The crunch of frost-laden dirt beneath my boots is the only sound I make as I step through the dense pines. The chill bites at my face, and the air is heavy with the earthy scent of moss and damp wood. Ahead, faint voices drift through the still morning air.

"Inigo thinks we should go in after him," the Khajiit says, his tone quieter than usual but sharp with unease. "This one does not like waiting. Too much can go wrong."

"And what if it's a trap?" Lucien's voice, tight and anxious, cuts through the stillness. "We don't even know what's in there. For all we know, it's abandoned for a reason!"

Inigo huffs, his pacing audible through the rustle of leaves. "You would rather find his body than help?"

Lydia's voice interrupts, crisp and firm as always, but strained around the edges. "My Thane said to wait for his return. I don't like it any more than you do, but we follow orders."

I step out from the cover of the trees, my grin sharp and deliberate. "Miss me already?"

Their heads snap toward me in unison, expressions shifting to relief mixed with frustration. All of them take in Kaidan at my back, then refocus on me. Inigo's tail twitches once before stilling, his ears angling toward me as he crosses his arms. "This one is glad you are not dead, my friend. Inigo was beginning to debate how best to recover your body."

Lucien exhales sharply, his hand tightening on the hilt of his sword. "You could have at least given us some warning."

Lydia steps forward, her gaze sharp and unyielding as she leans on her spear. "You shouldn't have gone in alone."

I shrug, unbothered by her tone. "Needed some alone time."

Without another word, I unhook the elven sword from my belt and toss it toward Lucien. "Catch."

The blade spins through the air, catching the light. Lucien fumbles slightly as he catches it, his breath hitching as he stares at the weapon. His eyes widen, recognition dawning. "What… what is this?"

"A present," I say. "From some dead Thalmor. Figured you'd make better use of it than they would."

Lucien blinks, his voice rising with disbelief. "Thalmor? You mean—"

"I told you I'd explain," I interrupt, gesturing at Kaidan. "This is Kaidan. I got him out of the prison."

Kaidan nods once, his tone steady but guarded. "I owe him for pulling me out of that place."

Lydia's brows knit together, her hand tightening on her weapon. "You found him in the prison?"

"Aye," I say, "The rest of the prisoners were dead, but I figured I'd bring back this one."

Inigo tilts his head, his ears twitching. "Another stray for the group, eh? This one hopes you prove useful."

Kaidan grins faintly, gaze locked with Lydia. "Don't worry. I'll pull my weight."

I glance around the group, my voice cutting through the tension. "Come on. We'll talk more later, I would prefer not to linger."

The sound of us walking is the only thing that fills the silence as we march. The forest is still, save for the occasional rustle of wind through the trees. The horses' hooves clink softly against the rocky path, Morrigan's breath curling in the cold air where she walks beside me. Behind me, the group trails uneasily.

Kaidan keeps to the back, his steps steady, his armor creaking faintly. Lydia glances over her shoulder now and then, her hand tight on her spear. Inigo hums under his breath, his tune low and happy, though the flick of his tail betrays his unease. Lucien walks with his head slightly bowed, gripping the elven sword tightly in both hands.

No one speaks.

We continue until the sun dips below the horizon, and the forest grows dim in the fading light. I raise a hand, signaling a halt as we reach a small clearing. The trees part just enough to let the last streaks of sunlight filter through, casting the space in warm orange hues. "We'll camp here," I say, setting down my pack.

Lucien exhales audibly, leaning the sword against a tree. "Finally," he mutters, rubbing his hands together for warmth.

Inigo stretches, his tail curling in satisfaction. "This one thinks a fire will do wonders for the soul. A good flame and good company—that is what we need."

Lydia doesn't move to unpack her things. She stands rigid, her jaw tight, her gaze flicking between me and Kaidan. The silence stretches as I start gathering kindling, waiting for her to say what's clearly weighing on her.

Finally, she snaps. "What happened in that prison, my Thane?" Her words are sharp, cutting through the quiet like a blade. "Who is he?" She points to Kaidan, her tone edged with frustration. "You leave us out here for an hour, and then you show up with…with him, and expect us to just carry on without a word?"

Inigo pauses mid-stretch, his ears angling toward her, while Lucien looks up, startled by her outburst.

Lydia takes a step closer, her hand flexing on her sword's pommel. "You went in there alone, and you have not even told us what happened! What if you'd been—" She cuts herself off, exhaling sharply as she catches the look I shoot her. Her shoulders drop slightly, and when she speaks again, her voice is quieter, steadier.

"Please, my Thane," she says, her gaze firm but much more calm and respectful. "I think we deserve an explanation."

I sigh. "I did say I would tell you what happened, you know," I say with a small grin, which causes her to adopt a slightly shameful expression. "Let's set up camp first and get comfortable."

-MD-
-MD-
-MD-

The fire crackles softly, sending faint trails of smoke into the crisp evening air. We've gathered around it, the tension thick as frost in the clearing. Lydia sits on a log across from me. Inigo reclines against a tree, his whiskers twitching, though his gaze stays locked on Kaidan. Lucien is the only one who avoids looking directly at either of us, fiddling with the elven sword in his lap.

I rest my elbows on my knees, watching the firelight dance across my armor. "Fine. Here's what happened."

The group leans in slightly, the anticipation cutting through the cold.

"That prison wasn't empty," I begin, my voice low but steady. "There were two Thalmor inside."

Lydia stiffens, her brows knitting together. Inigo's ears twitch forward, and Lucien finally looks up, his eyes wide.

"Two?" Lydia asks, her tone clipped. "What were they doing there?"

"One was just a soldier," I say, Ignoring the question. "But the other was a Justiciar."

Lucien's breath hitches audibly, and his grip on the sword tightens. "A Justiciar? And…you killed him?"

I nod. "I did. Though he put up a fight, by the fires of red mountain did he fight." I felt a grin take over my face as I remembered it.

The weight of my words settles over them. Lydia's jaw tightens, and her gaze flicks briefly to Kaidan, who remains quiet, his arms crossed as he leans against a tree.

"The other prisoners," I continue, my voice quieter now. "They were already dead. Throats slit, left to rot in their cells."

Lydia exhales sharply, her hand gripping her sword's pommel. "And Kaidan?"

"He was locked up, chained. He's the only one they kept alive."

Lucien stares at the fire, his face pale. "Why?" he asks, his voice barely above a whisper.

I glance at Kaidan, who shrugs. "Hell if I know."

The fire pops, breaking the silence. I sigh and reach into my belt pouch, pulling out the crumpled note. Lucien deserved to know this and it could help break him from the empire. "It wasn't just the Thalmor," I say, my voice heavy. "The Empire was involved."

Lucien's head snaps up, his wide eyes locking on the parchment in my hand. I extend it toward him. "Here. Read it."

His hand shakes as he takes the note, his gaze darting between me and the paper. The others stay silent, their eyes fixed on him as he scans the words.

Lucien -

The firelight flickers across the crumpled note in Lucien's hands, its words sharp and clear despite the tremor in his grip. He reads it again, though the first time was enough. The Empire. His Empire. Involved in…this. His throat tightens, and he can barely swallow past the lump forming there.

The words blur slightly as his vision clouds, but he forces himself to focus. We cannot let the prisoners escape. Either kill them or let them drown. The ink is smeared in places, but the meaning is unmistakable. It's a death sentence, cold and calculated. No justice. No trial. Just…murder.

The parchment crinkles as his fingers tighten around it, his breathing shallow. His chest aches, a dull, twisting pain that radiates through him. His mother's voice echoes faintly in his mind, recounting stories of bravery and honor, of how the Legion stood as a bulwark against chaos. This? There is no honor to be found here. This is… an atrocity.

He glances up at Melkorn, who sits across the fire, his face stoic in the flickering light. Melkorn watches him with steady eyes, purple and unreadable, his arms resting on his knees. His expression gives nothing away, but Lucien senses the weight behind his gaze. He knows what this means to Lucien. That's why he gave him the note.

The silence presses down on Lucien, thick and suffocating. His pulse pounds in his ears, drowning out the crackle of the fire. Lydia shifts slightly, her armored hand resting on her sword. Kaidan leans back against a tree, his expression curious. Even Inigo, ever the jokester, watches him now silent and waiting, his sharp eyes glinting in the dim light.

Lucien swallows hard, the taste of bile rising in his throat. "This can't…this can't be true," he says, his voice trembling. "It's a mistake. It has to be. The Empire wouldn't—"

"They would." Melkorn's voice cuts through the quiet, firm and unyielding. "And they did."

The finality in Melkorn's tone feels like a punch to Lucien's gut. His grip tightens on the note, his nails digging into the parchment. "How can you be so sure? How do you know this isn't—"

"Because I've seen what men can do," Melkorn interrupts, his tone sharper now. "Time and again. The Empire's not what you think it is, Lucien. They're not heroes. They're not saviors. They're just men—and men do terrible things when it suits them."

The words hang in the air, heavy and damning. Lucien glances at the note again, the weight of its implications pressing down on him. His mother fought for this Empire. She believed in it. She bled for it. And now…

His hands fall to his lap, the note slipping from his fingers to rest on the cold ground. He can't bring himself to meet Melkorn's gaze. The fire flickers, casting shadows that dance and twist, their shapes sharp and jagged, like the thoughts tearing through his mind.

The Empire—the thing he has built his entire life around, the ideals he has clung to—feels like it's crumbling beneath him. The ache in his chest deepens, spreading through him like a slow, inevitable rot.

"I don't…" His voice falters, barely audible.

"Give us a moment," Melkorn says suddenly, his voice firm.

Lucien's head snaps up in surprise as the others glance at each other, hesitating. Lydia's gaze lingers on Melkorn, her lips parting as if to argue, but his sharp look silences her. She nods stiffly, her expression unreadable, and stands.

Inigo rises smoothly, his tail flicking behind him. "This one will tend to the horses," he says, though his eyes linger on Lucien, warm with concern. As he turns to leave, Lucien catches him glancing back briefly.

Kaidan follows, his gait steady and deliberate. Lydia lingers the longest, as she studies Melkorn. Finally, she exhales and turns to Kaidan, her voice carrying faintly as they walk away. "You fought a Justiciar? That's…impressive."

Lucien hears Kaidan's low reply, but the words blur as the voices fade into the background. The faint sound of boots on grass and murmured conversation drifts away, leaving only the crackle of the fire and the heavy silence between him and Melkorn.

Melkorn's gaze softens for a moment. He leans forward, placing a firm hand on Lucien's shoulder. The contact jolts him slightly, grounding him just enough to look up.

"The Empire is gigantic," Melkorn says, his voice steady but low, as if he's choosing each word carefully. "It has so many people, so many branches. You can't possibly know if this was sanctioned by the Empire as a whole."

"But it was their soldiers, their orders." Lucien's voice rises, cracking with frustration. "Even if it wasn't sanctioned by the Emperor himself, someone high up must have known. Someone signed off on this." His hands clench into fists, shaking with suppressed anger and sorrow. "How do I make sense of that? How do I trust anything they stand for now?"

Melkorn hesitates briefly but doesn't look away. "The Empire signed the White-Gold Concordat twenty-seven years ago," he says, his tone measured. "It's possible they've become even more deeply aligned with the Thalmor since then, even though they initially wanted to resist that tyranny."

Lucien's shoulders sag further, and his voice drops to a whisper. "So, everything my mother fought for, everything she believed in…it's all been twisted. The Empire she bled for isn't the Empire that exists now." He shakes his head, a bitter laugh escaping his lips. "She'd be horrified if she knew. She'd…"

He trails off, his hands gripping his knees as if to keep himself from crumbling. "What am I supposed to do, Melkorn? How do I fight for anything when I don't even know what's worth fighting for?"

Melkorn's grip tightens on Lucien's shoulder. Then, in one fluid motion, he rises and pulls Lucien to his feet, forcing him to meet his eyes. The sudden movement jolts Lucien, his wide eyes locking onto Melkorn's intense gaze.

"The Empire may be dying," Melkorn says, his voice rising, filled with fire and conviction. "But what did it stand for? What is the Empire? It may have began as an Empire of humanity, born from the Alessian Slave Rebellion, where Men rose against their Elven oppressors to claim freedom. Under Alessia's banner, diverse human tribes united to overthrow tyranny."

He steps closer, his voice near manic. "But the Empire evolved. It became a realm where Men and Mer could stand together against common threats. Consider the alliances formed during the Second Era—the Ebonheart Pact united Nords, Dunmer, and Argonians to repel the Akaviri slavers.."

Melkorn's eyes blaze with intensity. "The White-Gold Tower, once a symbol of Ayleid oppression, used to be a beacon of hope for all races. The Empire betrayed its ideals when it signed the White-Gold Concordat, bowing to the Thalmor's demands. But the essence of the Empire—unity, freedom, and resistance to tyranny—still holds."

He pauses, letting his words sink in. "Stand with me. Fight with me for what the Empire used to be!"

Lucien's breath catches as the words resonate through him. He recognizes the bedrock of them—the teachings of Abnur Tharn, the great Chancellor of the Second Era. Words he's studied

"The Empire…" he whispers, his voice trembling. "Unity, strength, freedom from tyranny…" His hands tremble at his sides. "But how do we rebuild something that's been broken for so long? How do we fight for ideals when the people who should uphold them have turned their backs on them?"

Melkorn steps back, releasing Lucien, and offers his arm. His voice is steady, filled with unshakable resolve. "We start with freeing Skyrim. We force Cyrodiil to the table. And then we crush the Dominion, so there can be peace, and we can see the provinces united again."

His eyes blaze as he leans forward. "Take my arm, Lucien. Swear yourself fully to me, and I shall see it done. On the name of Melkorn, on any gods that may be listening, if I am lying let the daedric princes have me, I will see this done."

Lucien stares at the offered arm, his breath caught in his throat. The firelight dances between them, shadows playing across Melkorn's determined face. Slowly, he reaches out, his hand shaking as it clasps Melkorn's forearm.

"I swear," Lucien says, his voice gaining strength. "I swear myself to you, Melkorn. To your cause. To the Ideals of a once great empire. For Skyrim. For Cyrodiil. For Tamriel."

His grip tightens as he meets Melkorn's gaze. "On my name, Lucien Flavius, I swear to stand with you. Whatever it takes."

-Melkorn-

Lucien's grip tightens around my forearm, and I feel the weight of his words settle in the air between us. For a moment, the world seems still—the crackle of the fire, the distant murmurs of the others, all fading into the background. It's just us, standing here in this fragile moment, bound by an oath that carries the weight of nations.

I release his arm, stepping back and straightening. The look in Lucien's eyes has changed—no longer filled with uncertainty, but with a flickering resolve. It's raw, unrefined, but it's there.

"Good," I say. "Then let that oath guide you. Let it remind you of what we're fighting for when the path gets dark—and it will get dark, Lucien."

Lucien nods, his expression still a mix of emotions, but the trembling in his hands has stopped. "I won't let you down."

"I know you won't." I let a faint smile slip through.

I glance in the direction the others wandered, their shadows flickering faintly beyond the firelight. "They're probably eavesdropping," I say, the corner of my mouth twitching upward. I raise my voice. "You can come back now."

The rustling of movement follows as Lydia, Inigo, and Kaidan return to the fire. Inigo's sharp eyes flicker between us, his curiosity barely concealed. Lydia's expression is more guarded, but there's a trace of relief in her posture. Kaidan lingers slightly behind, arms crossed, nodachi still strapped to his back.

I nod to the group, my voice firm but lighter now. "Everything's fine. Let's sit. I believe Kaidan has a story worth hearing, and I think we should hear it."

The group settles, the tension easing as they take their places around the fire. The flames crackle, casting warm light on their faces. For now, the air feels a little less heavy. It's a small victory, but a victory nonetheless.

The fire crackles softly, its warmth doing little to ease the tension hanging in the air. Kaidan sits across from me, his nodachi resting against his shoulder. His eyes are fixed on the flames, his expression tight and unreadable.

Lydia, as always, cuts straight to the point. "Kaidan," she says, her tone sharp but not unkind. "Why were the Thalmor holding you? What's your story?"

He doesn't respond immediately, his jaw tightening as he shifts slightly. His fingers drum against his knee, the hesitation so brief it might have gone unnoticed—but not by me.

Finally, he sighs, his voice gruff. "Pale Pass," he mutters. "I was hunting a bounty. Simple job—or so I thought. Some bastard smuggling artifacts."

"And?" Lydia presses, leaning forward.

Kaidan's lip curls slightly. "And then the fucking Thalmor showed up," he says, his voice sharp. "Didn't ask questions, didn't give me a chance to explain. Just attacked. Took a few of them down, but… there were too many." He gestures vaguely at the fire, his gaze darkening. "Next thing I know, I'm waking up in that gods-forsaken cell."

Lucien fidgets, his discomfort obvious as he glances between Kaidan and the rest of us. "But why would they target you specifically? You said you were hunting a smuggler—why wouldn't they just deal with him and leave you alone?"

Kaidan hesitates again. His gaze flicks to the fire, and he shifts his weight as if trying to shake off the question. "Hell if I know," he finally mutters, his tone clipped. "They seemed more interested in me than the smuggler, but they sure as shit didn't tell me why."

His words feel hollow, like he's holding something back. My fingers twitch at my side, brushing against the pouch where the Justiciar's journal rests. The weight of it feels heavier now, like a burning reminder of the questions left unanswered. What does he know that he isn't saying? What could be so important about him?

Lydia narrows her eyes, her voice laced with suspicion. "You really don't know why they went after you? The Thalmor don't waste their time without a reason."

Kaidan meets her gaze, his jaw tight. "No," he snaps. "I don't. Maybe I pissed off the wrong person. Maybe they just didn't like the way I looked. Does it really matter?"

Lydia leans back slightly, her expression still guarded. "If you're going to travel with us, it does," she says evenly. "We need to know who we're dealing with."

Kaidan's grin returns, faint and tight. "All you need to know is that I can hold my own. And your mighty leader has accepted me."

The fire crackles in the silence that follows, and I glance around the group. Inigo's tail flicks lazily, his sharp eyes studying Kaidan with quiet curiosity. Lucien seems to be lost in thought from our conversation earlier.

I lean back, letting the moment settle but keeping my gaze on Kaidan. There's more to him—something he's not saying. The journal feels like it's burning a hole in my pouch, the answers just out of reach. For now, though, I let it go. There will be time to dig deeper later.

The fire crackles, its flickering light casting shadows across Kaidan's face. He leans forward slightly, his hands clasped loosely between his knees, but his eyes remain fixed on the flames. Lydia crosses her arms, her tone firm as she presses further.

"So, the Thalmor just happened to pick you up on a bounty run near Pale Pass?" she asks, skepticism lacing her words.

Kaidan exhales sharply, his gaze not moving from the fire. "Yeah. That's exactly what I said."

Lucien fidgets, his fingers brushing against his knee as he looks between Kaidan and the rest of us. "But why? The Thalmor don't usually bother with bounty hunters. They go after political threats, rebels, or people with connections they want to exploit."

Kaidan shrugs, the motion stiff. "I told you already, maybe I pissed off the wrong Justiciar. Or maybe they just needed a warm body to interrogate. Either way, it didn't end well for them."

There's an edge to his voice, a defiance that borders on hostility. Lydia narrows her eyes but doesn't press further—yet. Lucien shifts uncomfortably looking up to venture another question.

"And the others in that prison? Did you know them?"

Kaidan's jaw tightens for a moment before he shakes his head. "No. Didn't get the chance. By the time I woke up, most of them were already dead. Guess the Thalmor decided they weren't worth keeping alive."

"What about the smuggler you were tracking?" I ask, keeping my tone measured. "What happened to them?"

Kaidan lets out a low, humorless laugh. "Fuck if I know. Didn't have time during the ambush to keep an eye on them. Probably dead." He glances up briefly, his dark eyes sharp. "Does it really matter?"

His words do little to ease the tension, but there's no point in pushing further tonight. I glance at Lydia, her lips pressed into a thin line, then at Lucien, who's still watching Kaidan with a mix of curiosity and unease. Finally Inigo who seems to have not even been paying attention.

I lean back, my hand brushing the journal tucked in my belt pouch. The answers might not come from Kaidan's lips, but I'll get them soon enough. For now, I let the silence linger, the fire crackling softly as the group falls into an uneasy quiet.

The uneasy quiet of the camp stretches on, the crackle of the fire softening as embers burn low. One by one, the others settle into their routines—Lydia methodically sharpens her blade before slipping into her bedroll. Inigo hums a soft, unrecognizable tune to himself, his tail flicking lazily until sleep claims him. Lucien, despite his earlier turmoil, takes the time to practice his magic. Even Kaidan, guarded and tense, eventually leans back against a tree, his nodachi resting across his knees as his breathing steadies.

I wait, letting the silence settle fully, the world around us growing still save for the whisper of wind through the trees. Only when I'm certain everyone is lost to sleep do I rise, careful to keep silent. The journal tucked in my belt pouch feels heavier than it should, its secrets calling to me like a distant whisper. Stepping carefully beyond the ring of firelight, I find a spot just out of earshot, where the shadows seem to press in closer. With a quick glance back at the camp to ensure no one stirred, I lower myself to the ground, the journal in my hands.

The firelight no longer reaches here, but the faint blue glow of Candlelight hovers above me as I open the leather cover, the brittle pages crackling softly in the night air.

The answers are here. Now, it's time to find them.

I sit cross-legged, the journal open in my lap, its brittle pages illuminated by the soft glow of Candlelight. The worn leather cover still feels rough under my fingers, and as I flip through the first few pages, the brittle parchment crackles softly. The sharp, angular script of the Justiciar fills the pages.

"This frozen wasteland remains as unworthy of our attention as ever. Its people are stubborn, brutish, and blind to the Dominion's wisdom."

I scoff quietly, shaking my head. Thalmor arrogance practically bleeds from every word. Further along, another line catches my eye:

"Damnable—[illegible]—arrived from Alinor last week. A pompous fool, strutting through our camp as though he owns the entire province."

The faintest smirk tugs at my lips. Even among their own, it seems, the Thalmor have no shortage of pompous bastards. I continue skimming, catching snippets that hint at deeper operations:

"Dispatch to Fort Greenwall delayed—Stormcloak activity too close to the southern pass."
"An envoy from Cyrodiil brings word of the Empire's compliance."
"Morndas patrol routed near Ivarstead—failure to report suggests interference."

Troop movements. Weak points in their lines. My fingers tighten briefly on the edge of the page. This information could change the tide of the rebellion—but it's not what I'm looking for. Not yet.

Then, deeper into the journal, something stops me cold.

"Captured a potential threat near Pale Pass. Male, late twenties, heavily armed with Akaviri weapons and armor, though no formal identification. Resistant to interrogation—standard measures ineffective."

The words seem to sear themselves into my mind. I flip the page hastily, scanning for more.

"Further interrogation reveals little of value. Subject claims to be a bounty hunter, but his combat skill and tenacity suggest otherwise. His weapons—distinctly Akaviri—point to him being connected to the remnants of the Blades."

The Blades. My breath catches, and I lean closer, scanning the following lines:
"The Legion retreated from the prison like cowards. A storm was brewing, the floodwaters rising—but what of it? They abandoned their posts, cowards, and killed the unneeded prisoners. Such weakness would never be tolerated in Alinor. I stopped them from killing the prisoner I am interrogating and will stay until he breaks"

Cowards. The word is underlined, the ink heavier than the rest. The disgust practically drips from the page. So Kaidan was the only reason the thalmor were still there.

"He resists, but I will break him. If I can confirm his connection to the Blades, his death will be a worthy sacrifice to our cause. This man will lead us to their remnants in Skyrim."

The final entry is written in rushed strokes, almost illegible:
"The storm has worsened. Transport to the Embassy is delayed. If the waters recede by morning, I will ensure his extraction personally, he is too important to keep in such a place. The Blades must be eradicated."

I snap the journal shut, my grip tightening on the leather as if to crush the words inside. So that's what Kaidan was to them—a lead. A potential path to the Blades, or what remains of them.

My thoughts churn as I lean back, the journal slipping into my belt pouch. The Blades. Once the Emperor's most loyal protectors, now little more than scattered remnants. I sneer. They were supposed to serve the dragonborn. And yet, what did I find in the game? The Blades thought they could control the Dragonborn. This time, they'll remember their true role—or they'll burn with the Dominion.

My mind flickers with questions. Could Kaidan truly be connected to them? If he is, could he lead me to the remnants—the Sky Haven Temple, Delphine, Esbern?

The fire crackles faintly behind me, the warmth doing little to thaw the icy weight of the journal's revelations. I glance back at the camp. The others are quiet now, their forms still beneath their blankets, the night cloaking them in false peace. They have no idea of the storm I hold in my hands, no clue that the man I just welcomed into my service may be connected to such a group.

For now, I will keep the journal's truths to myself. There's too much I don't know, too much at stake to share half-formed suspicions. But the weight of it all presses down on me, heavier than steel.

-MD-
-MD-
-MD-

A sharp, freezing gust cuts through the camp, biting at my face and neck. My eyes snap open, and I instinctively pull the blanket tighter around me, though it does little against the chill. I exhale slowly, the faint plume of breath visible in the early morning air. A freezing gust is still a freezing gust, no matter how much I enjoy the cold.

Blinking away the haze of sleep, I sit up. The memories of last night linger, heavy and unyielding, but they are soon pushed aside as my senses fully wake. The crackle of the fire from the night before is gone, replaced by the faint scrape of boots on dirt and the rustle of packed supplies.

Lydia stands near the extinguished fire pit, her back to me as she crouches to bury the last glowing embers with dirt. The tip of her boot presses down methodically, smothering the remnants of heat and light. The morning sunlight filters weakly through the canopy above, casting long shadows across the camp.

"Morning, my Thane," she says without turning, her tone brisk and matter-of-fact. "I trust you slept well?"

"Well enough," I reply, my voice thick with sleep. "Though I wouldn't call waking up to a frozen face particularly pleasant."

She glances over her shoulder, the faintest hint of amusement flickering in her otherwise stoic expression. "A little cold keeps the senses sharp."

I rise, rolling my shoulders to shake off the stiffness of sleep. The blanket falls away, and the icy morning air rushes in, making me wince despite myself. I glance around the camp. Inigo is already awake, humming softly to himself. His ears twitch in rhythm with his melody, his tail curling lazily behind him.

Lucien is less prepared. He's still wrapped in his blanket, his eyes half-closed as he fights off the pull of sleep. Kaidan, unsurprisingly after his imprisonment, is the last to stir, his broad form shifting slightly beneath his cloak as he mutters something unintelligible.

Lydia rises, dusting her hands against her thighs as she surveys the camp. "We'll need to be on the road soon," she says, her voice firm. "The sun's already climbing."

I raise a hand to stop her. "Hold on," I say, stepping toward the fire pit. Lydia freezes mid-motion, her brow furrowing in confusion as I extend my hand. A small surge of magicka crackles through my palm, and with a quick motion, I cast Flame. The smothered embers roar to life, flames licking hungrily at the charred wood.

"Lucien," I call, glancing toward him. He's still half-wrapped in his blanket but blinks up at me, startled. "Grab some wood and throw it on."

He hesitates, glancing between me and Lydia, his confusion mirroring hers. "Er, of course. Right away."

Lydia straightens, her expression sharp. "My Thane," she says, her voice edged with concern. "We need to be moving. We can't afford to waste time."

I grin at her, the kind of grin that always seems to put her on edge. "No," I say, my tone light but firm. "We're taking today off."

Her brow arches, her confusion deepening. "What? My Thane, that's—"

"Necessary," I cut her off, folding my arms as I meet her gaze. "We've been pushing hard, and the road ahead will not get any easier. A day to rest, regroup, and gather our strength will do us more good than pushing forward on tired legs and frayed nerves."

Lydia opens her mouth to argue but stops herself, exhaling slowly as she presses her lips into a thin line. "As you command," she says, though her tone makes it clear she doesn't entirely agree.

I chuckle, stepping over to my pack. "Relax, Lydia. It's Saturalia. If we can't take one day to breathe, what's the point of all this?"

At that, she hesitates, her posture softening slightly. "Saturalia," she repeats, almost to herself. She glances at the others, who are now stirring at the commotion. Inigo's ears perk up, and Lucien looks on with a mix of surprise and intrigue. Even Kaidan is sitting up now, his expression unreadable.

"Happy Saturalia, everyone," I say, pulling a bottle of mead from my pack and holding it aloft. "Let's make the most of it."

Lucien's eyes light up at the mention of Saturalia, and he sits up straighter, adjusting his scarf against the cold. "Oh my, I'd nearly forgotten!" he exclaims, his tone filled with a mix of excitement and guilt. "I—I don't have gifts."

Inigo stretches lazily, a sly grin spreading across his face as his tail swishes behind him. "This one did not forget," he says dramatically, producing a slightly crumpled but colorful cloth from his pack. He drapes it over his arm like a merchant displaying his wares. "A gift for all of you—my companionship, freely given. Truly, the greatest treasure."

Kaidan snorts, shaking his head. "You really do love the sound of your own voice, don't you?"

"And you will learn to enjoy it," Inigo retorts, his grin growing wider. He glances at me and raises an eyebrow. "What about you, my friend? Surely you have something grand to share with the group."

I smirk, leaning back and pulling another bottle of mead from my pack. "Boasts, oaths, and toasts. That's how my family celebrated this time of year. So why don't we start with a boast? Who's got a tale worth sharing?"

As the group settles around the fire, the glow casting flickering shadows across their faces, Inigo leans forward, his grin as wide as the horizon. His tail flicks lazily behind him, and his voice carries that familiar mix of theatrics and sincerity.

"I suppose it falls to me to share the grandest boast of them all," he declares, his tone dripping with playful arrogance. "Prepare yourselves, my friends, for a tale of transformation, terror, and triumph!"

Lucien chuckles nervously. "I feel like I should be taking notes."

Inigo waves him off with a flourish. "Fear not, my scholarly friend. The details shall sear themselves into your memory."

The Khajiit's eyes gleam as he begins. "It was not long after I acquired these scars," he says, gesturing to his face with a clawed finger. "Weary, battered, and reeking of trouble, I arrived in Windhelm. All I sought was a warm meal and a soft bed. Alas, the Nords of that city had other ideas. Distrustful eyes followed me, and the innkeeper, a sour old man with less warmth than the frost outside, refused me shelter."

Lydia raises an eyebrow. "Typical Windhelm."

"Indeed!" Inigo exclaims. "But fortune—or so I thought—smiled upon me. Three brothers, burly and grinning, offered me a place to rest for the night. For a modest sum, of course. Against my better judgment, I accepted."

Kaidan grunts. "Let me guess. It didn't go as planned."

Inigo holds up a finger. "Patience, my friend! The best tales require suspense. The brothers led me to a hidden passage, one that opened with a clever knock on the wall. I should have turned back then, but curiosity has always been my weakness."

He pauses for dramatic effect, the firelight glinting in his eyes. "What awaited me was no humble home but a cavernous chamber filled with jars. Jars of all shapes and sizes. And inside? Insects—dragonflies, moths, butterflies—each more unsettling than the last. Before I could comprehend the horror of it all, they captured me and placed me into one of those cursed jars!"

Lucien's jaw drops. "You were... trapped in a jar?"

"Not just any jar," Inigo says, leaning closer. "A jar fit for a dragonfly. For you see, I had been transformed! My hands replaced by pincers, my legs by spindly, fragile limbs. It was a nightmare made real."

Lydia scoffs, though a smirk tugs at her lips. "And yet, here you are."

Inigo nods solemnly. "Indeed. My escape was no small feat. With the help of another captive—a wise and brave dragonfly—I toppled my jar, broke free, and unleashed chaos upon my captors. The brothers? They chased me through Windhelm, their shouts echoing through the icy streets. But I, Inigo the Bold, outwitted them."

"How?" I ask, grinning..

Inigo grins. "By luring them to the city's bridge and casting my dragonfly companion's jar into the river. In their desperation to save what they thought was their mother, they leapt after it." He pauses. "The water was shallow. They did not survive."

Lucien pales. "That's... quite the ending."

"It was justice," Inigo says firmly. "And so, with my companion, whom I named Mr. Dragonfly, I fled Windhelm. To this day, his jar remains by my side, a reminder of that harrowing night."

As Inigo finishes his tale, he reaches down and gently pats the small jar sitting beside him, its glass glinting faintly in the firelight. The group's eyes follow the gesture, and Lucien suddenly leans forward, his expression a mixture of realization and astonishment.

"So that's why you carry that around!" Lucien exclaims, pointing at the jar.

Inigo nods solemnly, his fingers lingering on the jar's lid. "Indeed, my friend. Mr. Dragonfly is more than a keepsake. He is a companion, a reminder of resilience, and, above all, a true friend."

Lucien stares at the jar, blinking. "I thought it was... just a quirky Khajiit thing."

The group chuckles, and even Lydia cracks a small smile. "Of course you did," she says dryly.

Inigo spreads his arms wide, his grin returning. "Laugh if you must, but know this: few can boast of outwitting their captors while in the form of a dragonfly. And that, my friends, is why my tale soars above the rest."

Kaidan snorts, breaking the moment's tension. "A jar, huh? That's a new one."

I chuckle, raising my glass in toast. "To Inigo the Bold, and his dragonfly escapades! May the rest of us have boasts half as entertaining."

Kaidan raises his cup with a grin. "To Mr. Dragonfly, the hero of Inigo's boast."

I raise my cup again, the warmth of the fire flickering across my grin. "Lydia," I say, the edge of my voice teasing, "you're sitting awfully quiet. Surely my housecarl has a story worth sharing."

She shifts slightly, her shoulders stiffening. For a moment, I think she might brush me off, but then she straightens and glances around the fire, her jaw relaxing. "Fine," she says. "If you want a story, I'll give you one."

The air shifts as she begins, the quiet hum of the fire framing her words. "Years ago, back when I first started mercenary work, I took a bounty that led me into a trap. Twelve bandits, waiting for me to wander in like prey. I should've known—it was too easy, too clean. But I walked right into their ambush."

Her eyes cloud with the memory. "They thought I'd fold, that I'd give up without a fight, and were likely eager to have a woman. But I knew the terrain. There was a bridge nearby, old and worn, barely holding together. So, I retreated—made them think they had me on the run."

She grins, and I can almost see the scene through her eyes. "I led them right onto that bridge, all twelve of them, laughing and jeering, convinced they'd won. And then…" She pauses, her gaze flicking to Lucien. "A scroll of Shatter Earth is a powerful thing. I let it loose, and the bridge collapsed in one deafening roar."

Lucien leans forward, his eyes wide. "And the bandits?"

"Gone," she says simply, a light small on her face. "Swept into the gorge below. Their shouts faded before the dust even settled."

The group is silent for a moment, until I chuckle and tilt my head. "And the bounty? Did you climb down for it?"

Lydia sighs. "I did. It wasn't easy, and it wasn't quick. But I wasn't about to leave empty-handed."

She leans back slightly, her expression guarded but firm. "It may be nothing compared to Kodlak and Skjor fighting off a hundred-and-one Orc berserkers but I think it's a good story."

I raise my cup to her, a grin spreading across my face. "To Lydia, who outsmarted twelve bandits when she was a baby faced rookie."

The group murmurs their agreement, lifting their cups in a toast. Lydia's lips twitch into the faintest of smiles, though she quickly hides it behind her drink.

Lydia leans back slightly, her cup in hand, and her gaze sharpens on me. "Well, my Thane," she says, her tone cutting but not unkind, "surely you have more to boast about than that fight with the dragon?"

Kaidan's sharp inhale is subtle but loud enough to catch my attention. His expression doesn't betray much, but I catch the flicker of surprise. He hides it quickly, lifting his mug and taking a deep, deliberate chug.

I raise a brow at him before letting a grin spread across my face, leaning forward slightly as if to address them all. "Well now," I say, my voice carrying just enough flair to draw their full attention, "I suppose I do have more to boast about than the amazing leap I made to kill a dragon and reveal that I am Dragonborn."

Lucien freezes mid-sip, his cup hovering in the air as his wide eyes lock onto me. His mouth opens, then closes, like a fish struggling to find air. His thoughts are written plainly across his face—shock, disbelief, then the unmistakable spark of curiosity that always follows. He looks ready to burst with questions, his excitement barely contained. I never did tell him I was the dragonborn.

Kaidan, meanwhile, lowers his cup, his face unreadable as he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. "Dragonborn, eh?" he mutters, his tone almost casual, though I can see the muscles in his jaw tense as he fights to keep his reaction neutral.

I glance between the two, allowing a slow, knowing smile to curve my lips. "You both look like you've got thoughts. Hold onto them for now." I lean back, swirling the mead in my cup before lifting it slightly, the firelight catching the amber liquid. "Because I'll tell you this—the dragon wasn't the start and this story is worth telling."

I lean back in my seat, the flickering firelight playing across my face as I swirl the mead in my cup. My mind churns. What do I have to boast about? Clearing forts and collecting bounties are fine accomplishments, but they pale in comparison to the epics sung in halls like Jorrvaskr. Back on Earth, I had my fun, got into fights, pulled off some wild stunts, but none of that feels worthy of a proper boast here.

A wide grin splits my face as an idea forms. If real deeds aren't enough, perhaps a little embellishment—drawn from playing DnD—will do the trick.

I straighten, taking a long drink from my cup. "All right, since Lydia insists I boast, let me tell you about the time I had to fight half a dozen cultists stark naked."

Lucien almost chokes on his drink, coughing as he sets his cup down and leans forward, wide-eyed. "Naked?" he blurts. "Truly?"

Kaidan grins, leaning back with an amused huff. "This I've got to hear."

Even Lydia quirks a brow, though she's clearly trying not to look too interested.

I grin wider, settling into my tale. "So there I am, in a brothel in Balmora, drunk off my ass after celebrating a successful bounty. I wake up in the dead of night to chaos—the brothel's on fire, and my traveling companion is gone. Turns out, a cult had snatched her, thinking they could use her for some ritual."

The group leans in slightly, caught by the story's momentum.

"I wasn't about to let that stand. So, I grab my sword and go charging down the street, casting clairvoyance to track them—and completely forgetting to put on any clothes. Yes, Lucien," I add, pointing at him as his mouth opens, "that includes my pants. Little Melkorn was swinging free in the wind."

Lucien flushes crimson, clapping a hand over his mouth as a laugh escapes. Kaidan lets out a low chuckle, shaking his head. Even Lydia snorts, though she tries to hide it behind her cup.

"Anyway," I continue, "the trail leads me outside the city, to some underground cavern. I rush in, half-crazed from drink and rage, and there they are—half a dozen cultists, chanting and readying what looks like a daedric ritual."

"And you fought them? Naked?" Kaidan asks, incredulous.

"Fought them? I slaughtered them!" I declare, slamming my hand on my knee for emphasis. "Sword in one hand, spells in the other, I cut them down like wheat before the scythe. They didn't stand a chance."

"And your companion?" Lydia asks, her tone skeptical but curious.

I roll my eyes. "Rescued her from their altar just before they could start their ritual. And do you know how she thanked me? Did she kiss me? No. Did she fall into my arms, overcome with gratitude, and—well, you know?" I smirk, pausing for effect as Lucien blushes. "Of course not. The cheeky bitch looks me up and down, sees I'm still naked, and says, 'What took you so long?'"

Laughter ripples through the group, even Lydia letting out a short chuckle. Lucien is practically doubled over, and Inigo nearly falls from his log.

The laughter from my tale hasn't quite died down when Kaidan leans forward, his cup resting lazily in one hand. A grin spreads across his face as he catches the group's attention. "A naked Dragonborn fighting cultists, eh? That's a good one, Melkorn. But let me tell you about the time I killed a werewolf with my bare hands."

The fire crackles in the stunned silence that follows. Lucien's head jerks up so fast he nearly spills his drink, his wide eyes fixed on Kaidan. "A werewolf? Bare hands? You're joking."

Kaidan leans back, his grin widening as he takes a slow, deliberate sip of his mead. "Not joking. And not the first beast I've tangled with either, but it's the one that left the most scars—and the best story."

Even Lydia looks interested now, tilting her head slightly as she folds her arms. "Go on, then. Let's hear it."

Kaidan sets his cup down with a heavy thud, flexing his fingers as if recalling the feel of the fight. "It was years ago, back when I was running bounty jobs in Cyrodiil. There was a small village near the border. Livestock slaughtered, people dragged into the woods and never seen again. When the villagers offered me good coin to deal with it, I thought, 'Why not?' A bit of glory, a fat purse—it seemed straightforward enough."

"And let me guess," I cut in, smirking. "You got cocky."

He laughs, low and rough. "Of course. I tracked the beast to a cave deep in the forest, expecting a rabid wolf or maybe a troll. What I found was twice my size, covered in fur and fangs, with claws that could tear a man in two. Before I could finish drawing my sword, it was on me, knocking me flat on my back. My blade went skittering off into the dark, and there I was—staring into those glowing yellow eyes, the stench of its breath choking me."

Lucien looks like he's forgotten how to breathe, hanging on every word. "What did you do?"

Kaidan's grin turns feral, and he raises his hands, flexing his fingers for effect. "What could I do? I grabbed its throat, held on for dear life, and fought back."

"You wrestled it?" Lucien exclaims, incredulous.

Kaidan shrugs, the grin never leaving his face. "Didn't have much choice, did I? It was clawing at me, snarling, trying to rip my guts out. But I wasn't about to die like that. I got my hand around its jaws and ripped its head clean in half!"

Silence falls as the group takes in his words.

"Then what happened?" I ask, raising a brow.

Kaidan picks up his cup again, his tone turning almost casual. "Dragged the carcass back to the village. I got my coin, a few free drinks, and a hell of a reputation in that village."

Lucien shakes his head slowly, his voice awed. "You fought a werewolf with your bare hands. That's…that's incredible."

Kaidan smirks, tipping his cup toward Lucien. "Aye, it was. But I wouldn't recommend it."

I chuckle, raising my own drink. "Well, Kaidan, that's one hell of a boast. But next time, let's hope you've got a blade handy."

He raises his cup in return, his grin widening. "Next time, I'll hope it's a smaller beast."

The fire crackles as I lean forward, pointing my tankard at Kaidan. My grin widens, fueled by the warmth of mead and the lingering emotion from the boasts around the fire. "You've fought a werewolf with your bare hands," I say, my tone light but challenging. "Let's see if I can fare any better."

The group falls silent for a moment, then Inigo's laugh rings out, a rich, amused sound. "Oh, this is going to be good. Two warriors, both full of bravado—and mead."

Kaidan smirks, tilting his tankard to his lips before setting it aside. "You're serious?" he asks, standing and rolling his shoulders. "All right, Dragonborn. Let's see what you've got."

I shrug off my cloak, feeling the cool air bite against my skin. My muscles hum with anticipation, my blood buzzing from the alcohol. "No weapons. Just fists."

We square off, the firelight casting flickering shadows across the ground. Kaidan's stance is solid, his weight balanced. I stay light on my feet, my fists raised, ready to move.

He throws the first punch—a quick jab aimed at my jaw. I weave to the side, his fist grazing past my cheek. I counter with a sharp hook to his ribs, the impact solid but not enough to faze him.

"You're quick," he says, his grin widening.

He feints high, then drives a heavy punch toward my midsection. I twist, deflecting the blow with my elbow, but the force still sends me stumbling back a step. The group cheers, their voices blending with the crackle of the fire.

I dart in, letting loose a quick series of jabs, but Kaidan blocks them with ease, his forearms absorbing the hits. He steps in close, and grabs my shoulder, attempting to pull me in.

Not today. I plant my foot and twist, breaking free and landing a quick jab to his side.

The fight continues, each exchange drawing cheers and jeers from the group. Sweat beads on my brow, until finally it ends with a laugh as our feet tangle drunkenly in close and we fall as we try to back up.

"All right," he says, his breathing heavy. "Enough," Kaidan says laughing

The group erupts in cheers, and I grin as I stand, my chest heaving. Lucien stares at me, wide-eyed. "You're insane," he says, though there's a note of admiration in his voice.

"And you're next," I quip, pointing at him with a grin.

Lucien stammers, his face flushing. "I'll pass, thank you very much! My bones and I have an understanding—they prefer to stay intact."

The day unfolds in a kaleidoscope of laughter, boasts, and friendly rivalries. As the fire crackles, each of us takes turns spinning tales of glory and madness.

Inigo, ever the showman, stands dramatically beside the fire, a wooden sword in hand. With an exaggerated bow to Lucien, he declares, "A duel, my friend! Scholar versus swordsman!" Lucien hesitates, clutching his practice blade as if it might turn to dust in his grip. But after a nudge from Kaidan and me pushing him forward, he rises to the challenge.

The two circle each other, the Khajiit's movements fluid and feline, while Lucien fumbles through basic stances, obviously drunk. The first clash of wood echoes through the camp, followed by Inigo's theatrical flourishes. The fight ends in predictable chaos, Lucien losing his footing and falling flat on his back. Instead of indignation, he bursts out laughing, the sound infectious.

More mead flows, the bottles emptying faster than anyone expected, making me grateful I bought so many in Falkreath. The tales grow grander and more ridiculous. Lydia, cheeks flushed from drink and warmth, recounts a particularly harrowing fight with a band of trolls, only for Kaidan to one-up her with his tale of bare-handed combat against a giant.

By late afternoon, the drinks have loosened even the most stoic among us. Kaidan and I end up in another brawling match, this time pulling in Inigo. It ends with us all collapsing in a heap, laughing and declaring an unspoken truce for the day.

As the sun dips below the horizon, the sparring and boasts fade into softer moments. Inigo and Lucien sit side by side, the Khajiit teaching him the basics of an old, lilting tune. Kaidan leans against a log, arms crossed but a faint smile tugging at his lips. I grab Lydia's hand in a moment of impulsive energy, pulling her into a dance by the fire. She resists at first, muttering something about propriety, but the warmth of the drink and the laughter of the group soften her protests.

We spin and sway, the world narrowing to the rhythm of our steps and the crackle of the fire. The others clap along, Kaidan even letting out a rare cheer. As the dance slows, I catch Lydia around the shoulders and raise my glass high.

"To old friends and new," I declare, my voice carrying over the night's quiet. "To the road ahead and the road behind!"

The others join in, their glasses raised, voices mingling into a single, heartfelt cheer. In that moment, beneath the vast expanse of stars, the fire's warmth behind us, it is easy to forget the danger awaiting us.

-MD-
-MD-
-MD-

The light filtering through the canopy pricks at my closed eyes, sharp and unwelcome. My head throbs faintly—a dull reminder of the night before. I groan, shifting slightly in my bedroll, half-tempted to bury myself back into its warmth. The fire from last night has dwindled to a few smoldering embers, its heat barely noticeable in the crisp morning air.

For a moment, I consider staying put, letting the world wait just a little longer. But no, I've been given a new life and would prefer to not indulge in laziness. With a sigh, I push myself upright, stretching until my back pops. The cold bites at my skin, making me wince. The temptation to return to the bedroll lingers, but I shake it off. No time for weakness.

I glance around the camp, expecting to see Lydia's ever-efficient self already bustling about. But to my surprise—and amusement—she's still wrapped in her bedroll, her chest rising and falling in the steady rhythm of sleep. A chuckle escapes me. If I want her to relax, I might have to make "getting Lydia drunk" a regular occurrence.

Shaking my head, I begin to stir the campfire back to life. The flames lick hungrily at the kindling, warming the chill from the air. As the fire crackles to life, I set a pot of water to heat, the promise of tea—or whatever is left in our provisions—a small comfort against the cold.

By the time the campfire crackles merrily, sending faint tendrils of smoke into the morning sky, the others begin to stir. Lydia is the first to rise, groaning softly as she rubs her temples. Her glare when she notices my smirk is enough to make me stifle my amusement—barely.

"I trust you slept well, my Thane," she says dryly, pulling her bedroll tighter around her shoulders.

"Well enough, though I'll admit it's rare to see you so... unguarded," I reply with a teasing smirk. She mutters something unintelligible under her breath, busying herself with packing up the remnants of camp.

Lucien stumbles out of his bedroll next, his hair a mess and his face drawn. "Never again," he mumbles, glaring at the mead glass beside his bedroll as if it had personally wronged him. Inigo, as usual, is alert and chipper.

Kaidan's heavy footsteps approach, his eyes scanning the treeline as he rolls his shoulders. "Good morning," he grunts. "Let's hope it stays that way."

With the camp packed and everyone ready, we set off down the road. The air is crisp, the sun climbing higher, casting long shadows from the towering pines. Birds call out in the distance, their melodies a stark contrast to the faint ache in my head. The road is quiet, save for the steady clink of weapons and armor.

We walk for hours, the conversation light and infrequent. My thoughts drift, replaying the events of last night. Laughter, boasts, camaraderie—it was a rare reprieve, a chance to be something other than soldiers and killers. But now, with the road stretching ahead, the weight of our journey settles back over us.

The path curves ahead, revealing a rise that offers a clearer view of the terrain. As we crest it, a stone structure looms in the distance—a fort. I slow my pace, a faint prickle of unease skittering down my spine. Something about the place feels... off, it tickles at my blurry memories of the game.

"Hold," I say, raising a hand. The group halts, their eyes following mine toward the fort. The silence is palpable, heavy with anticipation. Even the birds have fallen quiet.

Kaidan sniffs the air, his brow furrowing. "Magic," he mutters. "It's faint, but it's there."

"Bandits, maybe?" Lydia suggests, her voice low. Her hand hovers near the hilt of her sword, ever vigilant.

"Inigo," I say, turning to the Khajiit. "Scout ahead. Quietly."

He nods, his expression serious as he pulls his hood up and melts into the shadows. The rest of us wait, the tension building with each passing moment. My gaze remains fixed on the fort, its gates closed.

Inigo returns after a few minutes, his movements fluid and silent as he emerges from the treeline. His expression is calm but serious, his tail flicking behind him in a telltale sign of unease.

"The fort is occupied," he says, his voice low. "Bandits, by the look of them. They've set up in the courtyard and on the walls. At least a dozen, likely more inside."

Kaidan crosses his arms, a frown deepening the lines on his face. "Did they see you?"

Inigo shakes his head. "No, my friend. I was careful and they are not the most vigilant of guards."

"What's their setup?" I ask. "Archers? Watch patterns?"

"A few with bows on the ramparts," Inigo replies. "The rest seem scattered—some near the main gate, others by the central courtyard. They're lounging about, not expecting trouble."

I nod, considering our options. The fort isn't heavily fortified, but a frontal assault could still prove costly. A dozen men can turn into twenty in the chaos of a fight if they have reinforcements hiding in the towers.

"We can avoid them," Lucien suggests, his voice uncertain. "It's not like we have to clear every bandit nest we come across."

Lydia snorts, her hand resting on the hilt of her sword. "And let them continue preying on travelers? That's not an option."

Kaidan grunts in agreement. "I'm with her. We can take out a fort of bandits."

I glance at Inigo, who shrugs. "I go where you go, my friend."

My gaze settles on the fort, a grin tugging at the corner of my mouth. "Then it's settled. We're not just passing through. Let's make the roads a bit safer, and who knows they may have some loot worth taking."

The road feels too still as we approach the fort. My heart thrums with a feral energy, anticipation building in my chest. I glance at the heavy gates ahead, bandits moving behind the ramparts. Their voices grow louder as we draw near, though I barely hear them. My focus is locked on the weight deep in my chest, the power that has been coiled there since Mirmilnur.

I couldn't use it against the Justiciar—not in those tunnels where I could've brought the ceiling down on myself and Kaidan. But here? Here, in the open air, with the enemy standing smugly behind their walls? I can feel it rising, the force that's mine to command, waiting to be unleashed.

The bandits notice us as we approach. One shouts down from the ramparts. "That's close enough! Turn around, or we'll fill you full of holes!"

I don't stop. My strides are steady, deliberate. Their laughter fades into confusion as I ignore their warnings. One of the archers leans over the edge, his bow in hand. "I said halt! One more step and—"

The rest of his words are lost as I stop 30 feet from the gate. The weight inside me shifts, becoming a roaring crescendo. I open my mouth, and the world seems to narrow to a single point as I draw on the power burned into my soul. My chest resonates, my throat burns, and then I let it loose.

"FUS!"

The shout tears through the air like a thunderclap as I feel my throat shred under the force, pain lancing through me as the sound distorts reality itself. The air warps, rippling outward in a violent wave of power.

The gate doesn't just crack—it shatters. Wood, iron, and stone explode inward in a storm of splinters and debris. The rampart above collapses under the force, sending bandits scrambling and falling with cries of panic. Dust and smoke billow outward, obscuring the wreckage.

I stand there for a moment, my throat raw and burning and I taste blood on my tongue, but the grin splitting my face is wide and wild. My blood is singing, my hands trembling with adrenaline and the thrill of power. This is what it means to wield the Thu'um.

AN

A bit of a lighter chapter, do hope you enjoyed the interactions though

As always I do have a dirty P word that is 3 chapters ahead under the name MandTeKad