhat disorienting. The city was built on a hill, with its roads winding steadily upward. As with every other major city he had encountered, it was crowded, noisy, and full of life.

The guard led him through the bustling centre, where a familiar sight greeted him – a large marketplace filled with merchant stalls. People haggled over goods, bartering for food, cloth, and trinkets. Altaïr couldn't help but think of home, though he pushed those thoughts aside, keeping his focus on his surroundings.

As he passed through the district, he could hear someone yelling above the general noise. A preacher, by the sound of it. Altaïr ignored his words, but caught mention of that deity Sjorvar had told him about—Talos. The preacher's voice carried on, but Altaïr paid him no further attention.

After climbing a set of stone steps, they entered what was clearly a residential area. The wooden houses stood in neat rows, their thatched roofs blending into the landscape. He noted how vulnerable they seemed – if a dragon were to attack, the entire district would be reduced to ashes. The thought lingered in his mind, and he hoped the Jarl had some means of defending the city, though his recent experience cast doubt on that possibility.

The Jarl's palace, towering above the rest of the city, came into view. The road led them further upward into what was obviously a wealthier district. A large open plaza dominated the area, with a withering tree standing at its centre. The buildings here were larger and more ornate, yet one stood out—a house that looked as though it had been built from an overturned ship. It was both fascinating and strange.

Finally, all that remained was the last set of carved stone steps leading to the palace. As they ascended, Altaïr took note of the guards stationed by the great wooden doors. Unlike the others, these men wore heavier armour—chainmail over golden tunics, with shields bearing the image of a horse. He assumed it to be the symbol of the hold. Their full-face helmets concealed their expressions, making them appear impassive and unyielding.

Once again, his approach was halted by one of the guards.

"Jarl Balgruuf is not receiving any visitors," he said, raising his hand to stop the Assassin. "State your business."

"This man claims to have news of the dragon attack in Helgen," Altaïr's escort interjected. "I thought it best to bring him to the Jarl."

"Truly?" the palace guard asked, only to receive a nod from Altaïr. "Very well. Guardsman, you are dismissed. Citizen, follow me."

The guard in leather armour left the premises, while the one in the mask rapped three times on the doors, which promptly opened.

---

Jarl Balgruuf the Greater's court had been in disarray ever since rumors of a dragon attacking Helgen began to spread. Fear gripped the city, forcing the Jarl to temporarily close the gates until the matter was resolved. His courtiers were divided—his steward, Proventus Avenicci, urged caution, dismissing the reports as mere exaggerations. In contrast, his brother Hrongar demanded decisive action. Irileth, the Jarl's housecarl, listened silently, only speaking when necessary.

The debate was in full swing when a palace guard entered, disrupting the heated discussion.

"What's the meaning of this interruption, guardsman?" Irileth's stern voice cut through the air.

"Apologies, my Jarl," the guard bowed. "A man has arrived at the gates. He claims to have been at Helgen during the dragon attack."

At this, the room fell silent, the courtiers exchanging uncertain glances.

"Where is he now?" Balgruuf asked, his tone measured but intrigued.

"I've told him to wait near the entrance."

"Bring him in."

Moments later, the guard returned, escorting an unusual figure. He was clad in flowing white robes, reminiscent of Redguard attire, with a hood that obscured much of his face. The fabric draped around him like that of a desert wanderer, and the only visible armour he wore were a pair of leather bracers. Notably, his left hand was missing a ring finger.

He took off his hood before approaching the throne, halting when Irileth raised a hand. His eyes flickered momentarily in surprise at the sight of her but quickly returned to the Jarl.

"You claim to have news of Helgen?" Balgruuf asked, studying him carefully. "What is your name?"

"Altaïr ibn-La'Ahad," he responded calmly. "And yes, I do."

"Strange name for an Imperial," Balgruuf muttered, which only earned a raised eyebrow from the Assassin. "What can you tell me?"

"There was an execution. The Imperial soldiers were executing the rebel prisoners, among whom was their leader," Altaïr recounted. "It was interrupted when a dragon attacked."

"Hmph. So, the Imperials captured Ulfric, then?" the Jarl found this piece of news interesting. "I should have guessed he would be involved in this."

"What were you doing in Helgen?" Irileth questioned, suspicion evident in her voice.

"Passing through," the Assassin replied without hesitation. "Shall I continue?"

"Go ahead."

"The dragon was black, with red eyes, and the size of a house," Altaïr recounted. He glanced up at the massive dragon skull mounted above the throne. "Its head looked just like that."

"Aye, one of my ancestors had managed to trap a dragon in this very palace," the Jarl confirmed.

"How do we know you're speaking the truth?" Hrongar interjected, eyeing Altaïr with distrust. "Are you willing to swear by the gods?"

"I do not believe in any deities. To swear by them would be even more dishonest," the Assassin spoke with conviction, turned his attention towards the bald Nord. "The only thing I can reasonably swear by is my honour."

Hrongar scoffed in response. "How are we supposed to trust the word of a man who has neither faith nor principle?"

"You may choose not to. That is not the only reason I am here," Altaïr challenged, before once again turning to the Jarl. "The village of Riverwood asks for your aid. Some of the townsfolk can confirm seeing the dragon, and request soldiers to be dispatched as soon as possible."

"What else can you tell me about it?" the Jarl urged him to continue.

"Neither arrows nor fire caused it any harm," the Assassin explained. "I have only seen it attack in two ways. It could unleash fire from its mouth and cause large boulders to fall from the sky, which is what caused most of the destruction. In each case, it shouted words in an unknown language before doing so."

"The Thu'um…" the Jarl muttered, a shocked expression adorning his face. "Very well. Irileth, dispatch men to Riverwood immediately."

"But my Jarl!" Proventus weighed in. "Sending troops so close to the border would be seen as a provocation. Jarl Siddgeir would assume that Whiterun is joining Ulfric's side."

Altaïr couldn't believe what this man was saying. The lives of his subjects are on the line, and he is worrying about politics?!

"Enough! Would you rather have me do nothing, leave Riverwood to fend for itself, against a dragon?!" the Jarl fully agreed with Altaïr's thoughts. "Irileth, see to it at once."

The dark elf nodded. "Yes, my Jarl."

The Assassin couldn't help but approve. Alvor wasn't lying – Balgruuf certainly seemed like a reasonable man.

The Jarl turned his attention towards him. "You sought me out, on your own initiative, to aid the people of Riverwood. For that, you have my thanks."

"I was asked to deliver this message," Altaïr corrected. "And I have a request."

Balgruuf gestured for him to continue.

"I am stranded in this land. I seek a map to find my way home."

Irileth's brow furrowed. "Cyrodiil is south of here. You didn't need to come this far north."

"That is not my homeland," Altaïr said. "I hail from a land referred to as the Holy Land, ruled by Sultan Salah ad-Din."

The court exchanged puzzled looks.

"The Holy Land?" Balgruuf questioned. "I've never heard of it."

Altaïr elaborated, "It lies on the eastern shores of the Mediterranean Sea, northeast of Egypt. Its capital city is Damascus, and other large cities include Jerusalem, Acre and Alep."

Irileth crossed her arms. "I've traveled all across Tamriel, and I've never heard of such places."

Altaïr's expression shifted to confusion. "Tamriel? What is that?"

Silence fell over the hall as everyone stared at him.

Balgruuf broke the silence. "Surely you jest? Tamriel is the continent we stand on." He turned to Proventus. "Fetch him the map."

The steward promptly left the room and returned shortly with a large, weathered map, unfolding it before Altaïr. However, as the Assassin's eyes scanned the parchment, confusion settled over his features. He recognized none of the names—no Egypt, no Mediterranean, not even Rome. Instead, the map depicted unfamiliar lands: Cyrodiil, Hammerfell, Morrowind, and others that meant nothing to him.

Altaïr studied the map multiple times, hoping to find something familiar, but the vast landmass labeled "Tamriel" was completely alien. He had no idea where he was or how far this place was from Masyaf.

"Impossible…" he muttered under his breath, his shock evident. The Jarl and his court took note of his reaction.

"How exactly did you arrive in Skyrim, if this homeland of yours isn't on Tamriel?" Proventus asked, his tone skeptical. "Did you arrive by sea?"

"No," Altaïr answered, shaking his head. "How I arrived here is… complicated. I doubt you would believe me."

Hrongar scoffed, crossing his arms. "After dragons, what could possibly surprise us?"

"It involved a certain… artifact," Altaïr admitted cautiously.

"Ah. Magic, then," Jarl Balgruuf remarked, leaning back in his throne with a knowing expression. "Then you're better off speaking to Farengar, my court wizard. He's in the room to your right."

Altaïr's gaze shifted toward the indicated doorway, scepticism flickering in his eyes. Magic was not something he placed much faith in, but given his current predicament, he had little choice. Without a word, he offered a respectful nod and moved toward the wizard's chamber.

---

Farengar, Whiterun's court wizard, stood in his chamber, draped in a deep purple, hooded cloak. He was a tall, imposing figure with a neatly trimmed beard, absorbed in a task far beyond Altaïr's understanding—scrolls and alchemical ingredients lay scattered across his workspace, bathed in the soft glow of a nearby candle. The silence of the room felt heavy, as if time itself had paused.

"Safety and peace," Altaïr greeted, stepping forward. "I—"

"I heard everything," Farengar interrupted without so much as glancing up, his fingers skillfully sorting through aged parchment. "You claim an artifact brought you here?"

"That is true," Altaïr replied, his voice low, wary of the wizard's abruptness but admiring his focus.

Farengar finally glanced up, curiosity lighting his eyes. "What kind of artifact? Was it Daedric in nature?" He noted Altaïr's puzzled expression and waved it off. "Never mind that. Describe it to me."

Altaïr hesitated for a moment, his hand instinctively brushing the space where the artifact once rested, unsure of how to explain the inexplicable. "It's a small, round piece of silver, about the size of an apple. It has a golden glow, and when used, it creates illusions… powerful ones. It can bend a person's will to the user's command."

Farengar stroked his beard thoughtfully. "Interesting. That doesn't sound like any artifact I'm familiar with." He turned back to his table, flipping through an ancient tome. "The abilities you describe fall under the school of Illusion magic – nothing particularly rare. But if that's all it does, how did it bring you here?"

Altaïr's gaze darkened, his expression haunted by something deeper. "When I touched it, I saw… visions. A vast city under siege by a four-armed giant. It battled a beast, much like the dragon I saw at Helgen, except this one was wreathed in flames. The giant fell, and the dragon turned to stone. When the vision ended, I found myself in the mountains, near the border of this land."

Farengar's eyes widened in sudden realization, a spark of recognition lighting his features. "The Oblivion Crisis," he murmured aloud, his voice thick with reverence. "That happened over two centuries ago. Mehrunes Dagon, the Daedric Lord, invaded Tamriel and was ultimately defeated. The dragon you speak of… that would have been Akatosh himself, the god of time."

Altaïr absorbed the information in silence, his mind racing, a sense of unease settling over him. "I see."

Farengar leaned forward, his gaze intense. "How familiar were you with this artifact? Anything else you can tell me?"

Altaïr's mind began to focus, pulling the details from the depths of his memory. "It… was called a Piece of Eden."

As he uttered those words, something strange happened. The air seemed to thrum with energy, and his hand began to glow faintly. Farengar's eyes snapped to his hand, studying the unfolding spectacle with an unreadable expression. Altaïr, too, stared in disbelief as the object he had described materialized in his palm, shimmering with a soft, eerie light.

"What in the world…" Altaïr whispered, his voice tinged with shock. "It wasn't with me when I arrived here!"

The artifact hummed with an almost unnatural power, as if answering a call from the very fabric of reality. Farengar's gaze hardened, his intrigue now mixed with something more cautious.

"Interesting," the wizard murmured, eyes narrowing. "May I?" He extended his hand toward the Piece of Eden. Altaïr hesitated, heart pounding.

"…How do I know I can trust you with it?" Altaïr's voice was low, the words heavy with uncertainty.

"You don't," Farengar replied, his tone unyielding. "But what options do you have?"

Altaïr's mind raced, the cold weight of the artifact in his hand pressing against him as if urging him to make a decision. He barely knew anything about the mysterious object, but leaving it in the hands of a stranger felt just as perilous. Still… Farengar was a wizard. Knowledgeable, capable. Perhaps the wizard could control what he could not, and in doing so, guide him back home.

With a slow exhale, Altaïr handed the Piece of Eden to Farengar. The room fell into a tense silence as the wizard held it, his fingers brushing against its cool surface, studying it as though he had just touched a spark of something far greater than either of them fully understood.

"You've mentioned that it creates illusions. Perhaps its disappearance was also an illusion it made," Farengar mused. "Or, you've bonded with it in some way, and can summon it at will. Either way, this requires study."

He stood up, before putting the artifact onto the table.

"Tell you what," the wizard said, his eyes flicking up from the artifact with a glint of something calculating in his gaze. His voice was slow, deliberate. "I'll help you, but only if you'll help me first."

Altaïr raised an eyebrow. "What do you need?"

Farengar didn't immediately answer. He set the artifact down on the table with a soft clink, his fingers lingering over it just a moment longer before he met Altaïr's gaze again. "I've asked the Jarl to retrieve something from a Nordic ruin near Riverwood," he began, his tone calm but with a hint of urgency. "He was planning to send one of his housecarls, but…" He paused, as if weighing the next words carefully. "I don't think it's a task for one man."

Altaïr's interest piqued, though his suspicions grew. "What makes you think that?"

"Nordic ruins are notorious for being quite dangerous. How about you accompany her? You seem like a capable fighter."

"…Very well," the Assassin finally nodded. "What am I retrieving?"

"I, ah, learned of a certain stone tablet said to be housed in Bleak Falls Barrow - a 'Dragonstone,' said to contain a map of dragon burial sites." Farengar said. "Tell the Jarl that you're going to retrieve it, and he'll send you on your way."

---

"So, Farengar has asked you to help with that Dragonstone of his, then?" the Jarl inquired, his eyes studying Altaïr carefully. The Assassin nodded in response. "Very well," the Jarl continued, his tone firm. "Proventus, summon Lydia."

The steward quickly departed and returned shortly, accompanied by a woman close to Altaïr's age, who immediately commanded attention. She was tall, standing eye-level with Altaïr, with a strong build that spoke of years of rigorous training. Her pale skin contrasted sharply with her long, black hair that flowed freely down her back, and her sharp, calculating gaze met his without hesitation. Clad in sturdy steel armour, she carried a shield slung across her back and a sword at her side.

Altaïr, though somewhat accustomed to seeing women in armour in this land, couldn't help but still stare at her in surprise. This was in stark difference to his own homeland, where a sight like this would be considered blasphemy, even among the Assassins.

The woman briefly surveyed him, her gaze calculating, before she stepped forward with a nod, her posture unwavering as she awaited further instructions.

"Lydia, this is Altaïr," the Jarl said, his voice firm as he made the introduction. "He'll be accompanying you on the mission I mentioned earlier."

"As you wish, my Jarl," Lydia replied without hesitation, her tone steady and respectful.

Altaïr, glancing at the woman with mild curiosity, spoke up. "Shall we leave immediately? A ride to Riverwood would require a horse, and I do not have one."

The Jarl nodded, his expression unchanged. "Head down to the stables and tell Skulvar to prepare a horse for you and gather any supplies you may need," he instructed. "The horse will be provided, and you may keep it. Consider it a token of gratitude for assisting the people of Riverwood."

"You have my thanks," Altaïr said, offering a slight nod rather than a full bow, his voice respectful yet direct, before turning to Lydia. "Shall we be off, then?"

The Assassin stepped out of the palace, taking a moment to enjoy the warmth of the afternoon sun. Whiterun's weather was mild, a welcome relief that didn't bring any discomfort. Lydia followed closely behind as they made their way out of the city, heading toward Riverwood. Altaïr remained silent, his thoughts focused, though it was clear that Lydia had something on her mind, as she glanced at him every now and then, as if contemplating whether to speak.

Lydia was slightly confused as to who this man was. He looked like an Imperial, yet neither his name nor clothes seemed to be Cyrodiilic. He was armed to the teeth – a curved sword at his hip, a shortsword strapped to his back, and several small knives tucked into the sash of his robes and along his right shoulder. She had to admit, he was quite attractive – his face was angular, with dark eyes that gave him a calm, focused expression. A faint moustache could be seen on his face, interrupted by a scar above his lip.

As they walked through the streets of Whiterun, Lydia broke the silence. "How good are you in a fight? The task ahead won't be easy. You might want to consider getting some armour."

"I prefer to rely on skill rather than armour," Altaïr replied, pulling his hood up to shadow his face.

"…But that won't help you against arrows," she pointed out. "And you don't seem to have a bow."

"Do not worry about me," the Assassin said. "Tell me, what should we expect in those ruins?"

"Draugr, most likely," Lydia answered, noticing the questioning glance he gave her. "They're what's left of the ancient Nord warriors."

"You mean… they're dead?" Altaïr still couldn't grasp the concept.

"Not quite," she explained. "They're little more than walking corpses – but they still have their weapons."

The more I stay here, the stranger things get. Dragons, giant spiders, walking dead men… What next?

He kept these thoughts to himself. "What else can you tell me about them?"

"Nothing more. I have only faced them once," Lydia said.

The clatter of hooves and the distant chatter of townsfolk filled the air as they made their way through the bustling streets. The stone walls of Whiterun soon gave way to the open road, and before long, they arrived at the city gates.

As they stepped outside, Lydia glanced at him. "You sure you don't want to grab at least a shield?"

"I've survived this long without a shield, I don't need one now," he dismissed.

Lydia shrugged. "Your funeral."

As they approached the stables, the smell of hay filled the air. A few stable hands were tending to the animals, brushing their coats and checking their hooves. The sound of hooves stamping against the wooden floor echoed through the area, blending with the occasional whinny from the horses.

Skulvar Sable-Hilt, the stable master, stood near the entrance, his arms crossed as he eyed the approaching pair. He was a burly Nord with a thick moustache. "Looking to buy a horse?" he asked, his gaze shifting between them. "I've got the best in all of Skyrim, and I don't sell to just anyone."

Lydia stepped forward, giving a nod in Altaïr's direction. "My companion here needs a horse. The Jarl will cover the cost."

Skulvar grunted in acknowledgment. "Very well, Lydia." He motioned toward a striking black mare that stood in the stable's center, her glossy coat shining in the sunlight. "This one's my best. We call her Queen Alfsigr. Or just Allie, if you prefer something shorter."

Altaïr approached the horse, placing a hand on its side. The animal huffed softly but remained still under his touch. He ran his fingers through its mane, nodding in approval. "She will do," he said simply.

Skulvar grunted. "Good. Treat her well, and she'll serve you right." He turned back toward the stable. "And don't go galloping her to death. A good horse is worth more than gold."

Altaïr nodded in acknowledgment before smoothly mounting the horse, his movements fluid and confident as he settled into the saddle with practiced ease. The horse shifted beneath him, but he held steady.

Lydia, who had been watching him, turned to her own mount. With a swift motion, she swung herself into the saddle. Without hesitation, she urged her horse forward, the beast trotting briskly toward the open road leading to Riverwood.

Altaïr followed suit, guiding his own horse to fall in line beside her. The two riders set off in unison, their horses' hooves echoing in the quiet air as they left Whiterun behind, heading toward their destination.

With the addition of the horse, Altaïr and Lydia were able to cover the distance to Riverwood in just under an hour, not counting their short break for food. The ride had been mostly silent, the only sounds being the steady rhythm of the horses' hooves and the occasional rustling of the trees. Altaïr glanced at Lydia from time to time, which she didn't seem to notice.

Eventually, the stone bridge came into view, spanning the river and marking their entry into the village.

"The barrow is on that mountain," Lydia said, pointing toward the snow-capped peak that rose above the village. "We'll leave the horses here in Riverwood and continue on foot from there."

Altaïr glanced at the mountain, his eyes following the path Lydia indicated. He gave a brief nod of acknowledgment, his mind already focused on the journey ahead.

They rode into the village, crossing the bridge above the river. They guided their horses to a spot near the Sleeping Giant Inn and tied them up securely. Without further word, they started their walk toward the mountain. The path ahead was clear, the mountain looming in the distance as they set off toward the barrow.

The ascent was far from pleasant. The narrow trail wound its way up the steep incline, bordered by jagged rocks and patches of ice that made footing treacherous. Altaïr found himself once again battling Skyrim's relentless cold, his breath visible in the frigid air. His white robes provided some measure of camouflage against the snow, but they did little to shield him from the biting wind that whipped through the mountain.

Lydia, on the other hand, moved with ease, her steps steady and confident as she navigated the terrain. She didn't seem fazed by the cold in the slightest, her Nord heritage giving her a natural resilience to the climate.

As they climbed higher, the distant howl of the wind grew louder, carrying with it the faint echoes of distant wildlife. Wolves, perhaps. Altaïr remained alert, his eyes scanning the surroundings for any potential threats. Lydia walked ahead, occasionally glancing back to make sure he was keeping pace, though she said nothing.

The higher they went, the more the snow thickened, crunching under their boots with each step. Altaïr pulled his hood down lower to shield his face from the wind, his thoughts focused on the task ahead. The barrow was still a ways off, hidden somewhere beyond the next ridge.

They kept going, step by step, until a tower came into view. It was modest in height, old, and weathered, clinging to the side of a cliff. A spiraling wooden platform wrapped around one of its higher sections, likely a way up.

As they drew nearer, they stopped, noticing something that caught their attention.

Standing by the tower were two men. One, a dark-skinned man, was leaning casually against a tree. He wore iron armour, his arms crossed over his chest as he stood facing the road. His head was hung low, and thankfully he didn't seem to notice the two approaching on the road. The other – an archer in nothing more than furs, standing on the small bridge connecting the tower to the mountain.

Altaïr's eyes glowed faintly as he focused on the men, startling Lydia at first. The crimson light that emanated from them marked the two men as hostile. "Bandits," he whispered to his companion.

Lydia nodded, her hand drifting toward the hilt of her sword.

Altaïr examined his options carefully. The road ahead led directly to the tower, curving to the right and sloping upwards. On the right side, a short rocky incline provided a possible route. If he could climb it, he would gain the high ground and be able to approach the bandit from the side, avoiding his line of sight entirely. The plan formed swiftly in his mind.

"Wait here," he ordered Lydia in a hushed voice.

Lydia frowned, clearly not pleased with the idea of sitting idle, but decided not to argue. With a quiet sigh, she crouched behind one of the larger boulders, keeping her sword at the ready.

Without another word, Altaïr turned his attention to the rocky incline. The stones were cold beneath his fingers as he gripped the uneven surface, feeling the slight slickness of ice in some places. He climbed with practiced efficiency, his movements smooth and deliberate despite the biting chill seeping through his gloves. Within moments, he vaulted over the ledge and crouched low, his white robes blending well against the snowy landscape.

Moving with practiced precision, Altaïr advanced silently, slipping from shadow to shadow, using the occasional boulder for cover as he circled around the bandits' line of sight. The men remained oblivious, their attention still fixed on the road ahead.

With fluid efficiency, he drew two throwing knives from his pouch. He let them fly in quick succession – one struck the armored bandit square in the head, dropping him instantly, while the second buried itself in the archer's shoulder. The wounded man staggered back with a sharp cry, clutching at the blade embedded in his flesh.

Altaïr wasted no time. He surged forward, closing the distance in an instant. Reaching out, he yanked the knife from the bandit's shoulder, a fresh spurt of blood following. Before the man could react, Altaïr's hand flashed across his throat in a single swift motion. Without hesitation, he shoved the dying man off the bridge, watching as the body tumbled down the mountainside, disappearing into the rocky depths below.

The bandit's cry, unfortunately, did not go unheard. Altaïr's sharp ears picked up the sound of rapid footsteps descending from the watchtower above. Before he had time to draw his sword, another figure emerged – a towering elf, though unlike any Altaïr had seen before. This one had green skin, thick tusks protruding from his mouth, and a muscular build that dwarfed the previous bandits. He wore light hide armor, and in his hands, he wielded a heavy war hammer.

"You'll pay for what you've done!" the elf snarled, his voice deep and filled with rage. With a grunt of effort, he swung the hammer in a wide arc toward Altaïr. The Assassin reacted instantly, stepping back as the weapon crashed onto the bridge with a thunderous impact, leaving a deep crack.

Lydia, seeing the confrontation unfold, rushed in from her hiding place, sword in hand. But before she could reach them, Altaïr sidestepped another powerful swing, his movements fluid and precise. As the elf's momentum carried him forward, Altaïr seized the opportunity and grabbed him by the back of his armour with one hand. In the same motion, his hidden blade snapped into place, driving deep into the bandit's stomach.

Lydia skidded to a halt beside him, her eyes flicking between Altaïr and the fallen enemy, who collapsed to the ground, gripping his abdomen as his strength faded. Her gaze shifted to her companion's hand, where the blade was still protruding from the space where his ring finger should have been.

With the faintest flick of his wrist, Altaïr triggered the mechanism again, and the blade slid back into its hidden compartment with a sharp, metallic sound. Lydia blinked, her brows furrowing. "What is that thing?" she asked, unable to hide her surprise.

"It is a hidden blade," the Assassin explained, adjusting his bracer.

Lydia's eyes narrowed as she carefully analyzed the weapon. It was sleek and well-hidden—she hadn't even noticed it until now. Her gaze moved back to Altaïr's hand, and she couldn't help but ask, "Is that why you're missing a finger?"

"Yes," he nodded, before his attention shifted to the bandit's lifeless body. "But enough about that. What kind of elf is this?"

Lydia raised an eyebrow, surprised by his ignorance. "That's not an elf," she corrected. "That's an orc – one of the strongest peoples in Tamriel."

"I see," Altaïr said. He turned back to his companion. "Let's move on."

---

The entrance to Bleak Falls Barrow loomed ahead, a stark silhouette against the white backdrop of snow-covered mountains. Altaïr couldn't help but admire its imposing presence. Built into the sheer rock face, the barrow was an ancient temple, its massive stone archways towering high. Snow gathered thickly along the top of the arches, and the stone, weathered and rough, had clearly borne witness to centuries of cold winds and the passage of time. A great stone door sealed the entrance, its surface adorned with faint, worn carvings.

The steps leading up to the entrance were steep, cracked in places, and thick with layers of snow, but it was nothing that would slow Altaïr and Lydia. Their boots made muffled sounds on the stones as they ascended.

But before they could reach the door, another group of bandits appeared. Four of them, dressed in light armor, stepped from behind rocks, blocking the path to the barrow's entrance. Altaïr's eyes scanned them quickly. Two of the bandits immediately turned their attention toward Lydia, no doubt seeing her as the bigger threat, while the other two focused on him – one wielding a shield and an axe, and the other drawing a bow.

Altaïr acted quickly, sidestepping the blow from the axe and rushing past the Nord. As the archer released an arrow toward him, it missed the Assassin by just a hair, and before the archer could react, Altaïr tackled him to the ground. With a swift motion, he used the hidden blade to finish the archer off.

The Nord, furious over the loss of his ally, charged at Altaïr once more, his axe raised high. Altaïr drew his sword and met the first swing with a solid parry, the clash of metal ringing through the cold air. He ducked beneath the second strike, narrowly avoiding the blade, and attempted a quick slash of his own, but the bandit's shield blocked it.

The Nord, relentless, swung his axe again. Altaïr parried it once more, the force of the blow rattling his arms. Seizing the moment, he kicked the bandit in the side, throwing him off balance. As the Nord staggered, Altaïr swiftly moved in, and drove the sharp edge of his sword into the bandit's neck, the blade piercing sideways through flesh and bone. The Nord's eyes widened in shock before his strength gave out, and he collapsed lifelessly to the ground.

Meanwhile, Lydia was quickly met by another Nord, who charged at the housecarl with a wide swing of her greatsword. She raised her steel shield just in time to block the blow, the clash sending sparks flying from the impact. Without hesitation, Lydia bashed the shield into the Nord's face, knocking her off balance and causing her to stumble back.

Before she could catch her breath, another bandit, a Redguard man, came at her with two swords, slashing in quick, fluid motions. Lydia stood her ground, effortlessly blocking his strikes with her shield. She watched for the right moment, her experience in combat guiding her every move. As the Redguard made another strike, she saw the opening she'd been waiting for. With a swift motion, Lydia stabbed her sword deep into his stomach, and he crumpled to the ground.

The first bandit, now recovering from the blow, lunged toward her again. But before she could even swing, Lydia's sword flashed, and with a precise strike, the housecarl severed her head from her shoulders, ending the fight in an instant.

Altaïr observed Lydia as she dealt with her opponents, her strikes decisive and powerful. His own fight had ended moments earlier, giving him a chance to take in her combat style. He noted the strength it must have taken to wield her sword so effectively while bearing the weight of her heavy armour and shield, yet she moved with surprising agility and precision. He couldn't help but be reminded of his encounter in Jerusalem, with the English Templar disguised as Robert de Sablé.

"You fought well," Altaïr said as he approached the housecarl.

Lydia gave a faint smile. "Thank you. I can see why you don't wear armour now. You're fast."

---

The two of them stepped through the massive front doors, entering a cavernous hall that loomed before them. The air was thick with an unpleasant stench, and it didn't take long for Altaïr to identify the source—several corpses lay sprawled across the stone floor. Among them was a creature that caught his attention; it looked like a rat, but it was the size of a dog. He wasn't particularly surprised anymore, not after encountering the giant spiders the day before.

As they moved cautiously through the hall, the flickering glow of a campfire revealed they were not alone. Two bandits sat nearby, deep in conversation and unaware of the intruders. Without hesitation, Altaïr reached for his throwing knives. Two swift, precise throws were all it took to end them, their bodies slumping to the ground in silence.

They made their way down a narrow set of worn stone steps, the dim light from their torches flickering across the ancient walls. As they reached the bottom, the path opened up into a large room. The walls were adorned with intricate carvings, faded and worn by centuries of neglect. The carvings depicted various animals – a snake, an eagle and a whale. At the far end, another staircase led further down, its steps cracked and uneven.

As they continued their descent, a faint, skittering noise caught Altaïr's attention. Lydia was already on alert, her grip tightening on her sword hilt. Before they could react, a pack of those huge rats ran at them from the bottom of the staircase. However, huge as they were, Lydia took care of them with ease, dispatching them with her sword.

"Damn skeevers," she muttered, her tone low and frustrated. "Hate those things."

They continued onwards through the long corridor, their footsteps echoing in the quiet as they advanced deeper into the ancient temple. The air grew thick with the scent of decay, and the walls began to be coated more heavily in cobwebs as they progressed. The darkness seemed to grow more oppressive with each step, and a low, eerie hum filled the space.

Finally, they reached a pair of doorways. One was completely blocked by thick, sticky webbing, the strands glistening faintly in the dim light. The other doorway was obstructed by gnarled, twisted roots.

A faint sound echoed from beyond the webbed doorway—a voice, barely audible, but still distinct enough to make out. "Is... is someone coming? Is that you, Harknir? Bjorn? Soling?" A male voice called, tinged with desperation. "I know I ran ahead with the claw, but I need help!"

Lydia's eyes sharpened as she heard the cry. She didn't hesitate to respond. "Who are you?"

"No time to explain! Get me out of here!" the man pleaded, fear evident in its tone.

Lydia drew her sword, glancing at Altaïr. Without a word, she moved toward the doorway blocked by the thick webbing, beginning to hack at it with swift strokes. The strands were stubborn, clinging to the sword, but after some effort, the housecarl managed to clear enough of the way for them to pass through.

As they entered the chamber, Altaïr's gaze swept over the area, taking in their surroundings. The room was dim, with webs and what seemed like giant spider eggs filling the corners, and the air reeked of something foul. It was a space that had long been abandoned, save for the dark presence lurking within.

Altaïr's eyes immediately locked onto the large shape that loomed overhead. A shadow shifted against the stone, and moments later, a massive spider dropped from the ceiling with a sickening thud. This one was larger than those the Assassin faced before, its body the size of a horse, its legs twitching as it landed with unnerving speed.

But as the creature's gleaming fangs bared, Altaïr noticed something: the spider appeared to be wounded. A large gash marred its side, blood still seeping from the injury.

From the corner, the man they had heard earlier – a dark-skinned elf, similar to Irileth – screamed in terror. "Not again, no!" he cried, struggling against the webbing that had entangled him.

The spider hissed and lunged forward, its venomous fangs aimed straight at them. The air was thick with tension as the creature fired a glob of poisonous slime directly at them. Altaïr narrowly avoided the attack, stepping aside just in time, though the glop splattered harmlessly against the floor.

Lydia, her shield raised, was already charging at the spider. She swung her sword, hitting it with enough force to make the creature recoil in pain. But the spider was quick to retaliate, swiping one of its long legs at her. The strike landed, pushing Lydia back, but she managed to keep her footing and raise her shield to protect her face.

Altaïr moved swiftly, his throwing knives already in his hands. He threw several at the spider, each one striking true. The creature screeched, the force of the blows causing it to stagger. It hissed before lunging straight at the Assassin, who had no way to dodge the attack. Before it could reach him, Lydia rushed it again, charging straight at it with the shield out front.

The spider, unbalanced by Lydia's charge, dropped to the floor. Altaïr blinked in surprise at her strength but composed himself quickly. Drawing his sabre, he rushed to her side. The two of them had the creature cornered, and as it regained its stance, they attacked in tandem.

Lydia dodged another swing from the spider's legs, narrowly avoiding the deadly strike, and Altaïr took advantage of the spider's miss. With one clean, swift movement, he severed one of the spider's legs, blood pouring from the wound.

The spider screeched in agony, but Lydia wasn't finished. With a final, decisive strike, she bashed the creature with her shield, sending it stumbling backward. Then, without hesitation, she drove her sword into the spider's skull, putting an end to the creature.

"You saved me," Altaïr finally spoke, sheathing his sword with a smooth motion. "Thank you."

"You're welcome," Lydia responded, her breath still coming in short, sharp bursts from the exertion of the battle. She wiped the sweat from her brow, her shield still at her side, eyes scanning the room.

The two of them moved toward the elf, who was tangled in webbing just inside the doorway, blocking their only way forward. He wore light armor similar to the bandits they'd just slain, and his expression was a mix of desperation and impatience.

"You did it. You killed it," the elf said, voice trembling but impatient. "Now cut me down before anything else shows up!"

Lydia's gaze hardened, and she stepped forward, sword in hand. "Not so fast," she said firmly. "Why were you and your friends here? And what was that about a claw?"

The elf's eyes darted around nervously, and his posture shifted as he sensed the confrontation wasn't over. "Yes, yes, the claw! Help me down, and I'll show you. You won't believe the power the Nords have hidden there!" he said, his voice rising with excitement, though his gratitude was absent.

Altaïr and Lydia exchanged a brief glance before Lydia took her sword and sliced through the thick webbing that bound the elf. As the last of it fell away, the elf scrambled to his feet, a wild glint in his eyes.

Before he could make a move, Altaïr reached out, grabbing him by the arm with a sharp yank. The elf's eyes widened as Altaïr slammed him into the stone wall, his hidden blade flicking into place with a click that echoed across the cavern, the sharp point aimed directly at the elf's throat.

"That wasn't very wise of you," Altaïr said, his voice cold and dangerous, eyes narrowing. "Tell us. Now."

The elf's blood-red eyes flickered with fear. "Okay, okay, don't kill me!" he stammered, his hands shaking as he reached into his pack. He pulled out a strange, solid gold ornament, shaped like a beast's claw. "This thing – it's a key. It opens the door into the Hall of Stories!"

"And what's inside?" Lydia asked, stepping closer. She snatched the claw from the elf's hand, keeping her glare on him.

The elf swallowed hard, sweat dripping down his forehead. "I don't know, honest! Legends say there's something behind that door – some sort of treasure, or power. I don't know for sure!" he said in a frantic rush, his fear palpable.

Altaïr studied the elf for a long moment, his grip tightening on the elf's arm as if testing his resolve. With a sharp, dismissive shove, Altaïr sent the elf stumbling toward the entrance. "Leave," he commanded, "and pray to whatever god you worship that I do not run into you again."

The elf, eyes wide with terror, didn't hesitate for a second. He darted toward the entrance, practically sprinting as he fled, the heavy sound of his footsteps echoing in the chamber. Altaïr and Lydia watched him go, neither of them trusting that he'd stay out of their way for long.

Lydia turned to Altaïr, her brow furrowing. "Are you sure about letting him go? He's still a bandit, you know," she questioned, her voice laced with doubt.

Altaïr watched the elf disappear into the shadows of the hallway, his posture relaxed but thoughtful. "He's harmless," he said, his voice steady. "And I prefer not to kill when unnecessary."

The doorway led into a short tunnel, descending gradually. As they navigated its dim interior, they eventually entered a large chamber, one that sent an immediate chill through the air. The walls were lined with deep, carved recesses, and within each indentation lay a decayed corpse, its skin drawn tight over brittle bones. The stench of age and rot filled the air, and the sight of them was unsettling. Some of the corpses were dressed in rusted iron armor, the kind that seemed to have been untouched by time, despite the fact that the armor itself was likely centuries old.

Lydia stopped abruptly, her hand raised to halt Altaïr's advance. Her eyes narrowed, scanning the room.

"Draugr," she murmured, her voice low but firm, catching his attention. "They might look dead, but don't underestimate them. Try not to make too much noise. They could rise at any moment."

Altaïr's gaze moved over the corpses. These were the draugr she had warned him about? To him, they seemed little more than lifeless husks. While their presence was disturbing, their appearance didn't immediately suggest the deadly threat Lydia had described. Still, he wasn't foolish enough to dismiss her advice. He nodded and began moving with care, each step slower and quieter than the last, careful not to disturb the stillness around them.

Unfortunately, their careful approach didn't last long. As they moved deeper into the chamber, the corpses began to stir. One of them slowly shifted, its eyes suddenly glowing a faint, eerie blue. Then, with a low, guttural groan, it pushed itself to its feet, grabbing an ancient sword from where it had been buried. Another followed suit, the same ghostly blue light igniting in its eyes as it stood, its heavy armor clinking as it moved.

"Dir volaan!" one of them screeched, its voice raspy and hollow, as it charged at Altaïr with surprising speed.

The Assassin barely had time to react, rolling to the side as the draugr swung its sword. He drew his sabre with swift precision and countered, cutting through the creature's sword arm with one clean stroke. The arm fell to the ground, and the draugr let out an unnatural hiss before crumbling to the floor.

Without missing a beat, Lydia surged forward with surprising speed. She quickly closed the distance between herself and two more draugr. Her sword drove into one's chest, the blade sinking deep into the corpse's decayed flesh. The other raised its axe, swinging it at her. But Lydia was prepared, her shield raised to deflect the blow with a sharp clang. She didn't hesitate, quickly stepping forward and bashing the shield into the draugr's skull, the impact shattering its head like brittle wood.

Altaïr had barely a moment to catch his breath when a fourth draugr began to rise from the wall, its eyes glowing with the same blue light. This one was armed with a mace, and it wasted no time in charging toward Lydia.

However, before it could strike, Altaïr moved swiftly, his sabre flashing through the air. The blade sank into the draugr's back, piercing through its ribs and protruding from its chest. The glow from its eyes subsided as it collapsed onto the floor, lifeless once more.

Lydia glanced over at Altaïr with a quick nod of acknowledgment. "Nice timing," she said, giving her shield a quick shake.

"Is that it?" Altaïr questioned, his sabre still in hand. "They seem… brittle."

"Some of them are tougher and wield magic," Lydia informed as they continued onwards. "Like I said, don't underestimate them."

As they stepped into the larger chamber, three more draugr slowly rose from their stone tombs. This time, however, Altaïr and Lydia were more than ready, cutting two of them down before they could even rise while the third was dispatched quite easily.

With the draugr dealt with, their attention turned to the obstacle ahead. The only path forward was blocked by three large, deadly blades, swinging in a rhythmic, pendulum-like motion. The sharp clang of metal echoed through the room as the blades cut through the air, each arc threatening to slice anything in their path.

Lydia watched the blades carefully, noting their speed and timing. "There's got to be a switch to turn it off somewhere, but definitely not in this room," she muttered, her eyes scanning for any sign of a mechanism.

Altaïr said nothing, his gaze focused solely on the blades. He was confident in his ability to make it across – it was only a matter of timing. His eyes tracked the blades, observing their precise motions as they swung back and forth. With a sharp intake of breath, he calculated the perfect moment.

Without warning, he sprinted forward, moving with speed and precision. The blades swooped dangerously close to him, but he darted between them, narrowly avoiding the first two before slipping past the third. His heart raced, but he didn't pause to celebrate – his focus remained sharp.

Reaching the other side, he spotted the chain hanging from the wall. Without wasting a moment, he grabbed hold of it and yanked it down. The blades immediately stopped, their deadly motion ceasing with a mechanical clank.

"Good job," Lydia said as she passed through the doorway.

The path led them through a long and narrow corridor, where multiple draugr rose from their resting places. However, they posed little challenge for Lydia and Altaïr. Moving with precision, they cut through the undead with practiced ease, their combined efforts ensuring that none remained standing for long.

Eventually, they emerged into a vast cavern, dimly illuminated by clusters of glowing blue mushrooms clinging to the damp stone walls. Water trickled down from above, forming a thin waterfall that flowed into a shallow chasm splitting the cavern floor.

In the center of the chasm, a natural stone bridge arched across the water. A lone draugr stood there, its posture stiff and lifeless. Without warning, Altaïr took Lydia by surprise, leaping silently down into the chasm below. He landed with the grace of a predator, his hidden blade driving into the draugr's rotting chest before it could react. The creature crumpled instantly, lifeless once more.

Lydia shook her head slightly as she watched him climb back up. "I suppose that's one way to do it," she muttered, before the two pressed onward.

A narrow tunnel led them to the next chamber, where a single draugr armed with a war hammer patrolled the area, its hollow gaze sweeping the room aimlessly. The only exit was a wooden door on the far side, but it was clear they wouldn't get through unnoticed.

Altaïr glanced at Lydia, then slipped into the shadows without a word. He moved silently across the uneven stone floor, his footsteps masked by the distant dripping of water. In one swift motion, he was behind the creature, driving his hidden blade into its neck. The draugr collapsed with a low groan, its axe clattering to the ground.

With the way clear, Lydia stepped forward, giving him an approving nod, pushing open the wooden door and leading them further into the depths of the barrow.

---

The door creaked open, revealing another chamber where yet more undead stirred from their ancient coffins. By now, facing them had become almost routine for Altaïr and Lydia. They moved with practiced efficiency, cutting down the shambling draugr without so much as a scratch in return. Once the last of them fell, they pressed forward, ascending a small staircase and weaving through yet another series of narrow tunnels.

Eventually, they emerged into a larger chamber, and this one stood out from the rest. The walls were lined with intricate stone carvings, depicting a variety of humanoid figures in various poses. Some were raising their arms in what seemed like reverence, while others held weapons or tools. Despite the impressive detail, the carvings bore the wear of time—cracks and erosion obscured much of their meaning.

Altaïr's gaze settled on one particular carving—at the center stood a figure holding two staves, with crowds of hooded men flanking it on either side. He gestured toward it. "Do you know what any of these mean?"

Lydia studied the carving for a moment. "Bleak Falls Barrow was once an ancient temple," she explained. "According to legend, in the old times, dragons ruled over Tamriel, and people worshipped them as gods."

Altaïr raised an eyebrow. "I suppose that's a more tangible thing to worship than some unseen deity in the sky," he remarked dryly.

Lydia shot him a curious look. "You don't believe in the gods?" Her tone held a hint of disbelief. "Choosing not to worship is one thing, but... denying their existence?"

"I heard your court mage say a god saved the world two centuries ago," Altaïr said, recalling his earlier conversation with Farengar. "I can't say I believe it, but…"

His thoughts drifted back to that strange vision – the fiery dragon turning to stone before his very eyes.

He sighed. "Let's just say I don't know much about your gods. Back in my homeland, people worship one deity, though they massacre each other over ways of doing so."

Lydia tilted her head. "Where exactly are you from? That doesn't sound like Cyrodiil."

Altaïr frowned. "Why does everyone assume I'm from there?"

"Well, you look Imperial," Lydia replied matter-of-factly. "Most Nords are tall, fair-haired, and pale. Imperials aren't as tall and tend to have darker features." She gave him a curious glance. "I'm surprised you didn't know that."

"I see," he said simply. "Where I'm from... that's a story for another time."

Lydia nodded, sensing that was all he was willing to share for now. "Let's keep moving," she said.

Yet another obstacle stood before them—a massive stone door adorned with three rotating rings of varying sizes. Each ring bore an image of a different animal: a moth, an owl, and a bear. At the center of the door were three small holes, arranged in a pattern that matched the shape of the golden claw ornament they had taken from the elf.

Lydia pulled out the claw and examined it closely. Inserting it into the keyholes seemed straightforward, but the order of the animal symbols on the claw didn't match the ones on the door. She reached up and turned the top ring, watching as the moth symbol shifted to an owl. Encouraged, she repeated the process with the other rings, aligning them to match the sequence engraved on the claw.

With the symbols properly set, she carefully inserted the claw into the keyhole. The rings spun rapidly, and with a deep, rumbling sound, the heavy stone door slid down into the floor, revealing a set of steps that led upwards into a vast cavern. In the far corner, two waterfalls crashed down from either side, hidden behind a large stone wall adorned with intricate carvings. Before the wall stood a sarcophagus, and beside it, a large metal chest.

Altaïr paid no mind to the chest, his attention fixed on the wall. It was different from the others they'd seen—the same imagery from the Hall of Stories above, but below it, an inscription in an unknown script. The 'letters' were simple, little more than dashes and dots.

Lydia, however, seemed mesmerised by the wall. She slowly approached, muttering something in a language he couldn't place. Altaïr frowned as he stepped toward her.

"Fus…" she whispered, her expression distant.

"What?" Altaïr asked, confused. "Lydia, what is it?"

Lydia blinked, shaking her head as if waking from a trance. "Huh? I'm sorry… for a moment, I thought I could read it."

Altaïr opened his mouth to respond, but the sudden shift of the sarcophagus caught his attention. A draugr, this one wearing a helmet and wielding a battle axe, rose from its grave. Altaïr immediately drew his sword, ready to deal with it. But he wasn't ready for what happened next.

"Fus… Ro Dah!"

The force of the shout flung Altaïr into the wall, crumpling to the ground behind Lydia. The housecarl was visibly shaken by the display of power, but she quickly regained her composure, drawing her sword as the draugr turned its attention toward her. It closed the distance swiftly, swinging its axe with deadly precision. Lydia managed to deflect the blow with her shield, but the impact was so forceful that it nearly knocked her off balance.

The draugr seized the opportunity, swinging again, but Lydia sidestepped just in time. She countered with a strike of her own, only for the draugr to parry it with the haft of its axe, delivering a powerful blow to her face. She staggered back, the draugr's axe raised to strike once more.

It let out another shout, and Lydia knew she had only a split second to react. She jumped to the side, narrowly avoiding the shockwave.

Lydia's mind raced. She could retreat—draugr weren't fast, but abandoning Altaïr wasn't an option. She couldn't leave him alone with the creature.

She circled around the draugr, positioning herself so that its back was to Altaïr. Then, with a roar, she charged again, swinging her sword with rapid precision. Each strike was parried by the draugr's axe, but Lydia managed to land a shallow cut on its shoulder.

The draugr responded with a mighty swing, knocking her sword from her hand and sending it spinning through the air. Disarmed, Lydia gulped as the draugr advanced, its axe raised high.

Just as she thought her options were running out, the unmistakable sound of the hidden blade rang through the cavern, striking deep into the draugr's back. Despite the blow, the creature remained standing, but Altaïr didn't stop. He stabbed again and again, until with one final thrust, the hidden blade drove deep into the draugr's neck, its body collapsing to the ground in a heap.

Altaïr stood panting, clutching his side, wincing with each breath. Lydia rushed to him, supporting him before he could fall. She fumbled for a healing potion, forcing the liquid down his throat.

"You'll feel better after this," Lydia said as she discarded the empty bottle and helped him sit down.

While Altaïr recovered, Lydia's gaze fell on the chest beside the sarcophagus. She moved toward it with purpose, her fingers working quickly to lift the heavy lid. Inside, a small fortune in gold coins and gleaming gems caught her eye, but it was the object beneath them that made her breath catch. A large, stone tablet, engraved with a detailed map of Skyrim. Several points were marked on it, each symbolizing a place of importance.

This was it. The Dragonstone.