I step onto the circular walkway, boots tapping softly against the stone. The air here is damp and cold, carrying the faint scent of mildew and stagnant water. The chamber stretches out before me, a wide, open space dominated by a flooded pit below. Dark water ripples faintly as droplets fall from above, the sound echoing softly off the walls.
Across the way, I spot the jagged remains of a staircase that once led to an upper level, now little more than broken stone clinging precariously to the wall. Above, faint cracks in the ceiling let in slivers of light, just enough to catch on the surface of the water. To my right, another staircase winds downward, its lower steps vanishing beneath the murk.
I take a slow breath, letting my eyes adjust to the dimness. The air feels heavy, pressing against my chest with a quiet stillness. There's an uneasy edge to the silence—no wind, no wildlife, nothing but the soft drip of water and the faint creak of settling stone.
To my left, another door catches my eye. It's slightly ajar, its iron frame streaked with rust but still sturdy. I shift my weight and glance over the edge of the walkway at the water below. It's dark and still, and I can't tell how deep it goes—or what might be hiding in it.
I tighten my grip on the hilt of my sword, the motion instinctive. Places like this always have their dangers—collapsing ceilings, wild animals, or worse—but there's always the chance for something more. Old ruins tend to hold danger in Skyrim.
I move cautiously along the circular walkway, the air growing colder the farther I go. My boots scuff against the damp stone as I approach the staircase leading downward. It curves steeply, spiraling along the wall toward the flooded pit below. The water reflects faint glimmers of light from the cracks above, but it's not enough to make out how deep it is.
The steps are slick under my boots as I descend, hand brushing the cold, slimy stone of the wall for balance. The smell of mildew thickens, mixed with the sharp tang of something metallic—iron, maybe. Blood? My grip tightens on the hilt of my sword as a smile flits across my face. Blood means battle and death.
The staircase empties into the lower level, and my boots splash into ankle-deep water. The chill seeps through the leather, and I suppress a shiver as I take in my surroundings. The pit is larger than it seemed from above, with rubble and broken furniture scattered in uneven clusters. The far wall is cracked, water streaming through in steady rivulets that feed the flooded floor.
I wade forward slowly, each step sending faint ripples across the water's surface. The silence presses in, broken only by the faint drip of water and the occasional creak of shifting stone. I glance back toward the walkway above, now partially obscured by shadows. Whatever this place once was, it seems long abandoned.
My eyes sweep the edges of the room. On the far side, a narrow doorway is half-hidden behind a pile of collapsed stone. The frame is intact, though, and I can just make out a dark tunnel stretching beyond it. To my left, another staircase spirals upward, mirroring the one I just descended. But this one is a dead end—its upper section has collapsed completely, leaving jagged fragments of stone jutting out like broken teeth.
The air grows colder as I step into the corridor, each footfall echoing like a drumbeat against the silent stone. Shadows dance along the edges of the passage, stirred by the Candlelight I summon.
The scent of mildew and old stone fills my lungs, and I keep my grip tight on my sword. My breathing slows, my senses sharpening, every nerve on edge. Further down, the corridor begins to slope gently, the incline making each step feel heavier. My light pushes against the darkness ahead, revealing little but the endless descent. The faint flicker of light finally reaches me—weak, distant, but unmistakable. My heart quickens as I allow my Candlelight to wink out, it seems this place isn't as abandoned as it seems.
By the time I reach the bottom of the slope, the corridor widens into a small chamber, and the lantern's flicker reveals him at the far end—a Thalmor soldier, golden armor gleaming even in the dim light. He's lounging at a table, helmet off, his sharp features twisted in a look of boredom. His fingers drum idly on the wood, a dagger lying forgotten by his side. He hasn't noticed me yet.
My grip tightens on my sword, and the heat of my anger flares as I slowly draw it. These bastards always think they're untouchable. A grin tugs at my lips as I raise my free hand. Magicka surges through me, the familiar crackle of lightning building in my palm. Let's see how untouchable he feels now, no patrol to back him up.
The Lightning Bolt tears through the air with a crack, bright and furious. The corridor flashes white, and the Thalmor snaps to attention just in time to summon a ward. A crystalline lattice of blue energy springs to life in front of him, catching the bolt with a thunderous crack. Sparks explode across the shield, the light dancing along the walls, but the ward holds.
He's on his feet in an instant, the chair scraping back violently. His golden blade flashes into his hand, and flames erupt around him, a Flame Cloak roaring to life. The heat rolls toward me, the corridor thick with ozone and the hiss of burning air. He narrows his eyes, and I see the familiar sneer, confident and condescending.
My lips curl into a snarl, and I let the fire inside me rise. It's not the flames he's conjured—it's mine, born from the anger I keep bottled away. My hands tighten on my weapons, the dagger now drawn in my left hand. I dig deep into the anger, letting it flow through my veins like molten steel. Ancestor's Wrath surges to life, the heat blazing outward in an instant, engulfing me and my weapons in furious fire. The corridor glows red and orange, our flames dancing together in a chaotic storm of heat and light.
He hesitates as the fire wreathes my figure—a single moment of doubt. I charge, boots pounding against the stone. His blade slashes toward me, fast and vicious, but I twist and bring my dagger up. Steel clashes with a shower of sparks as I knock his sword wide.
My blade follows instantly, slicing through the gap between his arm and torso. He stumbles back, flames flaring defensively around him, but I'm already closing the distance.
The air ripples with heat as our fires blend together, oppressive and suffocating. My sword arcs low toward his thigh, then high towards his torso as he shifts to parry. His ward shimmers, absorbing the impact, but it throws him off balance. I press forward, relentless.
He counters with a sharp diagonal slash at my chest. I twist, his blade screeching off my pauldron, and lunge with my dagger. The point grazes his cuirass, leaving a scorched trail from the lightning coursing through the enchanted steel.
His flames lash out again, licking at my arms and face. I barely feel the heat—my own fire burns hotter, driving me forward.
I pivot, sword coming back a brutal arc. He parries, the clash of steel echoing in the narrow corridor, but my dagger is already in motion. It thrusts upward, glancing off his helmet with a screech of metal and lightning dances over his armor. He staggers, his Flame Cloak flickering.
The cracks in his defense show. He hesitates, his movements slowing. I feint low with my sword, baiting him to drop his guard. When he does, my dagger slashes across his exposed hand. He snarls, flames surging wildly as blood sprays.
Before he can recover, I step inside his guard. My sword slams his blade aside, pinning it against the stone, while my dagger arcs upward. The enchanted edge finds his throat with a crunch of cartilage.
His eyes widen as his flames gutter out, collapsing into faint embers. He stumbles, choking on his last breath, and falls hard against the stone floor with a hollow thud.
I stand over him, my breathing heavy, the fires of Ancestor's Wrath still flickering around me. The metallic tang of blood mixes with the scorched air, and for a moment, the corridor is silent again, save for the faint crackle of dying flames.
I step back, rolling my shoulders to release the tension. The fire in my veins simmers, reluctant to die out, but I force it down, the heat fading as I take a steadying breath. With a quick motion, I wipe the blood from my dagger and sheath it, my sword following soon after.
A Thalmor dead by my hands. It feels good, it feels like progress.
The flames flicker out, leaving only the faint smell of charred air and the soft sound of dripping water. I kneel beside the Thalmor's body, the golden armor dull now in the lantern's light, streaked with scorch marks and blood. My fingers brush over the fine craftsmanship of the plating, tracing the faint feathers engraved along the edges.
A Thalmor soldier, here, in an abandoned ruin? The thought finally rises in my mind, unsettling me slightly. There's something wrong about this, but whatever answers he might've had, he died with them.
I begin methodically stripping him of useful gear. The elven sword at his side catches my eye first, its blade still pristine despite the fight. The hilt feels light in my hand as I inspect it.
A fine piece of work, a hand and a half sword with feathers etched into the crossguard—the thalmor seem obsessed with them; still, it's nothing compared to my own blade, though Lucien could use it, I think with a grin.
Next, the armor. I pause as I take in its size. The Thalmor is roughly Lucien's build. A blacksmith could rework it easily enough to fully fit. My fingers tighten briefly on the gilded edge of the cuirass. It's tempting to haul it back now, but the weight would slow me down. No, I'll leave it here for now and return later.
I slip my hand into the soldier's belt pouch, pulling out a handful of coins. The dull shimmer of septims mixes with silver. I drop them into my own pouch without hesitation.
The search turns up nothing else of immediate value—no documents, no orders, nothing to explain why he was sitting in this ruin in the first place. My jaw tightens as I straighten up, eyes flicking once more over the quiet corridor. A fleeting thought crosses my mind: maybe I should fetch the others. If there's one Thalmor, there might be more.
But I shake the idea away almost as quickly as it comes. No. I can handle this. Plus, it has been too long since I was last able to fight alone.
I glance back at the discarded armor, the sword glinting faintly beside it. Lucien could use the gear, and the thought of him marching through Skyrim in reworked Thalmor plate brings a faint smirk to my lips. I roll my shoulders and stand, drawing my sword again, best to be prepared, and step further into the ruin. The corridor ahead yawns into a smaller side chamber, the air shifting slightly as I move into it. The faint scent of mildew and decay lingers, the kind that clings to places forgotten by time and men.
My gaze sweeps the room—a cramped, musty cell-like space, with rusted iron bars along one wall. Against the opposite side, a table leans awkwardly, one leg broken. Dust blankets everything, but a piece of parchment sitting on the table catches my eye.
I step closer, my boots scuffing against the uneven stone floor, and pick up the note. The parchment feels fragile, as if it might crumble between my fingers. The words are smeared in places, but the intent is clear:
"We cannot let the prisoners escape. Either kill them or let them drown. All guards must evacuate immediately—the storm is about to wash this fort into the river. I will not report a single Legion death on my watch. You have your orders."
My lips curl into a frown, and a flicker of anger stirs beneath my ribs. Thalmor and the Legion, working hand in hand. So much for biding time to fight them.
"Fucking Thalmor have no place here," I mutter, rolling the note up and slipping it into my belt pouch. A thought strikes me—maybe showing this to Lucien will help settle him. He's been carrying the weight of that Legion skirmish on his shoulders since the battle, and this might remind him just how rotten their alliance with the Thalmor really is.
I glance around the room once more, but it offers no further answers, only some waterlogged books which brings a faint frown to my face. My grip tightens on the hilt of my sword as I turn back to the hallway.
The air grows heavier the further I go, the stillness broken only by the faint sound of dripping water. A cold, damp chill wraps around me, clinging to my skin. Then the scent hits—sharp and metallic, overtaking the mildew. Blood.
The corridor widens into a chamber, and I freeze at the sight before me. Cells line the walls, their iron bars intact, sturdy despite the rust clinging to them. But the doors are open. Inside the cells, bodies slump against walls and floors, their throats slit, Blood stains their clothes and is pooled in dried puddles beneath them.
I step closer, the coppery tang thick enough to coat the back of my throat and leave the taste of copper. Some of the corpses are skeletal, their decay long since complete, but others... others seem almost recent.
"What the hell did these poor bastards do to gain the Thalmor's attention?" I mutter under my breath, the question tasting bitter on my tongue. Rebels? Smugglers? Or Talos worshipers unlucky enough to catch their eye?
The silence presses down on me like a weight, broken only by the rhythmic drip of water in the distance. The faint squelch of my boots against the damp stone echoes faintly in the chamber, each step bringing the stench closer. My grip on my sword tightens as my eyes scan the cells, the tension in my chest growing with every glance.
Then, it happens. A faint flicker of light shimmers near the far-right cell, an unnatural glow that sets the air buzzing faintly around me. My breath catches as the glow takes shape, soft and spectral, casting faint shadows against the walls.
A ghost.
My grip loosens slightly on my sword, my eyes widening. Holy shit. A real ghost. The childlike glee surges before I can stop it, pushing aside the unease. I've seen plenty of dead things in my life—hell, I've made a lot of them myself—but this? This is new.
I take a cautious step closer, my heartbeat quickening. My voice, steady but tinged with excitement, breaks the quiet. "Who... who are you?"
The shimmering figure stirs slightly, its outline sharpening as it turns toward me. Its voice is quiet, almost mournful. "Fjona... no, forgive me. My thoughts drift, but always in the same direction."
I blink, lowering my sword slightly. A ghost with a wandering mind. Well, that's not quite what I wanted.
I take another step forward, the ghost's form becoming clearer with each passing moment. It's not quite human—its features blurred, its presence shimmering faintly like heat haze. Despite the translucent quality, there's something undeniably real about it, as if the air itself is bending around the figure to hold it together.
"Why are you here?" I ask, curiosity laced with lingering excitement. The corner of my mouth twitches upward, almost a smile. A ghost. An actual ghost. And it talks.
The figure shifts slightly, as though pulling itself from whatever haze clouds its mind. "I came here once before, with my master. It is a cold, empty place—much like the void. I stay to detach and forget my sorrow."
Its words carry a strange, hollow weight, and the faint glee I feel dulls just a little under the weight of its tone. "You came here with your master? Why? What is this place?"
The ghost's glow dims slightly, and it looks past me, unfocused, as though gazing at something far beyond the walls of this prison. "A place for the lost. A place for those forgotten." It pauses, then tilts its head slightly. "But you are not lost, are you? Not yet."
The words send a faint chill down my spine, but I shake it off. "What do you know about what happened here?" I ask, pushing for something useful.
The ghost seems to focus again, its form flickering faintly. "I have heard of restless spirits... and of those who haunt this prison. They stir in the shadows, trapped in their torment."
My frown deepens. "What of the Thalmor?" He seemed unable to truly focus.
The ghost hesitates. "The thought of restless dead disturbs me. Not even the World-Eater could end my torment."
I arch a brow at that, annoyed now. "Then why stay? Why linger here?"
The ghost straightens slightly, its voice softening. "There is a place for me here... a stillness I cannot find elsewhere. My sorrow is mine to keep."
I sigh, the remnants of my excitement fading into irritation. "Fine. Stay in your sorrow if you want. I've got things to do."
The ghost offers no response, and I take another step past its cell. My thoughts drift for a moment. A talking ghost that doesn't want help. Of course. What a waste of time.
But still, as I turn my back on the shimmering figure, I mutter under my breath, "May you find peace in the quiet."
The stench of blood and damp stone clings to the air as I move further down the corridor. At the end of the row of cells, something catches my attention—a figure slumped against the wall inside one of the cells. His wrists and ankles are bound in heavy chains, iron links biting into his skin. The cell door is locked, and I find my interest piqued.
I step closer, peering inside. The man's head hangs forward, dark hair matted with blood and grime obscuring his face. His chest rises and falls in shallow breaths, and I frown. Alive, then. Interesting.
The lock glints faintly in the dim light, and I pull out my hand, letting the faint tingle of magic rise to the surface. Farengar's book has been a decent teacher, and while I haven't quite mastered it, this little trick has its uses.
"Let's see if I can actually get this right," I mutter under my breath, casting Minor Lockpick. The shimmer of magic flows from my palm, the lock clicking faintly as the spell takes hold. A small grin tugs at my lips as I hear the satisfying thunk of the bolt sliding open.
The door creaks as I push it open, the sound echoing faintly through the chamber. As I step inside, my gaze flicks to a second door on the opposite side of the cell, leading into what appears to be another room. Two doors? Odd design for a cell.
I shake the thought away for now, turning my focus to the prisoner. Crouching in front of him, I reach out and give his cheek a light slap. "Hey. Wake up."
He doesn't stir. I slap him again, harder this time. His head jerks up, and his eyes snap open—sharp and full of fire, despite the grime covering his face. Without warning, he lunges forward, teeth snapping at the air where my hand was a second ago.
I step back, more amused than alarmed. "Well, that's one way to say hello."
"When I get out of here," he growls, his voice hoarse but dripping with venom, "I'll kill you all."
I smirk, crossing my arms as I lean casually against the cell's iron frame. "Not really in a position to be making threats, dumbass."
He narrows his eyes, chains rattling as he shifts against the wall. "Tell me that again when I tear your spine out of your ass—wait." He stops, studying me more closely. "You're not with the Thalmor."
"Good guess," I reply dryly. "So, what are you doing here? Seems like a lot of trouble for them to keep you chained up like this."
He pauses, his eyes narrowing. "Why do you care, and who the fuck are you?"
I shrug, letting the edge of a smirk tug at my lips. "My name's Melkorn. And may I have the name of the asshole chained to the wall?"
His eyes narrow, though I catch the slight twitch of his lips as he fights back a grin. "My name's Kaidan. Now, can you unchain me already?"
Kaidan, shit, that was another modded character right, I never did get around to finding him.
I straighten, turning my attention to the chains. They're heavy and well-forged. Raising my hand, I let the faint shimmer of magicka flow through my palm. A moment later, the shackles unlock with a soft click, clattering to the ground in a metallic thud.
The man slumps forward slightly but catches himself, his eyes flicking up to meet mine warily.
I toss him a health potion from my belt. "Here. Drink this. You look like shit."
He snatches it, uncorking it with his teeth and downing the contents in one go. Lowering the empty vial, he mutters, "Thanks. Stuff's a bottled miracle."
"Don't thank me yet," I say, a faint grin tugging at my lips. "We're not out of here."
I step out of the cell, Kaidan trailing behind me, his steps unsteady but gaining strength with every moment. He adjusts his shoulders, rolling them as if testing his range of motion. There's fire in his eyes now, tempered by exhaustion but burning all the same.
"I don't suppose you've got a spare sword on you?" he asks, his voice still rough but steadier than before.
I glance over my shoulder at him, my brow arching. "Not at the moment. But lucky for you, I might know where to find one."
I retrace my steps, Kaidan following close behind. His gait is uneven at first, but with every step, he steadies. He glances around the dim corridor, his expression guarded but alert. The silence between us feels weighty, filled with the faint echoes of our boots against the stone.
"So," he breaks the silence, his voice still raspy. "You said you knew where to find me a sword?"
I smirk faintly, glancing back over my shoulder. "Yeah. A little gift courtesy of your Thalmor friends."
It doesn't take long to reach the spot where I'd left the body. The Thalmor soldier lies crumpled on the ground, his golden armor gleaming faintly in the low light. Kaidan slows as the corpse comes into view, his eyes narrowing.
"Well, there's a sight I never get tired of," he mutters, his tone sharp with venom.
I crouch down, retrieving the blade I'd left behind earlier. "Here. Better than nothing."
He steps forward, taking the weapon from my hand. His fingers close around the hilt, and he gives it a few test swings. "Not bad," he says after a moment. "Not as long as I prefer, but it'll do."
We make our way back through the corridor, Kaidan moving steadily beside me now, the Thalmor blade hanging low in his grip. His eyes dart across the ruin, sharp and calculating, despite the obvious exhaustion still clinging to him.
After a moment, he breaks the silence. "I know I shouldn't ask, but… there's still another Thalmor bastard here. A Justiciar."
I glance at him, my brows furrowing. "A Justiciar? Here?"
He nods, his jaw tightening. "Yeah. He's got my sword—my nodachi. Took it when they ambushed me. I don't suppose…" He hesitates, his gaze flicking to me before he adds, "I don't suppose I could ask for your help in getting it back."
I stop mid-step, turning to face him fully. "A Justiciar," I repeat, the words rolling through my mind. Thalmor Justiciars aren't your run-of-the-mill soldiers. They're elite—dangerous, well-trained, and lethal. This isn't some ordinary patrolman; this is someone who could probably give me a real fight.
For a moment, the practical side of me considers the risk. A Justiciar is no joke. But… a fight like that? The thought sends a sharp thrill through me, and I can feel my pulse quicken. A real challenge. And another chance to kill a Thalmor? Hell yes.
A grin pulls at my lips before I can stop it. "Who am I kidding?" I mutter, shaking my head. "It sounds like a blast. Another Thalmor bastard to kill? You've got yourself a deal."
Kaidan raises a brow, and the corners of his mouth twitch into something like a smile. "Didn't think you looked like the type to shy from a fight."
"Oh, I'm not," I reply, my grip tightening on my sword as we pick up the pace. No way I'm letting an opportunity like this slip by. A single Justicar alone with no backup.
"Just don't slow me down, mate," Kaidan says, his voice sharp but amused.
"Funny," I mutter, my grin widening. "I was about to say the same to you."
-MD-
-MD-
-MD-
The air thickens as we ascend, the faint glow of firelight flickering at the top of the stairs. A shadow steps into view—a tall figure in flowing, dark robes, golden accents glinting faintly in the light of the flames dancing around him. A nodachi rests easily in his hand, the polished edge catching the flicker of his fire.
"I was wondering who unlocked his cell," the Justiciar sneers, his tone dripping with contempt. His smirk grows sharper, and before I can respond, fire explodes from his outstretched hand.
The inferno surges down the stairwell like a tidal wave. "Back!" I shout, throwing up my left hand and summoning Lesser Ward. The shimmering blue lattice springs to life, absorbing the brunt of the onslaught. Heat slams into me, the ward trembling under the strain as sweat pours down my brow. Behind me, Kaidan curses and leaps back down the stairs, narrowly avoiding the flames as they pour downward.
The ward shudders and cracks, but I step forward. The simmering anger I keep buried ignites, roaring to life. Ancestor's Wrath engulfs me yet again; using it for a second time sends a pulse of pain through me, my veins burning with molten steel as my strength surges and my senses sharpen. The flames from the Justiciar almost seem to bend around me as I charge forward, each beat of my heart roaring in my ears.
The moment my boots hit the top of the stairs, the ward around me shatters with a deafening crack. Shards of light scatter like broken glass, and my blade swings down, frost sweeping the flames aside as it collides with the Justiciar's nodachi. The jarring impact shoots up my arms. Sparks fly as the force of the impact reverberates through my arms, and the flames of Ancestor's Wrath swirl hungrily between us.
That smirk is infuriating, smug and unshaken, even as my blade sweeps toward him. He twists his nodachi with ease, my strike sliding uselessly aside before he steps back, smooth as flowing water. His robes shimmer faintly, the kind of glow I recognize all too well. Great—enchantments. I raise my hand instinctively, a shimmering ward forming just as a burst of fire erupts from his palm again. The impact sends a ripple through the magic, but the ward holds, though my arm shakes under the strain.
Then it happens. Without warning, an ice spear materializes in the air beside him and launches straight at me. No flicker of his hand, no sign it was forming—just frost swirling, then suddenly there. I twist instinctively, the razor-sharp spear grazing my cheek. It tears through my Oakflesh enchantment like paper, leaving a bloody gash and a searing cold that freezes part of my face. Pain flares hot and sharp as I stagger, my jaw tightening.
Fuck. Should've brought my helm.
The sound of boots thudding against stone pulls my attention for a split second. Kaidan is charging up the stairs behind me. I can't let this bastard focus on him.
I press forward, circling to the right, my grin wide despite the burning pain in my cheek. Time to see what a Justiciar can do.
I throw a quick Lightning Bolt his way, the crackling energy searing through the air. The bastard deflects it with a ward of his own, the magic shimmering faintly around him as it dissipates my attack. His smirk deepens, mocking.
I dart in with a feint, my blade slashing low. The Justiciar doesn't even flinch. His nodachi arcs in a blur, parrying with a speed that surpasses even what Ancestor's Wrath grants. The air thickens with every clash of blades, frost creeping along the Nodachi from my sword before Ancestor's Wrath evaporates it in a hiss of steam..
Kaidan charges up behind him, his blade flashing in the lantern light. The Justiciar twists, graceful as a dancer, deflecting Kaidan's strike. His movements are fluid and well timed—and his eyes flick between us, calm and calculating. I can't let him focus on Kaidan—he's unarmored. I have to keep the Justiciar's attention on me. His stance shifts seamlessly, keeping both of us in his line of sight.
The space feels tighter with every exchange, the air between us charged with magic and the clang of steel. I press forward, aggressive, while Kaidan circles to the right, forcing the Justiciar to divide his focus.
He counters with immaculate skill. Each cut, thrust and parry of his Nodachi flows effortlessly into the next, the blade moving like an extension of his body. Every deflection, every counter is calculated to keep us off balance.
The rhythm of the fight grates on me, and I step in hard, blade slashing toward his shoulder. His parry meets my strike before the blade can connect, the sharp ring of steel cutting through the confined space.
The heat of my Ancestor's Wrath flames lashes out as I feint another strike. He dodges, but not fast enough. Flames sweep across his pale cheek in a bright, searing arc. The scent of scorched flesh fills the air as the fire bites into him. He snarls, his arrogance cracking for a moment as he jerks back, his nodachi held in a tight guard. The burn leaves a raw blackened wound, but something else catches my eye—lines of metallic silver swirl and spread across his skin, branching out like veins.
His lips twist into a cold smile as the air around him shifts. The metallic pattern grows thicker, more defined, shimmering faintly even in the dim light. Ironflesh. The bastard has reinforced himself, and the thought grates on me. He's good enough with a blade—he doesn't need the damn magic too.
Without warning, an ice spear materializes midair, forming just above his shoulder. It launches in an instant, the frost catching my eye a second too late. Kaidan barely reacts in time, jerking to the side as the spear grazes his arm. I lunge in to stop him from following up
The Justiciar's Nodachi moves like liquid steel, deflecting both my strikes and Kaidan's with infuriating ease. Each clash sends jolts up my arms, the sound of steel-on-steel sharp and unforgiving in the narrow corridor. His magic doesn't let up either—ice spears form without warning, and flames lash out in controlled bursts. The flames of Ancestor's Wrath respond instinctively, swirling against his bursts of magic. Steam hisses as frost meets fire, the corridor thick with the clash of our powers.
My flames swirl around his legs as I swing low, the fire a hungry shadow to my blade. He shifts his stance, the nodachi sweeping down to deflect my strike, but the flames linger, forcing him to adjust his footing. The motion leaves a split-second opening, and Kaidan takes it, his blade biting through the enchanted fabric. The metallic sheen over his skin ripples, catching the light, but Kaidan's strike still draws blood. It's enough to crack that smug composure, his lips pulling back in a snarl. Seeing that little flicker of frustration in his eyes sends a fierce spark of satisfaction through me.
It is short-lived. Another ice spear materializes, and this time, it doesn't miss. It shoots forward before Kaidan can react, piercing his shoulder and slamming him back against the stone wall. He roars in pain, his weapon clattering to the floor as the force pins him in place.
But Kaidan's strike did its job. The Justiciar staggers, his balance thrown off by the wound. His stance widens, his blade rising in a defensive arc as he shifts his focus fully to me. I barely register Kaidan's pained curses in the background. All I see is the opening—the hesitation in the Thalmor's movements, the cracks forming in his stance.
The flames of Ancestor's Wrath roar through me, hot and alive, matching the pounding of my heart. My grin spreads wider, pulling at the gash on my cheek, as I launch myself at him with everything I've got. I don't care if I burn—this is what I live for. My frost-enchanted sword crashes against his nodachi, driving him back a step. Sparks fly as my lightning-infused dagger lashes out, catching his ribs with a jolt that makes him grunt. His metallic skin flickers as if absorbing the blow, but the strain in his expression betrays him. Flames appear over his shoulder and roar toward me. My ward springs up instinctively, the heat washing over me but stopping short of searing flesh.
He retaliates, the Nodachi slashing in a tight arc that rips the dagger from my grip. My flames whip around me, forcing him to step back again, and I press the advantage shifting into a two handed grip on my sword. Each strike comes faster, heavier, until the strain begins to show in his movements. The arrogance in his eyes gives way to frustration, then something closer to fear as he realizes he can't keep up.
His spells come slower now, the metallic shimmer of Ironflesh faltering with every blow. My flames whip around me, eating into his magic relentlessly. His blade arcs again, but the movement is sluggish, and I easily bat it away.
With one final feint, I draw his guard low. My frost-enchanted sword arcs upward, a brutal two-handed thrust that punches through his chest. The frost bites deep, freezing the blood spilling from the wound, and his nodachi slips from his grasp, clattering to the floor. He stumbles, knees hitting the stone as the flames of Ancestor's Wrath crawl over him, slow and deliberate.
His mouth opens as if to speak, but the words die in the crackling fire. I pull my blade free with a sharp jerk, stepping back as he collapses to his knees. The flames surge higher, consuming him inch by inch.
But I don't take chances. I step forward again and, with a clean, powerful stroke, sever his head from his shoulders. The head tumbles to the floor, rolling once before coming to a stop, and his body collapses in a smoldering heap at my feet.
The adrenaline fades as Ancestor's Wrath gutters out, leaving a hollow ache in its place. My legs falter, and I stumble planting my sword to support me, my breath coming in ragged gasps. The searing heat that had filled my veins is gone, replaced by a deep, bone-weary exhaustion that weighs down my limbs. The familiar strain pulses through my body—Ancestor's Wrath might make me stronger, faster, but it exacts its toll. Always.
I steady myself, pulling a health potion from my belt and downing it, and force a grin as I glance toward Kaidan. "Well, that was fun."
"Speak for yourself," Kaidan grits out, his voice strained. He shifts against the wall, the ice spear still pinning him in place. Blood trickles down his arm, staining his armor and pooling at his feet. "Now would you fucking help me get this thing out of my shoulder?"
I chuckle, wincing as the movement sends a fresh wave of pain through my chest. "Hold still," I mutter, stepping over the Justiciar's corpse and moving to his side. The spear is embedded deep, its jagged edges glinting faintly in the dim light. "This is going to hurt."
"Oh, really? Hadn't noticed," Kaidan snaps, his teeth bared in a grimace.
Gripping the base of the spear with one hand, I place the other against his uninjured shoulder to brace him. "On three."
"Just pull it—"
I yank the spear free in one smooth motion, cutting off his protest with a strangled cry. Blood wells from the wound, and Kaidan snaps as I toss the spear aside. "You could've warned me."
"I did," I reply, fishing a health potion from my belt pouch and shoving it into his hand. "Here. Drink this before you bleed all over the floor."
He uncorks the vial and downs it in one go, the pale glow of restoration magic knitting the wound closed as he exhales deeply. "Thank Talos," he mutters, rolling his shoulder with a wince. "Don't suppose you've got another one of those for my pride?"
I snort, wiping my blade on the charred remnants of the Justiciar's robe before sheathing it. "No potion strong enough for that, I'm afraid."
Kaidan chuckles weakly, but his gaze drifts to the smoldering corpse at our feet. "You enjoyed that, didn't you?"
I glance at him, my grin widening.
The faint crackle of embers and the metallic tang of blood hang in the air as I step toward the far wall. My dagger lies discarded there. I crouch down, wrapping my fingers around the hilt. A hum reverberates through my hand, steady and reassuring. I flip the blade over, inspecting its edge. Pristine—no signs of wear despite the chaos of the fight. A small grin tugs at my lips as I slide it back into its sheath. Skyforge steel is good stuff.
Straightening up, my gaze flicks back to the Justiciar's body. Even in death, the bastard looks smug, his features frozen in a condescending sneer. Kaidan crouches nearby, his hand on the hilt of the Nodachi. He lifts it, the long, curved blade catching what little light filters through the room from the left over fires. It's flawless—no chips, no scuffs, not even a scratch from my enchanted blade.
I watch him heft the nodachi with practiced ease, turning it this way and that as he inspects it. The sight sparks a flicker of curiosity in me. A weapon like that doesn't come from ordinary steel. My fingers twitch toward my own sword instinctively, but I don't say anything. My curiosity can be sated later.
Satisfied with his inspection, Kaidan sets the Nodachi aside for a moment and rolls his shoulder experimentally. The health potion he took earlier seems to have done its work—his movements are more fluid, the tightness in his jaw easing slightly.
I glance back at the adjoining room. A rickety table and a scattering of debris catch my eye. There's always something left behind. Turning away from Kaidan, I step inside. The air smells faintly of mildew and charred wood, the scent mixing with the lingering acrid sting of magic. On the table, a small pouch of coins slumps invitingly. I snatch it up, the weight of septims satisfying as I drop it into my pouch. Beside it, a row of glass bottles reflects the light faintly—health potions. Useful.
A worn leather-bound journal catches my eye, half-buried beneath the rest. Flipping it open, I skim the first few lines, just enough to get the gist. Words like "surveillance" and "containment" jump out at me, accompanied by self-important rhetoric. Frowning, I snap the book shut and tuck it into my belt pouch. If there's anything worth deciphering in there, Lucien will have a field day.
With the loot secured, I step back into the main chamber. Kaidan's already kneeling before an open chest, pulling out pieces of armor and strapping them into place with quick, efficient movements that meant this could only be his personal effects. The Nodachi rests against the wall beside him, its unblemished edge still nagging at my thoughts.
"Find something interesting?" he asks, not looking up.
"Maybe," I reply, adjusting the pack at my hip. "Let's focus on getting out first."
Kaidan is still strapping on his greaves as I grab a sack from the corner of the room where his gear was stored. "I'll be back in a moment," I tell him, slinging the sack over my shoulder. He glances up briefly and nods.
-MD-
-MD-
-MD-
The Thalmor soldier I killed earlier still lies sprawled on the ground, his golden armor glinting faintly in the dim light. I crouch beside him and work quickly, stripping the armor and bundling it into the sack.
I glance over the corpse one more time before standing, hefting the sack over my shoulder. Maybe even innocent Lucien will find some satisfaction in wearing the enemy's armor.
As I make my way back to the room, my boots echo on the stone floor, the sound bouncing faintly off the walls. My muscles burn with a dull ache, a reminder of the fight, but it's a good ache. A satisfying one.
By the time I return, Kaidan has finished donning his armor and stands near the center of the room. He's adjusting his pauldrons, his movements deliberate and sure. A massive warbow draws my eye where it leans against the wall, the damn thing looks more suited to launch javelins.
I drop the sack near the wall with a muted thud, and Kaidan glances over. "Picked up something useful," I say simply, and he nods, his expression unreadable as he finishes his adjustments.
Kaidan adjusts the last piece of his armor, the clink of his nodachi's sheath breaking the stillness as he slings it across his back. He stands tall now, his gaze meeting mine without hesitation. There's a gravity in his expression that wasn't there before.
"I owe you my life," he begins, his voice steady, reverberating slightly in the cold, damp room. "You didn't have to free me, and you didn't have to help me get my gear back. But you did."
I remain silent, watching him, letting the weight of his words settle.
"I swear to you, until my debt is repaid, I am your sword and shield. I'll fight by your side, no matter the danger. Wherever you go, I'll follow."
For a moment, I stand there, letting the significance of his words linger in the air. It isn't just a simple promise—it's an oath bound by honor, one that carries weight in a way few things do. The third person to have sworn themselves to me now.
I nod slowly, my voice quiet but firm. "I accept your oath. And as long as you stay true to it you shall always have a place at my side and in any hall I may build."
He inclines his head slightly, a gesture of acknowledgment.
A sense of satisfaction settles in my chest—not the kind born of victory in battle, but the steady, grounding knowledge that I've gained another ally who has proven his worth and committed himself to the fight ahead.
"Let's get out of here," I say, turning toward the door. "You'll need to meet the others."
AN
sorry guys, wanted to reread my story with a fresh mind, early chapters definitely need some cleanup
as always I have a that is 3 chapters ahead and has fanart if Melkorn - name its under is MandTeKad