Lydia awoke early, as she always did. The warmth of her furs made it tempting to linger in bed, but she had never been one to indulge in idleness. As her eyes adjusted to the dim morning light filtering through the wooden shutters, the events of the previous day returned to her in a rush.
The dragon. The battle. The power that had surged through her as its very essence was drawn into her.
She sat up, running a hand over her face as if to steady herself. Still can't believe I'm the Dragonborn…
The thought lingered as she rose, but she pushed it aside for now. Dwelling on it wouldn't change anything, and there was much to do. She dressed quickly, fastening the straps of her armour with practiced efficiency, and secured her sword at her hip before stepping out of her room.
As she descended the wooden steps into the main room of Breezehome, she paused at the sight before her.
Altaïr was already awake.
He sat in a chair near the fire pit, one leg crossed over the other, a book open in his hands. He was dressed in a dark-coloured tunic rather than the hooded robes he usually wore, leaving his face unobscured.
At the sound of her footsteps, he flicked his eyes up, nodding slightly in acknowledgment before returning to his reading.
"Good morning to you, Thane," Lydia greeted, her voice breaking the quiet of the house.
"Peace be upon you," Altaïr replied, turning another page without looking up. "And I've told you not to call me that."
Lydia blinked, before lowering her head. "I'm sorry."
Her eyes drifted to the book's cover. The title was embossed in gold lettering: The Great War.
"It's nothing to apologise for," the Assassin spoke calmly. He paused, before continuing. "It is strange. Your people speak as I do, yet the writing is different. And somehow, I understand it."
Lydia glanced at him with confusion in her eyes.
"…Maybe we're not actually speaking the same language," she mused. "There are spells that translate speech. If you ended up here by magic, maybe whatever brought you here made sure you could understand us."
Altaïr exhaled slowly as he mulled over her words. The Piece of Eden remained an enigma to him. It had shown him visions beyond his understanding, bent the wills of men, and even brought him to this foreign world. If it could do such things, then the fact that he could understand their language – both spoken and written – was perhaps just another of its unnatural abilities.
"Perhaps," he admitted. "So, we are to seek out these… Greybeards, was it?"
Lydia nodded. "Yes. They live in High Hrothgar, a monastery on the Throat of the World."
"The Throat of the World?" Altaïr repeated, tilting his head slightly at the name.
"The tallest mountain in Tamriel," she explained. "You've probably seen it, actually."
"Perhaps," Altaïr crossed his arms, processing the information. "How long will it take to reach them?"
"Well…" the housecarl glanced at the window, gauging the morning light. "First, we'll need to reach Ivarstead, a village to the southeast. It's not too far, but the road wraps around the mountain, so it'll take us half a day to get there."
"What is Ivarstead?" the Assassin asked.
"A small village at the base of the mountain," Lydia replied. "Most travellers pass through it on their way to High Hrothgar."
Altaïr hummed. "Then we will need supplies for the journey. If the Jarl is sending us, I assume he can provide provisions?"
"Most likely," Lydia agreed. "I'll speak with him about it." She turned toward the cooking pot in the centre of the room. "But before that, I can prepare something to eat before we go. Best to travel on a full stomach."
Altaïr simply nodded in approval, already sinking back into the book, his eyes scanning the pages with quiet focus. Lydia shook her head slightly, then set about preparing their meal.
As she stirred the pot, the rich scent of simmering stew filled the room, wrapping it in a comforting warmth. The fire crackled in the hearth, casting shifting shadows across the stone walls, but Lydia barely paid it any mind. Her thoughts were elsewhere – on her new Thane.
The conversation between him and Jarl Balgruuf the previous day echoed in her mind.
An assassin.
She wasn't sure what to make of it. In hindsight, it explained a great deal about what she knew of the man. The way he moved, fought, and sneaked – he was extremely stealthy. His hidden blade was the perfect weapon for a silent killer.
He had admitted, without hesitation, that he had taken lives before. Yet he spoke of fighting for peace. She found herself agreeing with Hrongar. How could a man who killed in cold blood claim to stand for something so… noble?
Her grip tightened, stirring with more force than necessary. She wanted to believe him. He had fought the dragon alongside them without hesitation, risked his own life. That meant something. Didn't it?
Curiosity warred with caution. She wanted to understand him – to know more about the world he came from, about what kind of man he really was beneath that hood. But the uncertainty remained.
With a quiet sigh, she ladled some of the stew into a wooden bowl and turned toward him. He hadn't moved from his chair, still engrossed in his reading, firelight flickering against the sharp angles of his face.
She approached, setting the bowl beside him. "Here," she said simply.
The Assassin looked up, offering a slight nod before closing the book. "Thank you."
Lydia settled onto a chair with a bowl of her own, blowing lightly on the steaming broth. The silence stretched between them, not entirely uncomfortable, but heavy with unspoken thoughts. She cast a glance at him every now and then.
Altaïr had saved her life—more than once. She owed him for that. But no matter how much she tried to push it aside, a nagging doubt lingered in the back of her mind. Had she been too hasty in refusing Jarl Balgruuf's offer? In pledging her service to a man she barely knew?
Taking lives wasn't foreign to her. She was a warrior, a housecarl, trained to fight and, if necessary, to die for her Thane. But there was a difference. Nords fought with honour – face-to-face, steel against steel. Assassins did not. They struck from the shadows, ended lives before their victims even knew they were in danger.
That was what unsettled her.
She knew the kind of men she had killed – murderers, bandits, those who drew steel against her first. It was simple. But who were the men Altaïr had slain? He had spoken briefly of them before Balgruuf, claimed they had deserved it. And she wanted to believe him. But how many had there been? And how easily could he take a life? Could he kill an innocent if ordered to?
At first, she had been certain he was a worthy Thane to follow. But the revelation of what he truly was... it complicated things.
Yet, despite everything, she wanted to trust him. He had done nothing to suggest he was a threat—to her, to the people of Whiterun, or to the Jarl. He was not cruel or callous, nor was he difficult to be around. If anything, he was strangely... restrained. Calculated.
Besides, what other choice did she have?
It was either this or taking up the mantle of Thane herself – something she had no desire for. Jarl Balgruuf had made it clear that her role as a simple guard was no longer an option. As Dragonborn, she supposedly had some grand 'responsibility' to Skyrim as a whole, whether she wanted it or not. If she refused, she would be sent to serve another Thane anyway. At least with Altaïr, she had some say in the matter.
And perhaps the Jarl was right to grant him that title. He had played a vital role in slaying the dragon, after all. That had to mean something.
Maybe she was overthinking things. Whatever crimes he may have committed, they were in his world, not this one. That part was quite strange, and she wanted to ask him more about it.
Lydia exhaled softly, stirring her stew with slow, absentminded movements. She would watch, she would listen, and she would decide for herself what kind of man her Thane truly was.
Altaïr secured his robes and stepped outside with Lydia. The city was already stirring to life – as the sun climbed higher over Whiterun, casting a warm glow over the stone-paved streets, merchants setting up their stalls, townsfolk hurrying about their morning routines, the distant clang of a hammer striking metal ringing from the forges.
Lydia turned toward Dragonsreach, ready to report to the Jarl, but before she could take a step, Altaïr placed a hand on her shoulder, stopping her.
"I need throwing knives," he said. "I lost some during the fight with the dragon. Where can I find a blacksmith?"
She nodded toward a structure perched on the hillside behind the familiar building, which looked like an upturned ship. "Eorlund Gray-Mane works the Skyforge up there, behind Jorrvaskr. Best blacksmith in all of Skyrim."
Altaïr followed her gaze, taking note of the building. "Very well. I will wait for you there."
Lydia gave a nod before heading up the steps to Dragonsreach, leaving Altaïr to make his way toward the forge. He passed through the district, moving with ease through the gathering crowds.
As he neared Jorrvaskr, the name lingered in his mind. He had heard it spoken before – one of the Companions had mentioned it in passing the day prior. He soon found out why.
Walking around the structure, he found himself at a large training yard. Warriors moved with practiced skill, sparring against one another with heavy strikes and sharp footwork. Among them, he recognized the two he had seen before – the twins, Farkas and Vilkas, engaged in a bout with two other Companions.
As Altaïr approached the training yard, Aela stood with her arms crossed, surveying the sparring Companions with a keen eye. Beside her, two older men stood with a quiet but unmistakable authority – one bald, with a scarred face and a single piercing eye, the other bearded, exuding the calm presence of a seasoned leader.
Aela was the first to notice him, a smirk forming on her lips. "Hey, there's our dragonslayer!" she called out.
Altaïr rolled his eyes at the title but walked over nonetheless. As he did, he noticed the other Companions pausing in their training, their glances shifting toward him – some with curiosity, others with outright admiration.
"Greetings to you as well," he said dryly.
The bald man narrowed his eye at him, studying him with a critical gaze. "This is the one who killed the dragon?"
"No. The Dragonborn killed it," Altaïr denied. "I only brought it down so that it could be slain."
"You should've seen it, Skjor," Aela said, grinning. "He leapt onto the dragon's back from the watchtower and drove his blade straight into its neck. It was a sight to behold."
The bearded man, raised an eyebrow. "That was either the bravest or the most reckless thing I've heard, boy."
"Could be both, Kodlak," Vilkas chimed in as he strode over to join the group. "Hello, Altaïr."
The Assassin gave him a simple nod in greeting.
Skjor let out a low chuckle. "Shame I missed that fight. To slay a dragon and fight alongside the Dragonborn… now that would be glorious."
Aela folded her arms, tilting her head slightly as she turned to the Assassin. "Speaking of things missed – why didn't you come to our feast last night? We drank, we ate, we celebrated. It was a good time."
"I had pressing matters to attend to with the Jarl," Altaïr replied. "I am here on business as well. I need a blacksmith."
Kodlak gestured toward the Skyforge, where a column of smoke curled into the sky. "Eorlund is up there. Best smith in Skyrim."
Altaïr gave a nod of thanks and was about to take his leave when he felt a firm hand on his shoulder. He turned to see Vilkas looking at him with a challenging gleam in his eye.
"Hey, friend, before you go. Care for a quick spar?"
The Assassin simply regarded him with a blank expression.
"You seem skilled," Vilkas continued. "I'd like to test my mettle against you."
The Assassin considered for a moment, then sighed. "Very well."
Vilkas grinned as he stepped back. The other Companions turned their attention toward the impending match, some setting aside their weapons to watch. Aela smirked, arms crossed as she leaned against a wooden post.
"Don't go easy on him, Vilkas," Skjor said with a chuckle.
Vilkas let out a short laugh. "Wouldn't dream of it." He turned to Altaïr. "Let's keep this simple – first to yield or be disarmed loses."
They took their positions in the training yard, standing a few paces apart. Altaïr unsheathed his sabre with a smooth motion. Across from him, Vilkas rolled his shoulders and adjusted his grip on his own steel sword.
"Begin," Kodlak announced.
Without hesitation, Vilkas lunged forward, bringing his sword down in a heavy, overhand strike meant to overpower rather than outmanoeuvre. Altaïr sidestepped with ease, his scimitar flicking up to deflect the blow just enough to send it off course. The Companion recovered quickly, pivoting into another powerful swing aimed at Altaïr's side. Again, the Assassin avoided it, this time leaning back with a calculated step, letting the blade cut through empty air.
Vilkas was fast for a man of his build, but his real strength was in his raw power. Every swing of his sword came with the intent to end the fight in a single strike, forcing Altaïr to stay light on his feet, evading and parrying rather than meeting force with force.
"Fight back, will you?" the Companion grunted as he launched another series of brutal attacks. His strikes were relentless, forcing his opponent to dance around him, always just out of reach.
"I am," Altaïr replied coolly, effortlessly weaving between the blows.
Vilkas growled in frustration, his patience wearing thin. He swung wide, trying to force Altaïr into a vulnerable position, but the Assassin ducked low and spun behind him, delivering a quick slash toward the Companion's unprotected back. At the last second, Vilkas twisted, catching the attack with his sword and shoving Altaïr backward with sheer brute strength.
Altaïr barely managed to regain his footing before the Companion pressed forward again, trying to use his greater reach to his advantage. But the Nord was beginning to tire. His swings were still powerful, but the slightest bit slower, just enough for his opponent to notice.
The Assassin smirked slightly. Now, it was his turn.
He baited Vilkas into another powerful downward swing, and at the last second, he sidestepped and twisted his scimitar to catch the Companion's sword mid-swing. Using his opponent's own momentum against him, Altaïr wrenched the blade from Vilkas's hands with a sharp, precise movement.
The Companion barely had time to react before the tip of the scimitar was at his throat.
Silence followed. Then, Skjor let out a low whistle.
"Didn't expect that," Farkas muttered.
As Vilkas stretched his arms and shook out his wrist, the gathered Companions broke into murmurs. Some exchanged impressed glances, while others chuckled at their fellow warrior's defeat.
"Well, that was something," Skjor said, smirking as he crossed his arms. "Didn't think I'd ever see Vilkas disarmed like a whelp."
Vilkas scoffed, rubbing the back of his neck. "It's not like he overpowered me," he muttered. "He just waited for me to make a mistake."
"Which is exactly why you lost," Aela teased with a grin, before turning to Altaïr. "You fight with real skill. I respect that."
Kodlak, still stroking his beard in thought, gave the Assassin an approving nod. "It's been some time since we've had a guest who fights like you do. You rely on speed and precision rather than brute strength."
"It is what keeps me alive," Altaïr replied.
The Harbinger gave a faint smile. "You seem like a fine warrior. If ever you wish to train some more with us, you are welcome here."
The Assassin acknowledged him with a small nod.
Aela chuckled. "That was entertaining. Now, don't let us keep you from your errand."
Altaïr turned his gaze toward the Skyforge and, without another word, made his way up the stone steps, leaving the murmuring Companions behind.
The Assassin ascended the stone steps leading to the Skyforge, where the morning air carried the scent of burning coal and hot metal. The rhythmic clang of hammer against steel echoed across Jorrvaskr's courtyard. At the heart of the forge stood Eorlund Gray-Mane, a broad-shouldered man with silver hair and the steady hands of a master smith.
The smith barely looked up from his work as Altaïr approached, his hammer striking hot metal with the ease of decades of practice. Only when he finished shaping the piece before him did he glance up, wiping sweat from his brow with the back of his arm.
"You're not one of the Companions," he noted, his sharp eyes scanning Altaïr's foreign attire. "And you're not here to gawk at the forge. What do you need?"
"Throwing knives," Altaïr said.
Eorlund paused, narrowing his eyes slightly. "Throwing knives?" He huffed, setting his hammer aside. "Why in Oblivion would you want to throw a knife?"
Instead of answering immediately, Altaïr reached into his pouch and produced one of his own knives, holding it out for Eorlund to see. The smith's brows lifted slightly as he took it, turning it over in his hands. It was smaller and thinner than the Nordic daggers he was used to, but the craftsmanship was impeccable – razor-sharp, perfectly balanced.
The smith tested the balance, tossing it gently from one hand to the other, then shook his head with a bemused huff. "Still don't see why you'd throw it. A dead man can't throw it back, but if you miss…"
"I don't miss," the Assassin interrupted him.
Eorlund let out a chuckle. "Confident, aren't you?" He handed the knife back. "Well, can't say I've made many of these before. But…" He turned, rummaging through a nearby chest. "Let's see… Had a hunter commission a few small blades a while back. Not exactly what you're looking for, but close enough."
He unrolled a cloth bundle, revealing a set of small, steel knives. They were plainer than Altaïr's, slightly heavier, and not quite as well-balanced. "Doubt they'll fly as true as yours, but they'll do the job."
The Assassin picked one up, rolling it between his fingers before giving a curt nod. "They will suffice."
The smith nodded. "Five septims per knife."
Altaïr counted out the coin, placing it on the workbench. As the smith gathered the gold, he shook his head with a chuckle. "Throwing knives… next thing you'll be telling me you fight with your bare hands."
The Assassin only smirked. "When necessary."
The smith laughed as he counted the septims and tucked them away before his gaze drifted down to the sword at Altaïr's side. His brow furrowed slightly, and he let out a thoughtful hum.
"Now that's an interesting blade," he remarked, nodding toward it. "Curved… like the swords of Hammerfell warriors. You from there?"
"No," the Assassin said.
Eorlund studied him for a moment but didn't press the matter. Instead, he gestured toward the weapon. "May I?"
After a brief pause, Altaïr unsheathed his sword and handed it over. The master smith examined it closely, tilting the blade in the morning light.
"Well-balanced," he muttered. "Lighter than what we forge here, but sturdy." His gaze shifted to the hilt, his brows lifting slightly. "Gold?"
Altaïr gave a small nod.
Eorlund huffed. "Don't know why you'd need something so expensive, but I've seen stranger things," He ran a thumb along the edge. "Good for slashing, but not for stabbing. And against a man in full plate?" He tapped a finger against the curve of the blade. "You'd have a hard time getting through."
The Assassin smirked slightly at the smith's assessment. Without a word, he reached over his shoulder, drawing his short blade from its sheath on his back. The weapon was shorter, straighter, and more practical in design. It was still curved, of course, but significantly less so.
"This is what I use for stabbing," he said, handing the blade to the smith.
Eorlund turned the short blade over in his hands. "Hmph. Longer than a dagger, but not quite a proper sword," He tested the balance, giving a slight nod of approval. "Good weight, though. Quick in the hand, I'll give it that."
He handed it back before tapping a finger against the sword once more. "I can put a fine edge on both. Won't take long."
Altaïr gave a short nod. "Do it."
Eorlund nodded, taking both blades and settling them near the grindstone. He picked up the Assassin's sabre first, turning it over in his hands with a craftsman's eye before pressing the edge to the spinning whetstone. Sparks flared as he worked, the rhythmic scrape of steel against stone filling the air.
As he sharpened, he glanced at Altaïr with a wry smirk. "Saw your spar with Vilkas from here," he remarked, his voice carrying over the steady hum of the grindstone. "Can't say I've ever seen him bested so cleanly."
Altaïr, standing with arms crossed nearby, merely tilted his head. "He is strong. Skilled." A pause. "Predictable."
Eorlund huffed a chuckle. "Aye, that's the trouble with men who favour raw power. Strength alone doesn't win every fight." He lifted the sabre, checking the edge with his thumb before nodding in approval and setting it aside.
He then reached for the short blade, inspecting its finer edge. "This one's got a good bite already," he noted, pressing it lightly to the whetstone. "But tell me, lad, where did you learn to fight like that? You don't move like a Nord, nor a Redguard, and certainly not like these milk-drinkers in the Legion."
Altaïr watched the old smith work with a curious expression. "I had a good teacher. And so did you, as it seems."
Eorlund smiled. "Aye, that I did. Learned from my father, and he from his before him."
"Back home, we had smiths of our own," Altaïr said. "I always admired their craft, but my duties kept me from learning much beyond basic maintenance."
The smith let out a thoughtful hum as he put away the short blade. "Shame, that. A man should know his tools as well as he knows his own hands." He gave Altaïr a sidelong glance. "Still, if you ever tire of whatever it is you do, I take apprentices now and then. If they've got the patience for it."
The Assassin exhaled lightly through his nose. "Patience is not the issue. Time is. I am on a mission."
"Ah, I see." Eorlund hummed. "What exactly is your mission?"
Before Altaïr could answer, the sound of approaching footsteps drew both their attention. Lydia strode up the stone steps toward the forge, her posture straight and composed.
"Greetings, Eorlund," she said with a respectful nod.
The smith wiped his hands on his apron and inclined his head. "Ah, the Jarl's housecarl. What can I do for you?"
Lydia hesitated for half a second before shaking her head. "Actually, I'm his housecarl now," she gestured toward the Assassin.
Eorlund raised a thick brow. "That so?" He gave Altaïr a glance. "Not what I expected, but I suppose stranger things have happened."
"And as for my mission," Altaïr interjected, "She is meant to go to… what was it? High Hrothgar?"
Eorlund blinked, looking at Lydia with newfound respect. "So, you two are the ones Aela was talking about. The ones who slew the beast."
Lydia's expression remained steady, though she shifted slightly under his gaze.
The smith crossed his arms. "It's an honour, Dragonborn. But I have to admit, I didn't expect the one chosen by the gods to be serving as someone else's shield."
"That was my choice," Lydia said simply.
The old man studied her for a moment, then gave a nod. "Hmph. A rare thing, for someone to serve when they could be served."
The Assassin cast a glance at Eorlund just as the smith handed him his weapons. He inspected the edges briefly before giving a nod of approval. Reaching into his pouch, he pulled out a few more coins and offered them, but Eorlund shook his head.
"Keep your coin," he said gruffly. "If the two of you are truly the ones standing between Skyrim and those damned dragons, then I won't take a single septim for a bit of sharpening."
Altaïr studied him for a moment before inclining his head in gratitude.
As they made their way down from the Skyforge, Altaïr cast a glance back toward the great stone platform. The clang of Eorlund's hammer had already resumed, as if their conversation had never interrupted his work.
"He seemed like a good man," Altaïr remarked, adjusting his weapons as they walked.
The housecarl nodded. "One of the best. If there's a finer smith in all of Skyrim, I've yet to meet them." She then reached for a pouch at her belt and handed it to him. "The Jarl has seen to it that supplies are delivered to our horses at the stables. He also gave me some coin – for the road and as a reward for slaying the dragon."
The Assassin weighed the pouch in his hand. "And you're sharing it with me?"
"You were there," Lydia pointed out. "That reward isn't just mine."
Altaïr nodded, accepting the coins and storing them in his pouch.
The two continued through the bustling streets of Whiterun, weaving through townsfolk tending to their daily routines.
Before heading to the stables, Altaïr made a quick stop at his house. Lydia followed without question, watching as he stepped inside and went straight to the bookshelf, taking some of the books with him for the road, including the one he was reading earlier in the morning.
As they neared the city gates, the sounds of the city slowly faded behind them, replaced by the distant neighing of horses and the rustling of the open plains beyond. The crisp morning air carried the scent of hay and earth, and the creak of the windmill nearby added to the peaceful atmosphere.
At the stables, they spotted a well-dressed servant of the Jarl standing near a pair of loaded saddlebags, speaking briefly with the stable master. He turned as they approached, offering a polite nod to Lydia.
"Everything is as the Jarl ordered," the man said, gesturing toward the supplies. "Enough provisions to last you for the journey, along with fresh waterskins."
Lydia accepted the bags with a nod of gratitude, securing them to the saddle of her horse. "Thank you."
The servant bowed respectfully, and strode back toward the city gates, leaving Altaïr and Lydia to prepare their mounts. The Assassin watched as Lydia adjusted the straps, ensuring the load was balanced, before stepping to his own horse and storing his books in a pouch on the saddle.
"Everything set?" he asked, tightening the last of his saddle's fastenings.
"Aye. We should make good time if we leave now," Lydia said.
As they rode out onto the open road, the chill of the Skyrim air settled in. The land stretched before them, rolling plains giving way to the distant peaks of the Throat of the World. The hooves of their horses clopped against the dirt path, the sound steady and rhythmic. In the distance, a lone hawk circled high above the plains.
Lydia adjusted her reins, guiding her horse into a steady trot beside Altaïr's.
He broke the silence first. "Tell me more about this Ivarstead," he said, keeping his gaze on the road ahead. "Is it part of the Whiterun province?"
"Hold," Lydia corrected. "And no, Ivarstead is in the Rift."
"The Rift?"
"It's one of Skyrim's nine Holds," she explained. "Southeasternmost part of the land. More trees, more rivers. It's warmer there than Whiterun, but don't expect much of a welcome."
"Why is that?"
"The Rift is loyal to the Stormcloaks," Lydia said. "You may get some odd looks from their guards. The rebels don't really like outsiders."
Altaïr absorbed that in silence. This wasn't the first time he had heard something like that, so he paid it no mind.
They continued riding at a steady pace, the road winding through patches of forest and rocky hills. Birds fluttered from tree branches as the sun climbed higher in the sky.
After a while, Lydia spoke again. "If we keep a good pace, we should reach Ivarstead before midnight."
"I assume the path to High Hrothgar is not far from the village?"
"Not far, but not easy either," she replied. "Seven thousand steps up the mountain."
Altaïr scoffed. "I hope the Greybeards have something worthwhile to say, then."
The housecarl could only sigh. "So do I."
The road ahead remained open and mostly clear, though signs of wilderness crept in at the edges – scattered bushes, dry shrubs, and the occasional lone tree standing defiant against the wind. A few travellers had passed them earlier, but now, they had the road to themselves, save for a pair of mudcrabs scuttling near a shallow stream just off the path.
They rode in silence, the steady clopping of hooves the only sound against the crisp morning air. Lydia stole the occasional glance at Altaïr, but said nothing. He noticed, of course, but chose not to acknowledge it.
Something was on her mind.
Since the morning, she had spoken only when spoken to. That, in itself, Altaïr didn't mind. He preferred silence over idle chatter, after all. But given what she now knew about him, about where he came from… her quietness felt out of place. He expected questions, curiosity, even scepticism. Instead, she said nothing.
That was strange.
Hours passed as the sun rose higher, casting dappled light through the towering pines. The road stretched endlessly before them, winding through rolling hills and thick forests, occasionally revealing glimpses of snow-capped peaks in the far distance. The only sounds accompanying their journey were the rhythmic clopping of hooves, the occasional rustling of branches in the breeze, and the distant calls of unseen birds.
The two rode in steady silence. Lydia adjusted her grip on the reins, shifting slightly in her saddle as the monotony of travel settled in. Altaïr rode with the same ease as before, his posture relaxed but alert, ever watchful of their surroundings.
By midday, the warmth of the sun had become more pronounced, and the steady pace of travel began to take its toll. The horses' movements grew slower, their breaths more laboured. Lydia exhaled, glancing up at the sky to gauge the time.
"We should stop soon, the horses need rest," the housecarl finally spoke.
Altaïr gave a short nod, guiding his horse toward a clearing just off the road. It was a quiet spot, nestled beneath a thick canopy of trees, with a small brook running through it. The gentle murmur of flowing water and the rustling leaves overhead created a peaceful atmosphere, a welcome respite from the long, unbroken road.
They dismounted, loosening the saddles to let the horses rest. Lydia rolled her shoulders, letting out a quiet sigh before taking a seat on a flat rock near the brook. She pulled a waterskin from her belt, drinking deeply before pouring some water into her hands to splash over her face.
After securing the horses near the brook, Lydia set about gathering kindling from the forest floor while Altaïr worked on clearing a small space for a fire. The housecarl struck flint against steel, sending a spray of sparks onto the dry bundle of grass she had gathered. Satisfied, she added a few thicker branches, feeding the flames until they burned steadily.
Altaïr reached into his pack and pulled out one of the books he had taken from his home. The Assassin thumbed through the pages, his eyes scanning the familiar words. Across from him, Lydia sat cross-legged by the fire, stirring the embers with a stick. She was quiet. Too quiet, in fact.
She wasn't just sitting in silence. She was watching him.
After some time, he had enough.
"Be out with it," Altaïr said, not bothering to look up.
Lydia started slightly. "Huh?"
"You've been glancing at me for some time now," he turned a page. "If something is troubling you, say it. Keeping it to yourself won't do you any favours."
She hesitated, then let out a breath. "Fine." She shifted her weight, sitting up straighter. "I want to know – why did you choose to be an assassin?"
"Ah, so this is what bothers you," Altaïr finally looked up, raising an eyebrow. "We've been over this. I am not a hired killer."
"Maybe not," Lydia admitted. "But tell me. Are you completely certain that every man you've killed deserved it?"
For a moment, Altaïr said nothing. Then, with a quiet exhale, he lowered his head. "No. I never claimed that."
Lydia's expression shifted, her lips pressing into a thin line as she waited for him to continue.
"There was a time when I took an innocent life," he admitted.
She felt the flicker of disapproval rising in her chest but held her tongue, giving him space to explain.
"The first and most important tenet of our Creed is to stay our blade from the flesh of the innocent," Altaïr said, his voice steady but laced with something heavier. "I was arrogant. I thought myself above the Creed."
Lydia frowned. "What possessed you to do that?"
He closed the book, his fingers resting against the worn cover. "My fellow Assassins and I were sent to retrieve something from a temple before our enemies could claim it. On that day, I broke all three tenets of our Creed. The first, by killing an old man who had done nothing but stand in our way."
A heavy silence settled between them, broken only by the steady crackling of the fire. Lydia studied him, her gaze searching for any sign of regret. She didn't have to look hard – his expression told her everything. This was not a story he took pride in telling.
She hesitated, then pressed gently, "What were the other two tenets you broke?"
Altaïr exhaled slowly, his fingers tightening slightly around the book in his lap. "Our enemies had reached the temple before us. Their leader was there." His voice remained measured, but there was an edge to it. "The Creed teaches us to hide in plain sight, to never reveal ourselves until the moment to strike is right. But I ignored that. I let my arrogance guide me, and I confronted him directly."
Lydia raised an eyebrow. "That doesn't sound as bad as killing an innocent man."
His jaw tensed. "It was. Because of my recklessness, he bested me with ease and cast me out of the chamber, locking me outside. I was forced to listen as the battle continued without me."
She said nothing, but her expression urged him on.
"One of the Assassins who accompanied me, Kadar, was killed," Altaïr continued, his voice quieter now. "His brother, Malik, survived and succeeded in retrieving what we sought, but at a great cost – he lost his arm in the process." His gaze dropped, shadowed by the firelight. "He returned to our fortress soon after I did… but he was not alone."
Lydia frowned. "What do you mean?"
"He brought war to our doorstep," Altaïr said, the weight of his words heavy. "Because of my arrogance, our enemies followed him straight to our village. The attack that followed cost us many lives – Assassins and innocents alike."
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
"That," he finished, voice low, "was how I broke the third and final tenet: never compromise the Brotherhood."
Lydia sat back, absorbing his words. She had seen battle. She had witnessed death. But to be responsible for such destruction…
She glanced at him once more. His face was unreadable, but the regret lingered in his tone. He didn't need to say it outright – he carried the weight of those mistakes every day.
"You broke all three rules of your… Brotherhood at once," she said after a pause. "All on the same day." She gave him a sceptical look. "How are you still alive? No offense, but an order of assassins doesn't sound like the forgiving type."
Altaïr gave a short, humourless chuckle. "They are not." He glanced toward the fire, the light flickering in his sharp eyes. "And you are right – many wanted my blood. Malik, most of all. The only reason I was spared was because our Mentor believed I was still of use."
"…And that was it?" Lydia asked, raising an eyebrow.
"No." He shook his head. "I was stripped of my rank, reduced to the status of a novice. Everything I had accomplished, everything I had built – gone. If I wanted to earn back my place, I had to prove myself." He exhaled. "My punishment was to kill nine men."
Lydia crossed her arms. "So, more killing then. Seems like a convenient way to 'redeem' yourself."
The Assassin gave her a pointed look. "Those weren't men you would have any sympathy for."
The housecarl narrowed her eyes. "And why is that?"
He met her gaze evenly. "Tamir. A dealer of death, selling weapons to both sides of the war, profiting off bloodshed. Garnier de Naplouse, a so-called 'healer' who performed cruel experiments on his patients." His tone darkened. "Talal, a slaver who kidnapped men, women, and children, tearing families apart and selling them into bondage."
The housecarl's hands balled into fists.
"Abu'l Nuqoud," Altaïr continued, "the so-called Merchant King of Damascus – who stole from his people and poisoned dozens in one night. William of Montferrat, a regent who hoarded food while his people starved. And perhaps the worst of them all – Majd Addin. A tyrant who sentenced innocents to death on the flimsiest of excuses, parading executions as entertainment."
"…I see," Lydia murmured, listening to him intently. For the first time, she wasn't entirely sure what to say.
But Altaïr wasn't finished. His voice remained steady, unwavering. "Jubair al Hakim – a scholar who saw knowledge as a weapon, one that needed to be destroyed if it did not align with his beliefs. He burned books, scrolls, entire libraries, erasing history with fire and steel."
The housecarl felt her stomach twist further and further with every name he listed off.
"Sibrand," Altaïr continued, his tone edged with disdain. "A paranoid madman. So consumed by fear of my Brotherhood that he saw assassins in every shadow – murdering innocents simply because he believed they were spies." He exhaled. "And finally, Robert de Sablé. The one who bound them all together. The man I failed to kill at the temple."
Lydia furrowed her brows. "Sibrand? That… that sounds like a Nordic name."
"He looked like one of your people, too," Altaïr admitted, though his expression remained impassive. "But that is irrelevant. What matters is that all of them deserved to die."
The housecarl hesitated for a moment but then gave a slow nod. "I see that now." She had no love for men like that. They were despicable.
Altaïr took a deep breath. "Of course, killing them does not wash away my sins. But as I listened to their dying words, as I heard them justify their actions, I began to understand. To see the patterns. To realize what we were truly fighting for. The Brotherhood, the Creed, the mission – it all became clear." His voice softened slightly. "I was arrogant before. But that arrogance died with them. Since then, I have followed the Creed without question."
Lydia crossed her arms. "Didn't you say yesterday that your Creed also tells you that nothing is true? That you shouldn't follow anything blindly?"
A rare, faint smile tugged at the corner of Altaïr's lips. "Ironic, isn't it?" He shook his head. "We claim to seek peace, yet we achieve it through bloodshed. We wish to free minds, yet we live by strict laws and answer to a master. We warn against blind faith, yet we practice it ourselves."
He turned away his gaze. "I have no answer for it. We bend our own rules when it suits us, in pursuit of what we believe is the greater good. Whether that makes us hypocrites, liars, or something else entirely… I leave that judgment to you."
"…You still haven't answered my question," Lydia said, her arms still crossed. "I understand now that you're not… an evil man. And your Brotherhood, for all its bloodshed, doesn't seem to be truly wicked either. But that still doesn't explain why you chose this life."
Altaïr was silent for a moment, his expression unreadable. When he finally spoke, his voice was calm, but distant.
"I did not choose it," he admitted. "I was born in Masyaf, within the stronghold of our Brotherhood. There was never another path for me to consider."
A brief silence settled between them, neither quite sure how to continue. Lydia shifted her weight, glancing away as she mulled over his words. She had pressed him with questions, judged a life he had never been given the choice to refuse. And now, hearing the truth of it, she found little room for condemnation.
"I'm sorry," she said at last, her tone quieter. "I was out of line."
Altaïr shook his head. "You have nothing to apologise for." His expression remained calm, unreadable. "Doubt is a part of our Creed. To question, to challenge – that is the foundation of free thought. If I chastised you for it, I would be no better than the men I once swore to stop."
Lydia allowed herself a small smile. "You're unusually wise for what you are, you know that?"
"You would not say so if you had met me two months ago," the Assassin smirked, leaning back slightly. "But enough about me. What made you choose this life? It is… unusual for a woman."
Lydia raised an eyebrow at that. "Maybe back in your home," she said, her voice holding no offence. "Many of Skyrim's legendary warriors were women. You saw Aela the Huntress yourself."
Altaïr gave a slight nod.
"As for me, there's not much to tell," she continued, shifting her weight as she rested an arm over her knee, "I wanted to join the Legion at first. Both of my parents fought in the Great War. That's where they met, actually."
The Assassin's interest sharpened. "I know of it. A war of aggression, started by this… Dominion, is it?"
"That's what they say. All I know is from my parents' stories. They fought in the same unit, and after the war, my father came to Whiterun with my mother." A brief smile tugged at her lips. "Ma was the one to train me at first, actually."
"But you did not join the Legion," Altaïr observed.
"No," Lydia admitted. "I thought it would be better to serve my home instead. Became a guard at first, then happened to be in Dragonsreach the day some assassin tried to murder the Jarl." She smirked. "Got to him before he could make a move."
A flicker of irony passed through Altaïr's eyes. He let out a short hum of amusement, and Lydia chuckled, shaking her head.
"After that, they made me housecarl. Thought it would be more exciting than it was." She leaned back on her palms. "There was no Thane for me to be assigned to, so all I did was patrol Dragonsreach, train with Irileth, and read whatever books I could find."
Altaïr arched a brow. "I suppose your prayers have been answered, then," he mused dryly. "Considering you're now the one the fate of this land rests on."
Lydia groaned, dragging a hand down her face. "Ugh. Don't remind me. I am still not looking forward to meeting the Greybeards."
"Neither am I," Altaïr admitted. "And I would rather stay out of this completely."
She gave him a sidelong glance. "But?"
He exhaled, shaking his head. "But it seems I have no other choice."
Lydia let out another short chuckle, shaking her head. "Yeah," she muttered. "Welcome to my world."
Altaïr remained silent for a moment, his expression serious.
"I understand that you feel overwhelmed by all of this… Dragonborn business," he said at last. "And I know there is much I do not yet understand about it. But what I do know is this – you are a capable warrior. And if these Greybeards can make you stronger, then you should take that opportunity."
Lydia sighed, running a hand through her hair. "I know," she admitted. "I know it's the logical thing to do. But logic doesn't make it any easier." She stared off into the distance. "A small part of me actually feels… excited about being the Dragonborn. But the rest of me? It's still trying to catch up."
Her hand clenched slightly. "I was terrified of facing one dragon. Just one. And now I'm supposed to be the only one who can kill them permanently?"
"For one, you're not facing this alone," Altaïr pointed out, his voice calm yet firm. "Since I cannot return home for the time being, I can at least help in stopping this dragon threat. And besides, if this power is truly as important as they say, I imagine it will make killing them far easier."
Lydia was silent for a moment, mulling over his words. Finally, she let out a slow breath and nodded. "Alright," she muttered. "Fine. Let's see what those Greybeards have to say. But if they start speaking in riddles, I swear by Shor, I'm walking right back down that mountain."
Altaïr allowed himself a quiet chuckle, his lips twitching upward in a brief smile. "It's good you haven't met my… former master."
The humor in his tone was gone. His expression darkened, his jaw tightening slightly. Lydia noticed the change immediately – it was a topic he clearly didn't want to dwell on.
The two continued along their path toward Ivarstead, their horses having regained enough strength after the brief rest. Yet, there was a notable silence between Altaïr and Lydia. Since the mention of his master, the Assassin had not uttered a single word. Lydia couldn't help but notice the change in him, though she didn't press. Some matters, she knew, were not meant to be probed. For now, she let it go.
As they rode on, the distant silhouette of the Valtheim Towers loomed ahead. The two ruined Nordic watchtowers stood over the White River, marking the unofficial border between Whiterun and Eastmarch. The southern tower belonged to Whiterun; the northern, to Eastmarch. A stone bridge arched high above the river between them, and Lydia could just make out the shapes of several armed figures moving along the bridge.
This place had long been abandoned, and the presence of said figures on the bridge made one thing clear: the towers were taken by bandits.
As they neared the towers, a lone figure came into view, standing with her back against the tower. The woman was clad in worn leather armor. The moment she spotted them, her eyes gleamed with interest, and she raised her hand, signaling them to stop.
"Hold it," she called out as she reached for the hilt of her sword. "This here's a toll road, see? You're gonna have to hand over some gold if you want to use it."
Lydia bristled with anger, her hand instinctively reaching for her own sword. The urge to cut the bandit down where she stood surged through her, but before she could act, Altaïr slowly dismounted his horse and took a few steady steps forward.
"Very well," Altaïr said calmly. He reached for his coin pouch, holding it up in a gesture of compliance. He moved closer to the bandit, just out of sight from the archers on the bridge.
The bandit's smug expression deepened as she extended her hand toward the pouch. As soon as she reached out, Altaïr moved with lightning speed. His hidden blade shot out from his bracer, and in one fluid motion, he stabbed it into her neck, twisting the blade across her throat. The bandit's life was snuffed out instantly, her body slumping to the ground without a sound.
"Wait here," he ordered his housecarl. Without another word, he took several steps back and ran the tower, scaling it with unnatural agility.
Lydia's gaze followed him as he climbed the stone walls of the tower, his body moving with the ease of a cat. She had seen him do this before during the battle with the dragon, but it still amazed her all the same.
Though she couldn't help but feel a slight irritation at being left out of his plan, Lydia knew better than to challenge him. Altaïr was a master of stealth, and whatever his plan was, she trusted him to execute it. If things went awry, she would step in, but for now, she would remain on the ground, watching for any sign of trouble.
Altaïr reached the top of the tower with little effort, crouching down onto a stone wall. The tower lacked a roof, leaving him with a clear view of the interior of its upper floor. There, he could see a small room with a bedroll and a couple of drawers, but his attention was fixed on the small staircase leading up to a wooden ledge. Perched on the ledge was a lone bandit archer, lazily scanning the road ahead. The archer's back was turned, oblivious to the assassin's approach.
Taking advantage of the bandit's careless positioning, Altaïr silently descended into the room below. His movements were slow and precise, and the bandit was none the wiser. Once he reached the stairs, he ascended them slowly, with cautious steps, ensuring that not even the slightest creak of wood would betray his presence.
When he reached the ledge, Altaïr swiftly closed the distance between himself and the archer. In a single, fluid motion, he grabbed the bandit's mouth with one hand, silencing him instantly, and with his other hand, he drove the hidden blade into his neck. The archer's body went limp almost immediately, the life drained from him before he could even make a sound.
Altaïr dragged the lifeless body down the stairs, careful not to leave any trace. He placed the corpse in a corner, hidden from view, out of the sight of the archers on the bridge.
The Assassin had decided to clear out the structure before facing the rest of the bandits on the bridge. As he descended the stairs into the room below, he immediately spotted a bandit sitting at a table, idly eating his food. The moment the bandit's eyes met his, he froze, but before he could even shout or reach for his weapon, a throwing embedded itself into his eye. The bandit's body slumped forward onto the table, lifeless before he even hit the surface.
With the room now silent, Altaïr continued down the stairs, his eyes scanning every corner for any other threats. To his surprise, the tower appeared deserted. He reached the ground floor, opened the door, and stepped outside, taking a moment to assess the situation. Lydia was still standing by their horses, watching carefully. Altaïr motioned for her to approach, his hand signalling for her to come closer.
Lydia dismounted from her horse and made her way inside the tower.
"There are no more bandits in this tower," Altaïr whispered as she entered. "The rest are on the bridge, and possibly in the other tower. How good are you with a bow?"
"Pretty good, I guess. Why?" Lydia whispered back.
Altaïr's gaze hardened with focus. "Climb the stairs and get onto the ledge. You'll have a clear view of the bridge from there. I'll move as soon as you fire the first arrow."
She nodded and walked outside to retrieve her bow from her horse. After a few moments, she ascended the stairs, reaching the ledge Altaïr had mentioned. She could now see the entire bridge, with the four bandits standing in place, unaware of her position.
The Assassin, meanwhile, crept toward the bridge, making sure to stay out of view. The narrowness of the bridge presented a challenge, as it would not allow him to run past the archers, but nonetheless, he signalled for Lydia to fire.
The sound of an arrow piercing the air cut through the tension. Lydia's shot found its mark, the arrow embedding itself into the forehead of the bandit in the middle of the bridge. The three remaining bandits froze for a split second, turning to look at their fallen comrade in shock. The closest bandit, caught off guard, turned his back to Altaïr in his confusion. The Assassin saw his chance and struck quickly, his hidden blade finding its mark in the bandit's back and hurled the dying body into the river below.
The remaining two bandits reacted immediately, drawing their bows and aiming at both Altaïr and Lydia. The bandit aiming at Altaïr released his arrow, but the Assassin was already in motion. The bridge was too narrow to sidestep, so he decided on a different tactic. He ran toward the bandit, sliding across the stone of the bridge with fluid grace just as the arrow flew over his head. His body slid under the bandit's legs, and in one swift motion, Altaïr came to his feet, activating the hidden blade and sinking it into the bandit's back before he even had a chance to react.
The second bandit, enraged by the loss of his comrade, rushed at Altaïr, a dagger in his hand. But before he could strike, Lydia's arrow found its target, piercing the bandit's chest. He staggered, gasping for breath, but didn't fall. The Assassin, without hesitation, shoved the wounded bandit toward the edge of the bridge.
Altaïr was momentarily relieved, but that relief was short-lived. The door to the second tower creaked open, and a much larger figure emerged – a heavily armoured Nord wielding a massive warhammer. The ground seemed to shake as the bandit swung his hammer in a powerful arc. Altaïr's instincts kicked in, and he leaped back just in time to avoid the strike, the hammer crashing into the stone of the bridge, leaving cracks in its wake.
Another arrow whistled through the air, but the bandit's armour deflected it with a sharp, metallic clink. Lydia cursed under her breath, knowing she wouldn't have another clear shot with the bandit rushing toward Altaïr.
The Assassin's mind raced. He couldn't afford to face this opponent head-on. The warhammer had more reach and power than his sword could handle in this narrow space. He continued to backpedal, eyes searching for any opening. His only option was to outmanoeuvre this brute and wait for the right moment to strike.
Altaïr's mind worked swiftly as he reached for his pouch and retrieved several throwing knives. Without aiming, he hurled them at the exposed areas of his face and neck. The bandit reacted instantly, raising his arm in an attempt to deflect the incoming projectiles. The knives clanged off his bracer or missed altogether, but the brief distraction was all Altaïr needed.
Without hesitation, he charged forward, his scimitar raised high. The curved blade cut through the air with deadly intent, but as it met the bandit's heavy steel armour, the strike was absorbed with a harsh clang. The Assassin felt the resistance in his arm, the weight of his blow turning to nothing as the steel deflected his attack. Eorlund had been right. The scimitar's design was meant for slashing, not for cutting through such thick armour.
The bandit snarled, enraged by the failed strike, and Altaïr immediately took a step back, calculating his next move. The bandit, heavy and slow in his plated armour, seemed to grow more furious with each failed attack. Altaïr saw an opening – the bandit's speed was hampered by both his armour and the weapon.
A plan began to form in Altaïr's mind. He quickly turned, feigning retreat, bolting toward the far end of the bridge. The bandit, eager to finish off the Assassin, charged after him without hesitation, his heavy footsteps thudding behind.
As the Assassin reached the end of the bridge, he began running up the tower. In one fluid motion, he scaled the stone and turned, launching himself over the bandit's head. He landed behind the bandit, rolling onto the stone and immediately sprinting toward the opposite end of the bridge. The bandit, caught in his chase, turned sharply to follow, but it was too late.
The moment he pivoted, his back was fully exposed to Lydia, who had been waiting patiently for the right moment.
Lydia had watched the entire manoeuvre unfold, her heart racing. She knew exactly what Altaïr was doing, and as the bandit turned to follow, she nocked an arrow. In one fluid motion, she released the arrow.
The bandit never saw it coming. Lydia's arrow flew with deadly accuracy, finding its mark in the small gap between the plates of the bandit's armour. It sank deep into the soft flesh beneath, sending a shock of pain through his body. The bandit staggered, his warhammer nearly slipping from his grip as the arrow lodged in his back.
Before he could react further, Altaïr was upon him. With lightning speed, he closed the distance between them. His sabre sliced across the bandit's neck, the blood spraying in a crimson arc as the head was cleanly severed, plummeting into the river below.
Lydia finally stepped onto the bridge, surveying the aftermath of the battle. Only two bodies remained on the stone; the rest had been claimed by the river below.
"That was… creative," she said at last, though the word hardly did justice to what she had just witnessed. His way of fighting was unlike anything she had seen before. "But you may want to find yourself a better sword. There's a reason we don't use curved blades here."
Altaïr sighed, sheathing his weapon. "I never liked this sword anyway," he admitted. "I had a different one when I was of lower rank."
They turned their attention to the second tower, clearing it cautiously. But aside from the remains of the bandits' crude living quarters, there was little of interest – except for the leader's chest, which Lydia wasted no time in opening. Inside, she found a generous pile of gold, which she promptly claimed.
With nothing left to linger for, the two returned to their horses, resuming their journey toward Ivarstead.
The rest of the journey passed without incident. Hours slipped by as the reluctant Thane of Whiterun and his doom-driven Housecarl rode eastward, crossing the White River and passing the imposing stone walls of Fort Amol. The road wound through Skyrim's wild beauty, which was a stark contrast to the dry, sun-baked lands Altaïr had called home.
Altaïr rode in silence for much of the way, taking in the unfamiliar yet strangely serene landscape. He allowed himself to admire the land's rugged majesty. Every so often, he would break the silence to ask Lydia about the land he had found himself in. Her responses were always direct, but informative.
Though their conversations were brief, Altaïr found he did not mind them. Lydia was practical, intelligent, and most importantly, unpretentious. She also proved to be an invaluable source of knowledge, filling in the gaps of his understanding of Skyrim.
For Lydia, the conversation was a welcome distraction. The looming meeting with the Greybeards weighed heavily on her mind. Talking with Altaïr, however, grounded her in the present. He had little patience for status, both of his own as Thane, and of hers as Dragonborn. It was oddly reassuring.
As evening descended upon the land, the Throat of the World loomed in the distance, its towering peak rising against the darkening sky. Though still a long way off, it was within sight, a constant reminder of the journey ahead. The path they travelled grew increasingly colder, the air crisp and biting. Altaïr, despite his usual composure, couldn't help but feel the chill gnawing at him. He fought the urge to click his teeth together, the cold seeping into his bones. As much as he had faced, the weather of this land was proving to be one of his greatest adversaries.
By the time they reached Ivarstead, the sun had dipped below the horizon, leaving only the last traces of daylight clinging to the sky. The temperature had dropped even further. The village before them, a small and unassuming place, was far from impressive. It wasn't even walled.
They hitched their horses by the inn, and Altaïr paused, his gaze lingering on the village. Climbing the Throat of the World after the daunting journey from Whiterun, with the battle still fresh from Valtheim, seemed unwise.
"We should rest. We'll continue tomorrow," Altaïr said.
Lydia didn't argue. She, too, felt the fatigue settling into her muscles. They entered the inn, and rented two separate rooms for the night.
When the morning came, Altaïr and Lydia gathered their things. They both had a long ascent to begin.
With a final glance back at the village of Ivarstead, they began their climb, the Seven Thousand Steps stretching before them, a daunting yet necessary path to reach the Greybeards.
If the weather had been harsh the day before, then the ascent up the Throat of the World was nothing short of brutal. The cold here was a biting force unlike anything Altaïr had ever encountered, not even in the mountain pass at the border. Every gust of wind felt like daggers piercing his skin, and the icy air sank deep into his bones. No matter how much he tried to shift his posture or adjust his clothing, the cold seemed relentless, gnawing at him with an unforgiving grip. Altaïr gritted his teeth, trying to bear it, but it was becoming increasingly difficult.
Lydia, ever observant, noticed his discomfort and glanced at him with growing concern. Her eyes lingered on him for a moment, but he quickly shrugged it off, raising a hand to assure her he was fine.
The mountain was silent save for the howling wind, its mournful cry echoing across the desolate landscape. The snow crunched beneath their boots as they trudged onward, each step heavier than the last. The air thinned the higher they ascended, and Altaïr found himself losing track of how long they had been walking.
After what felt like an eternity, they came upon a solitary figure, sitting cross-legged in front of an ancient shrine. The stone tablet before him was weathered with age, the etched symbols barely legible but still offering a glimpse into the past. The man's eyes were closed in quiet meditation, his breath steady despite the cold.
Altaïr's eyes flicked to the inscription, recognizing the ancient words that spoke of the dragons' reign.
Before the birth of Men, the Dragons ruled all Mundus; Their word was the Voice, and they spoke only for True Needs; For the Voice could blot out the sky and flood the land.
"You've told me about this," Altaïr said, his voice quiet as he continued onward, his eyes still on the tablet. "That dragons ruled over this land, and that humans worshipped them as gods."
Lydia, still catching her breath from the climb, glanced at the shrine before offering a casual shrug. "Yeah, that's what I was told, anyway. There might be more like these up here. They probably explain what happened to the dragons... well, to you, at least. I already heard the stories."
The wind howled relentlessly as the pair continued their trek up the mountain, the cold seeping deeper into their bones with every step. The climb had become more gruelling, and the snow had started to fall heavier as they ascended. It was some time later, when they had barely made progress beyond the last shrine, that they came across another one. This one was nearly buried under layers of snow, its stone surface hidden beneath the white blanket.
Lydia frowned at the sight, her breath visible in the cold air, and she moved forward, brushing off the snow with swift motions of her gloved hands. As she cleared the surface, the ancient inscription became visible once again.
Men were born and spread over the face of Mundus; The Dragons presided over the crawling masses; Men were weak then, and had no Voice.
Altaïr stepped closer, his gaze falling upon the words etched into the stone. His mind briefly flickered to Farengar's words, Mundus. It was what the mage had called this world. The term had stuck with him ever since.
His jaw tightened at the thought, and he shifted uncomfortably. Being trapped here was not a reality he cared to dwell on. It was something he had tried to suppress, but moments like this, when something unexpected brought the truth back to the surface, were hard to ignore.
As they walked on, they came across something that was, for a fleeting moment, a welcome sight.
A small campfire flickered in the distance, its warm glow a stark contrast to the frost-covered world around it. As they neared, a lone figure emerged from the shadows – a woman, her hood pulled up against the cold, sitting by the fire.
"Ah, fellow travellers," she said, noticing the two. "The winds are cruel up here, aren't they? Come, warm yourselves by the fire. It's far too cold to be out in these mountains without a little warmth."
Lydia didn't hesitate, stepping forward immediately, and Altaïr, glad for the respite, followed her closely. They both made their way to the fire, grateful for the heat as it quickly began to thaw their frozen limbs.
"Thank you," Altaïr said quietly, his usual composure showing no signs of cracking despite the freezing conditions. He sat down beside the fire, his body still tense from the cold, while Lydia, less affected by the chill, leaned into the warmth with a sigh of relief.
The woman at the fire offered them some bread, and they accepted gratefully, the simple food providing a welcome comfort after their climb.
"So… is this your first time?" she asked, breaking the silence.
"Aye," Lydia answered, her tone thoughtful as she broke off a piece of the bread. "I've heard it's a tough climb, but I didn't think it would be this cold."
The woman nodded. "It's tough, alright. It can wear you down if you're not prepared. And there are wolves on the road, too." She leaned forward slightly. "Have you heard? The Greybeards spoke up yesterday. I was told they called for the Dragonborn."
Lydia's expression faltered at the mention of the Dragonborn. She took a bite of the bread, chewing slowly, her gaze fixed on the fire.
"…Yeah," Lydia muttered, her voice much softer than usual.
The woman shrugged casually. "Well, in any case, I wouldn't bother climbing all the way to the top. The Greybeards don't really talk to outsiders. But... it's good exercise. Keeps you in shape." She chuckled.
Altaïr resisted the urge to smirk. He said nothing, silently finishing his bread as the woman turned back to tend the fire, her attention drifting away from them.
After a moment, they thanked the woman for the food and warmth, watching the fire's glow flicker and fade behind them as they set off again. The chill in the air remained a constant companion, wrapping itself around their bodies, and with each step, they trudged further into the frozen expanse.
The woman's warning about wolves was soon proven true. They appeared in the distance, their eyes glinting in the pale light as they crept closer. But the creatures were no match for their combined might. With precise strokes and swift strikes, the two made quick work of the beasts.
As they continued along the mountain path, they came upon another shrine – this one perched near the same spot where the wolves had attacked. Altaïr stepped forward, his gaze scanning the carvings carefully.
The fledgling spirits of Men were strong in Old Times; Unafraid to war with Dragons and their Voices; But the Dragons only shouted them down and broke their hearts.
"So... the humans rebelled, then?" Altaïr asked, his voice filled with curiosity.
Lydia gave a small nod. "Well, yes. It wasn't easy at first. Still, as you can see by us standing here, we won in the end."
"That remains to be seen," the Assassin replied, his voice quiet but firm. "They are coming back, after all."
His housecarl didn't respond, her gaze lingering on the path ahead.
As they continued along the snow-covered path, they crossed paths with more pilgrims on their way to High Hrothgar. Some exchanged brief greetings, others more curious glances, and yet another shrine appeared, etched with fresh inscriptions.
Altaïr stopped, examining the stone carefully as Lydia approached. The words were worn, but still legible:
Kyne called on Paarthurnax, who pitied Man; Together they taught Men to use the Voice; Then Dragon War raged, Dragon against Tongue.
He furrowed his brow, confusion evident in his expression. "Who are Kyne and Paarthurnax?" he asked. "And what does it mean, Dragon against Tongue?"
Lydia studied the inscription for a moment before turning her gaze back to her Thane. "Kyne is Kynareth, the goddess of the sky," she began. "And the Tongues were ancient Nord warriors who wielded the Voice in battle. They were the ones who first learned to use the Voice to fight back against the dragons. They were feared for their strength."
"And Paarthurnax?"
The housecarl shook her head. "I don't know. I've never heard of him."
Altaïr hummed thoughtfully, turning his attention back to the inscription. "I see. So, this… goddess, and Paarthurnax, seemingly her disciple, taught the humans to use this power, it would appear."
"Pretty much, yes. High Hrothgar is dedicated to her worship, after all," Lydia confirmed with a glance at the distant mountain top, where the monastery stood like a beacon.
"But you have this power," Altaïr pointed out. "And it doesn't seem like it was passed on to you by any of these."
Lydia's posture shifted at his words, her stance grew defensive. "How do you know it wasn't?" she asked, her tone unexpectedly sharp. "I get that you don't believe in gods, but is there any other reasonable explanation to me being able to use my voice as a weapon?"
Altaïr hesitated, the question making him pause. He could see the fire in Lydia's eyes, but his scepticism of anything divine was not easily swayed. "…No. I do not understand either magic or Shouting, but I still do not believe in your deities. There has to be a better explanation than that."
Lydia's frustration was palpable. She let out a deep sigh, shaking her head as she walked a few paces ahead of him. "You're impossible," she muttered under her breath.
The next shrine stood nearby, nestled against the rocks of the mountain, almost hidden by the snow and wind. Altaïr approached it, reading the inscription carved into the stone.
Man prevailed, shouting Alduin out of the world; Proving for all that their Voice too was strong; Although their sacrifices were many-fold.
"Alduin," the Assassin muttered, the name heavy on his tongue. "Do you know this one?"
Lydia glanced at the shrine, nodding. "He's a legendary dragon," she explained. "He's also called the World-Eater. It's said that his arrival means the end of the world. He devours the souls of the dead in Sovngarde."
Altaïr's brows furrowed in confusion, and Lydia noticed. "Sovngarde is where the Nords go after an honourable death," she added, trying to clarify.
The Assassin didn't respond. The idea of a dragon so powerful that it could end the world – it felt ridiculous. The idea of an afterlife he considered even more laughable. Despite not agreeing with the Templars on a number of things, Sibrand had been right about one thing: there was nothing after death.
Lydia, sensing his disinterest, fell silent as well. She knew better than to press him on matters of belief.
The journey trudged on, and as the path seemed to stretch endlessly before them, the cold wind and relentless snow made the climb more gruelling. Another pack of wolves, hungry and desperate, tried to ambush the two travellers, but as before, they met their end swiftly. After dispatching them, the two pressed on, eventually reaching the next shrine further up the Seven Thousand Steps.
Altaïr paused, wiping the frost from his brow as he read the inscription carved into the stone.
With roaring Tongues, the Sky-Children conquer; Founding the First Empire with Sword and Voice; Whilst the Dragons withdrew from this World.
"I've read something about the First Empire," Altaïr remarked, his voice steady, but a hint of curiosity in his tone. "The Pocket Guide to the Empire mentioned that your people ruled the northern part of Tamriel for fifty years. Judging by what's written here, I would assume they began conquering immediately after defeating the dragons."
Lydia glanced at him, eyebrow raised. "When did you have time to read that?"
The Assassin gave a small shrug. "Yesterday morning, when you were still asleep," he replied.
"Oh. Right."
They continued their ascent, the cold growing ever more intense as they climbed higher, and soon they reached yet another tablet, its weathered surface telling more of the story.
The Tongues at Red Mountain went away humbled; Jurgen Windcaller began His Seven Year Meditation; To understand how Strong Voices could fail.
"Is any of this familiar to you?" Altaïr asked, turning to Lydia.
Lydia nodded, taking in the words before responding. "Red Mountain is in Morrowind. It's the land of the dark elves – Irileth's people." She hesitated, unsure of the details. "I don't know what happened there, or who Jurgen Windcaller is."
The Assassin hummed, before continuing onwards.
Not long after, they came upon the next tablet. Altaïr stepped up to it and read aloud.
Jurgen Windcaller chose silence and returned; The 17 disputants could not shout Him down; Jurgen the Calm built His home on the Throat of the World.
This time, neither of them spoke. The story of the Greybeards' founding didn't seem to hold much significance for either of them, especially for Altaïr, who was growing weary of the endless references to these ancient figures he knew nothing about.
The next one, however, peaked his interest significantly.
For years all silent, the Greybeards spoke one name; Tiber Septim, stripling then, was summoned to Hrothgar; They blessed and named him Dovahkiin.
Altaïr hummed in thought as he read the inscription again. "This name I know. He's the emperor your people worship as a god, correct? The one whose worship was forbidden by the elves?" He turned to Lydia for confirmation.
"Yes. He's the one who united the Empire," she confirmed, shifting her attention to another part of the inscription. "Dovahkiin. That was what the Greybeards shouted when they called for me."
"I'll assume this means 'Dragonborn'," her Thane mused. "They did say that Tiber Septim was one, after all."
"I remember, yes," Lydia's mind drifted back to the discussion after the dragon attack, when one of the guards mentioned something like that.
The final inscription was simple and to the point, etched into the stone just before High Hrothgar, the destination they had been climbing toward.
The Voice is worship; Follow the Inner path; Speak only in True Need.
Altaïr read the words, but they didn't strike him as particularly significant compared to what lay before them. He glanced up, his eyes immediately drawn to the towering structure ahead. High Hrothgar stood proudly atop the Throat of the World, its ancient stones weathered by time yet remarkably intact. The grandeur of the monastery was undeniable, its sheer scale dwarfing even some of the temples he had seen in Jerusalem.
The stone of the structure had been worn smooth by centuries of harsh winds and bitter cold, yet it still seemed resolute, standing firm against the elements. Altaïr took a step closer, feeling a sense of awe that he hadn't expected.
Lydia stood beside him, equally struck by the sight. "This is it," she said quietly, her voice filled with reverence.
"Well, then," the Assassin said, composed as ever, "Let's not keep them waiting."
The two of them began to climb the final steps toward the great doors of High Hrothgar, the weight of the moment settling over them both.
...And that's chapter 4 done.
In truth, it feels harder for me to write this because of how limited Altaïr is as a character, especially when compared to Ezio. Ezio was the one I wanted to write about when I first started writing this, but at the time I thought Altaïr was a better option.
Still, I keep the option to completely rewrite this with Ezio as the protagonist open. If you'd be more interested in that, do let me know. Reviews are also greatly appreciated.