The battlefield is silent, yet it hums with the tension of thousands holding their breath. All eyes are fixed on the sky where Mirmulnir sweeps forward like a stormbank. His wings carve through the air with deliberate strokes, the shadow of his form sweeping across the assembled forces below. Every heartbeat feels too loud, every clink of armor a distraction from the oppressive weight of the dragon's presence.
The first roar tears through the air, shaking the ground beneath me. It's not just a sound—it's a force, a tidal wave of raw power that strikes to the core. My heart pounds, not with fear, but with something sharper—a frustration that burns hotter with every moment. The whispers of the Blade stir in my mind, soft but persistent.
I clench my jaw, forcing the voice back into the recesses of my mind. This isn't the time. My grip on the Ebony Blade tightens until my knuckles ache. The air itself feels heavy, charged with the anticipation of violence, and I can feel my anger and excitement building in my chest.
Mirmulnir banks sharply, his wings folding slightly as he angles toward the watchtower. Dust rises in a choking cloud as he lands with a deafening crash, the ancient stone groaning under the weight of his massive frame. His claws scrape against the rock, carving deep gouges as his tail lashes behind him. For a moment, he is still, his amber eyes sweep over us, glowing with malice and intelligence.
When he speaks, his voice is a physical force, pressing down on us like the weight of a mountain.
"Your lives are fleeting. Your courage is hollow. I see your fear—so loud, so sweet. Give me the Dragonstone, and your deaths will be swift."
The sound cuts through the air, shaking the ranks. Soldiers glance at each other, their fear barely concealed. Some clutch at their shields like lifelines, while others murmur prayers under their breath. The front lines waver, and for a moment, I think they might break. But then Irileth's voice rings out, sharp and commanding:
"Hold the line! Do not falter!"
Her presence steadies the troops, her voice carrying through the ranks by magic. "Archers, ready your bows! On my mark!"
Then the signal horn blares, and Irileth's shout cuts through the air:
"Loose at will!"
The sky darkens with arrows, a thousand streaks of steel arcing toward the dragon. Ballista bolts follow, their deadly tips gleaming in the fading light. For a brief moment, the battlefield feels alive with hope, the collective effort of an army united against an overwhelming foe.
But Mirmulnir is no ordinary beast. He lifts his head, and I see his chest swell as he draws in a deep breath. "Feim Zii Gron!"
His massive body shimmers, becoming ghostlike, ethereal. The projectiles pass through him harmlessly, scattering into the air or striking the stone of the watchtower beneath him. Mirmulnir's laughter rumbles, low and mocking, as he watches our futile efforts.
"Futile," he booms. "Your weapons are as frail as your wills. Shall I show you how weak you truly are?"
Around me, the ripple of disbelief spreads through the ranks. Some soldiers hesitate, their confidence cracking. I feel the whispers of the Blade rise again, sharper this time:
"You see it, don't you? Their weakness. Their fear. You could end this. If you had the will to take what is yours."
I force the voice down again, my grip on the Blade tightening until my fingers ache.
Mirmulnir's ethereal form ripples like a heat haze, his laughter rumbling across the battlefield. The dragon's mocking gaze sweeps over us, lingering just long enough to make it clear he sees the fear written on every face. Around me, soldiers exchange uneasy glances. Even the most battle-hardened among them seem to falter, their breaths quickening as the enormity of what they face becomes undeniable.
"Regroup!" Irileth shouts, her voice cutting through the growing panic. "Ballista crews, adjust your aim—focus on the wings!"
Her orders ground the soldiers nearest her. They snap back into formation, their movements sharp, mechanical, the muscle memory of training momentarily overriding their terror. But the cracks in the lines are visible. Beyond the center, disarray ripples outward as whispers of despair spread. A few men break rank, fleeing toward the rear, only to be cut down by Irileth's vanguard. Damn, didn't expect that.
"Cowards!" she snarls, her blade flashing as she points toward the dragon. "Your lives are forfeit if you run! Stand and fight, or die where you stand!"
Ballista crews shout to one another, struggling to reposition their massive weapons. But Mirmulnir doesn't wait. His voice echoes again, resonating with the weight of the Thu'um, shaking the air itself as he launches himself into the air.
"Krii Lun Aus!"
The words tear through the battlefield, a wave of red energy rolling outward. Soldiers in the front lines scream as their armor rusts and falls apart, shields splintering in their hands. The very life seems to drain from them, their strength fading as they collapse to the ground. Those untouched by the shout are forced to watch as their comrades fall, helpless and hollow.
I feel the edges of its power wash over me—a sickening pull, like something reaching into my chest to claw at my life. My armor groans, cracks spidering across the blackened steel, but it holds. My knees tremble, but I keep my feet, what looks like thousands have fallen with the first shouts.
The whispers from the Blade are almost gleeful now, curling through my thoughts like smoke.
"You feel it, don't you? The weakness. The fragility of their lives. But you—you are different. You could be more, simply strike down the soldiers around you."
Mirmulnir dives low, his translucent form solidifying as he streaks across the battlefield. His massive jaws part, and fire spews forth, a torrent of flame that engulfs the front ranks. The screams are horrible—soldiers flailing as they burn, their bodies collapsing into ash. The fire cuts a swath through the army, leaving nothing but charred remains in its wake.
Farengar's wards absorb part of the blast, sparing a narrow strip of soldiers. But even his magic can't protect everyone.
"Ballista, fire!" Irileth bellows, seizing the moment as Mirmulnir rises again. The volley follows her command, streaking toward the dragon in a desperate attempt to wound him.
This time, the projectiles find purchase, a few embedding themselves in the gaps between his scales. But it's not enough. He banks sharply, using his tail to smash through the ballista crews before they can reload. The wooden frames splinter like twigs, and soldiers are thrown like ragdolls.
The frustration builds in my chest, a fire that burns hotter than the dragon's flames. I watch as soldiers are incinerated or torn apart, their lives snuffed out like candles. The futility of it all gnaws at me, a hollow ache that only feeds my anger as I am unable to do anything but futilely throw sparks into the air to try to hit him. My knuckles are white around the hilt of the Ebony Blade as the whispers return, insistent and cruel.
"Still, you hesitate. Still, you wait. How many must fall before you act? How long will you deny yourself the power you crave? Only 10 soldiers and you could save the rest."
I don't answer, my focus narrowing on the dragon as he climbs into the sky once more, preparing for his next attack. Around me, the battlefield is a sea of fire and death, and my rage builds into something sharper, harder, impossible to ignore.
Mirmulnir's roar shakes the ground as he rises into the sky again, his massive wings stirring whirlwinds of dust and ash across the battlefield. The dragon circles above us like a predator savoring its prey, his glowing amber eyes scanning the army with a cruel intelligence. Below, soldiers scramble to regroup under Irileth's shouted commands, their fear now barely held at bay. The air is thick with smoke, screams, and the stench of burning flesh—a cacophony of chaos that threatens to drown out all sense of order.
The flames from his last assault still burn, licking hungrily at the broken siege equipment and the bodies strewn across the battlefield. Farengar's wards flicker weakly against the heat, their protection failing in the face of Mirmulnir's relentless power. From my position, I can see the way he grits his teeth, his hands trembling as he channels everything he has into holding the fragile defenses.
"Archers, hold!" Irileth commands again, her voice cutting through the clamor. "Wait for my mark!"
The soldiers obey, though their movements are slower now, their resolve battered by the futility of their efforts. Every eye is on the dragon as he begins another dive, his chest glowing faintly with the building heat of his breath.
"Steady!" Irileth shouts.
The dragon plunges downward, a screech filling the air, his massive jaws part as he unleashes a torrent of flame. The front ranks vanish in an instant, consumed by the inferno. The screams are louder this time, more desperate, as soldiers scatter to avoid the firestorm. The blaze cuts a scar through the battlefield, leaving scorched earth and charred bodies in its wake.
I'm far enough back to avoid the brunt of the flames, but the heat still washes over me, searing my skin and drying my throat. My anger boils over, sharp and unrelenting. Every death fuels the fire in my chest, feeding the part of me that craves to strike back, to act, to meet this foe as an equel.
"You feel it, don't you?" the Blade whispers again. "The chaos. The helplessness. Their weakness will destroy them—but you need not be weak."
I snarl under my breath, forcing the voice back as I grip the Blade tighter. The air around me is filled with ash and smoke, choking every breath, but I don't falter. My gaze stays fixed on the dragon as he pulls up from his dive, banking sharply to prepare another attack, sparks building in my hand as I concentrate it.
"Loose!" Irileth commands, her voice cutting through the chaos.
The archers fire again, hundreds of arrows streaking toward the dragon in perfect unison. A few find their mark, piercing the thin membrane of his wings, but the damage is minimal. Mirmulnir roars in fury, his tail lashing out as he rises higher.
The few ballista crews left shout frantic orders, trying to adjust their aim, but the dragon moves too quickly, his massive form a blur of shadow and flame. One crew manages to fire, the bolt streaking through the air, but it sails wide.
"Hold your positions!" Irileth bellows. "We don't break! Reform the lines!"
The troops rally under her command, but their movements are sluggish, their morale cracked. I can see it in the faces around me—the creeping doubt, the realization that this fight is beyond them.
Mirmulnir roars again, his voice a challenge to the heavens themselves. His fire rakes through another line of soldiers, scattering bodies like broken dolls. The fire spreads further, engulfing what remains of the forward ranks. The ground beneath me is littered with the bodies of men and women who had stood tall only moments ago as I unleash the charged Sparks.
The frustration burns hotter in my chest, rage continuing to burn through my veins. My magic feels insignificant, my strikes futile against the overwhelming force before me.. My knuckles ache around the hilt of the Ebony Blade, the whispers threading through my mind with cruel insistence.
"They die for nothing," it hisses. "You could stop this. You could take control. All you must do is act."
I shake my head, gritting my teeth as the dragon climbs once more, preparing for another devastating attack.
-Irileth-
The battlefield burns around her, the air thick with ash and smoke that clogs her lungs and stings her eyes. The dragon's roar echoes in her chest, a sound so immense it feels as though the earth itself trembles in fear. Soldiers scream and scatter like leaves before a storm, and for a moment, she can feel their fear trying to creep into her own heart. But she has no time for it. Fear is a luxury she cannot afford.
"Reform the lines!" she bellows, her voice sharp and cutting above the chaos. Her sword points to the smoldering remains of the front ranks. "Shield-bearers to the front! Archers, nock your arrows! Ballista crews, focus your aim—his wings! Now!"
The soldiers around her hesitate, their fear plain in their wide eyes and trembling hands. She grits her teeth and grabs the nearest by his pauldron, forcing him to meet her gaze.
"You want to live? Then fight. Get back in formation, now!"
He nods, jerking into motion, and the others follow, reforming into something resembling a line. But she can see it in their faces. They're barely holding together, the weight of what they're facing threatening to break them, and she can understand that, even in her time with the Morag Tong she had never faced something like this.
The dragon circles above, a shadow of death that blocks out the sun. Its glowing amber eyes sweep over the battlefield, its claws gleaming like blackened steel as they catch the light of the flames below. It's toying with them. It knows it. She knows it. And she will not let it win.
"Hold your ground!" she shouts, striding along the lines. Her blade gleams, a flash of silver amidst the darkness. "You are the army of Whiterun! We do not break! We do not run!"
A soldier stumbles past her, his eyes wide with terror as he clutches a gaping wound on his arm. He's fleeing, abandoning his brothers and sisters to the flames. The sight ignites a spark of rage deep in her chest. She whirls, cutting him down with a single strike.
"Cowards die on this field!" she shouts, her voice booming. "If you flee, you will die as traitors! Stand and fight!"
The soldiers nearest her straighten, their grips on their weapons tightening. Fear still clings to them, but her words give them a direction, a purpose, however tenuous. That will have to be enough.
Above them, Mirmulnir roars again, banking sharply to line up another dive. His massive chest glows faintly, the telltale sign of another gout of fire ready to be unleashed. Her heart pounds, but she steadies herself, planting her feet firmly on the ashy ground.
"Archers, ready!" she shouts, swinging her sword toward the beast. "Ballista crews, take your shot when he's low! Do not waste it!"
The dragon's massive form dives, its wings tucked as it plummets toward the front lines. The ground shakes as its fire rakes across the battlefield, scattering men like toys. She raises her shield just in time to block a spray of dirt and debris as its tail lashes out, smashing through another ballista.
"Steady!" she screams, forcing every ounce of command into her voice. "Steady now!"
The archers loose another volley, arrows streaking toward the beast. A few find purchase, piercing the thinner membranes of its wings, and it roars in pain. It pulls up sharply, banking away from the worst of the assault, but the damage is done. Its flight falters, its movements less fluid. A glimmer of hope flickers in her chest.
"Now! Ballista crews, fire!"
The great weapons groan as their bolts streak through the air. One punches into the dragon's shoulder, glancing off a thick scale, but another slams into its wing, tearing a jagged hole through the membrane. The dragon roars, fury and pain mingling as it struggles to stay aloft.
This is their chance.
"Ground forces, move in!" she shouts, her blade high. "Companions, with me! We bring him down!"
-Farengar-
The heat presses against him like a living thing, sweat pouring down his face as he channels his magic into another ward. His hands tremble, the glow of the magic flickering as he forces more energy into it. Another firestorm explodes across the field, and the shimmering shield around the archers' ranks holds—barely. The air reeks of burning flesh and scorched metal, the battlefield a hellscape of ash and flame.
"Hold!" he shouts, though the soldiers around him can barely hear above the chaos. "Stay behind the wards! They'll hold—just long enough!"
It's a lie, of course. They can't hold forever. The dragon is too strong, its fire too relentless. His wards crack under the pressure, flickering dangerously before he pours another surge of magicka into them. His arms ache, his reserves are dwindling fast, and he's nearly run out of magicka potions, but he pushes the exhaustion aside. If he falters, they die. It's as simple as that.
Through the shimmering haze of heat, he spots Irileth driving her troops back into formation, her blade flashing as she cuts down another deserter. The Dunmer is relentless, her voice booming above the roar of the flames.
Then the dragon's shadow passes overhead, and all thoughts vanish as it dives again, its chest glowing with the heat of another shout.
"Brace!" he yells, throwing up another ward as the flames pour forth. The heat slams into the barrier, and for a heartbeat, he thinks it'll hold. But the strain is too much. The edges of the ward crack and splinter, and he screams as the magic collapses, a shockwave tearing through his body. Soldiers scatter behind him, some shielding their faces with their arms, others thrown to the ground by the force of the blast.
He falls to one knee, gasping for air. His vision swims, black spots dancing at the edges, but he forces himself to focus. There's no time to recover. The dragon wheels around for another pass, its amber eyes blazing with cold contempt. The soldiers beneath it are scattering, their ranks in shambles, and he knows another blast of fire will destroy them completely.
"By the Divines, no!" he snarls, forcing himself upright. His hands glow as he summons another ward, weaker this time, but it's enough to shield the remnants of the forward lines.
"Hold your positions!" he bellows. "He can bleed! He can die!"
The lie tastes bitter on his tongue, but the soldiers rally behind it, reforming their lines as the archers nock their arrows once more.
Out of the corner of his eye, Farengar spots one of the ballista crews finally aligning their weapon. They shout commands to each other, struggling to reposition the siege engine as the dragon prepares to dive again. He pushes the last of his reserves into another ward, shielding them just as Mirmulnir unleashes a gout of flame in their direction. The fire curls harmlessly against the barrier, and the crew wastes no time.
The ballista fires with a deafening crack, the bolt streaking through the air toward the dragon. It's not perfect—the angle is wrong, the timing slightly off—but the gods must be watching, because the bolt punches clean through the membrane of its wing.
The dragon's roar of pain is deafening, vibrating through the ground as it falters in the air. It thrashes, trying to keep itself aloft, but the damage is too great. It spirals downward, crashing into the earth with a sound like thunder. The impact shakes the battlefield, sending up a cloud of dust and debris that blinds everyone for a moment.
Farengar staggers, gasping for air as his knees threaten to buckle. The dragon is grounded, but the cost has been immense. His hands are trembling, his magicka reserves nearly empty, and he can barely stand. Around him, soldiers are shouting, rallying as they realize the beast is vulnerable. Irileth's voice cuts through the chaos, sharp and commanding, driving the melee fighters forward.
-Melkorn-
The ground quakes as Mirmulnir thrashes, his massive tail carving deep furrows into the earth and scattering soldiers like leaves. I'm close enough now to feel the heat radiating off his body, the smell of sulfur and charred flesh choking the air. The dragon's roar is a physical force, reverberating in my chest as he snaps his jaws, crushing a shield and the man behind it in a single motion. The soldier doesn't even scream—there's no time.
The Companions surge forward, their weapons gleaming in the firelight as they close the distance. Kodlak is among them, his hammer striking with insane force against the dragon's scales. The sound of steel on scales is deafening, and I can see cracks forming where his blows land. Others target Mirmulnir's wings, their axes and swords hacking at the tattered membrane to keep him grounded.
I move with them as a grin cuts my face, the Ebony Blade humming in my grip, its whispers silent now as though savoring the chaos. The Blade slices through the air and strikes Mirmulnir's flank, biting deep into his scales. The resistance is nothing—his hide parts as easily as flesh, and dark blood sprays onto the ground, hissing and steaming as it meets the dirt.
The dragon recoils, his head snapping toward me with terrifying speed. His amber eyes burn with fury, and for a moment, time seems to freeze. Then his claws lash out, a blur of blackened bones slicing through the air. I barely twist in time, the edge of his strike glancing off my weakened chestplate, but the force sends me stumbling backward.
Mirmulnir roars again, his tail sweeping in a deadly arc. It slams into a group of soldiers, their bodies crumpling under the sheer power. Irileth leaps clear, on fire with Ancestor's Wrath, her blade flashing as she drives it into the softer flesh beneath the dragon's jaw. Mirmulnir shrieks, his massive head jerking upward, but the blow doesn't slow him for long.
I push myself forward, every step a battle against the heat and the overwhelming presence. Around me, soldiers are dying—some burned alive, others crushed under Mirmulnir's claws or tail. The Companions fight valiantly, their attacks coordinated and relentless, but for every strike that lands, the dragon retaliates and someone dies
The Ebony Blade hums louder as I close the distance again. My anger sharpens my focus, the fire in my chest driving me forward. I dart past the dragon's swinging tail and slash at his exposed flank once more. The Blade bites deep, slicing through muscle and scale as though they're paper. More blood sprays, burning the ground where it falls, and Mirmulnir's roar of pain shakes the very air.
His massive claws flash toward me, and this time, I'm not fast enough. It tears through my chestplate, ripping metal and flesh alike, and I'm thrown backward. The world spins as I crash into the ground, the impact driving the air from my lungs. Pain blooms in my torso, sharp and overwhelming, and I taste blood as I gasp for breath.
The sounds of the battlefield blur together—roars, screams, the clash of steel on scale. My vision swims, black spots creeping into the edges as I struggle to focus. My hand tightens around the Ebony Blade, its weight the only thing grounding me in the chaos. The whispers return, soft and insistent, curling through my mind like smoke.
"You are not done."
I choke on a breath, the pain threatening to drag me into unconsciousness. Around me, the fight rages on. Irileth is shouting orders, her voice raw but unrelenting. The Companions are still pressing the attack, but my vision is blackening and my pack was ripped clean so I have no potions.
Mirmulnir thrashes, his claws raking the earth as he tries to rise. His damaged wings flutter weakly, unable to lift his massive frame. The soldiers nearest him hesitate, their courage faltering as they see the carnage surrounding them. One of the Companions falls beneath a swipe of his tail, his body crumpling like a broken doll.
The Blade whispers again, sharper now.
"You feel it, don't you? The edge of death. The power within reach. Take it."
I grit my teeth, my hand trembling as I press it to my ruined chestplate. The blood flows freely, soaking into the earth beneath me. My anger burns hotter than the pain, but I can feel my life slipping away.
The world narrows to the taste of blood in my mouth, the dull roar of my heartbeat drowning out the chaos around me. My chest is on fire, every breath a jagged stab of pain. I press my hand harder against the torn remains of my chestplate, but it's futile—the blood flows too freely, warm and sticky between my fingers. My strength is slipping, the edges of my vision blurring into shadow. I grit my teeth, refusing to give in.
Then, the Blade speaks. Its voice slithers into my thoughts, cold and sharp as steel.
"You're dying," it whispers, almost amused. "Pathetic. But it doesn't have to end here. Take what I offer, and you will rise."
I don't respond, though the words sink their hooks deep. Around me, the battle rages on. Mirmulnir thrashes in the center of the chaos, his claws and tail scattering soldiers like leaves in a storm. Irileth's shouts rise above the din, her commands sharp and unyielding, but I can see it—the fear spreading through the ranks, the cracks forming in their resolve. The Companions fight valiantly, their strikes relentless, but they, too, are faltering. The dragon is relentless, a force of nature that refuses to be stopped.
And I'm lying here, broken and bleeding, powerless to do anything but watch.
The Blade's voice cuts through my thoughts, sharp and insistent now.
"Power is yours for the taking. This pain, this weakness—it is nothing. You could stop him. You could consume him."
I close my eyes, my breathing shallow as I weigh the words. I can feel the fire inside me flickering, threatening to go out entirely. I can feel the life force it stole from the dragon waiting.
"I won't..." I rasp, my voice barely a whisper. But the Blade doesn't relent.
"You will," it purrs. "You crave it. The power to stand, to fight, to win. Take it. Take me. Let the dragon's strength be yours."
The pain is overwhelming, every breath a struggle. The whispers grow louder, their promise irresistible. My vision darkens further, the sounds of the battlefield fading as the shadows close in.
And then, with a snarl, I give in.
The Blade pulses in my hand, a surge of dark energy flowing into me like a floodgate has been opened. The pain vanishes in an instant, replaced by a cold, buzzing vitality that spreads through my veins. My wounds seal themselves, the torn flesh knitting back together with a sensation that is both disturbing and intoxicating. I gasp, the sudden strength leaving me breathless.
The shadows recede, and the world sharpens into focus once more. The chaos of the battlefield roars back into my senses, but now it feels distant, unimportant. I rise to my feet, my movements smooth, effortless.
The Blade hums in my hand, its whispers satisfied, almost smug.
"There. Was that so difficult?"
I ignore it, my gaze locking onto the dragon in the distance. Mirmulnir is wounded, his movements slower, but he's still deadly. Around him, the Companions continue to hack at him. I feel a surge of rage at the sight—the dragon still stands, and I want it to die.
As I take a step forward, I glance down at my hands. They're steady, strong, but the cold energy coursing through me feels... wrong. It's not like magic. It's something darker, something deeper. A part of me recoils, but another part—a louder part—revels in it.
I tighten my grip on the Blade and start toward the dragon, my anger sharpening into focus. The soldiers around me part instinctively, their expressions a mix of awe and fear. I barely notice. My vision narrows to Mirmulnir, to the opportunity to strike, to end this once and for all.
The battlefield is a wasteland of fire and death, the air choked with smoke and ash that clings to every breath. Mirmulnir's roars rise above it all, a declaration of dominance that shakes the ground beneath my feet. Around him, the Companions press their attack, blades and axes carving at his scales with desperation. Yet for every wound they inflict, the dragon retaliates tenfold, his claws and tail cutting through their ranks like a scythe through wheat.
I press forward, the Ebony Blade humming with dark energy in my grip. Every step feels deliberate, charged with purpose, as if the power coursing through me is guiding my movements. The cold vitality left by the Blade's whispers dulls the heat, the pain, the chaos. My focus is razor-sharp, locked on the dragon. I will not stop. I cannot stop.
Then Mirmulnir shifts. His massive head rears back, amber eyes glowing brighter as his chest swells. The ancient words of his Thu'um tear through the air like a storm:
"Faas Ru Maar!"
The shout is not fire or force—it is something far worse. A wave of terror rolls across the battlefield, an unnatural fear that burrows into the hearts of even the bravest among us. Soldiers and companions drop their weapons, their faces pale with horror as they turn and flee, their cries of despair drowning out the clamor of battle.
I stumble as the shout washes over me, my breath catching in my throat. It's like an icy hand clutching my chest, squeezing until the world blurs around the edges. For a moment, I see myself falling, breaking, running—anything to escape the crushing presence of the dragon.
But the Blade does not allow it. The whispers slice through the fear, sharp and commanding:
"You are no coward. Stand. Fight. Give me blood."
I grit my teeth, forcing the terror back as I regain myself. Around me, the army is in shambles. Men and women scatter in every direction, their courage shattered by the dragon's Thu'um. Even the Companions faltered, their relentless assault slowing and some running as the shout grips their hearts. Irileth stands her ground, her blade raised high.
Mirmulnir takes advantage of the chaos. His wings, though torn and bloodied, spread wide as he beats them against the air. Dust and debris rise in swirling clouds, obscuring the battlefield as he begins to lift off the ground. Each beat of his wings sends shockwaves rippling outward, knocking over anyone too close.
"No," I growl. My hands tighten around the Ebony Blade, the cold power within me thrumming in time with my racing heart.
He cannot escape.
Mirmulnir rises higher, blood trailing from his wounds as he claws his way into the sky. The dragon's roar is a triumphant one, a sound that declares his survival, his dominance. The sight ignites something inside me—something raw and furious. My breath quickens, the fire in my chest burning hotter than ever.
I glance toward the crumbling watchtower, its jagged stones standing stark against the smoky sky. The idea forms in an instant.
Farengar's voice echoes faintly from behind the lines, his desperation cutting through the haze.
"Stop him! We can't let him escape!"
I don't look back. My legs move before my mind can catch up, carrying me toward the tower with a speed I didn't know I possessed. Each step feels like a heartbeat, driving me closer to the crumbling structure. The heat of the battlefield fades into the background, the screams and shouts becoming a distant hum.
There is only the dragon. Only the chance to bring him down.
-Farengar-
The air burns with heat and ash, the battlefield a vision of Oblivion itself. Soldiers scream, scattering like insects as the dragon claws his way into the sky, his wounded wings straining against gravity. Farengar's wards are failing. His magicka reserves are a pitiful trickle now, barely enough to protect even the closest ranks. But it doesn't matter. The dragon is getting away.
He reaches into his satchel with trembling fingers, pulling out the last of his potions—a greater magicka potion. The dark liquid inside glimmers faintly, promising just enough power to do what needs to be done. His lips press into a hard line as he uncorks it with his thumb and downs the contents in one swift motion. It burns as it slides down his throat, and the world seems to sharpen in an instant. Energy courses through him, replacing exhaustion with focus.
"No more of this," he growls under his breath. His hands rise, the magicka surging to life in his palms, hot and crackling. "If the dragon wants fire, then let him drown in it." His will sharpens to a singular purpose: stop that dragon.
The heat builds in his hands, a swirling mass of fire and force that grows heavier with every second. The smell of ozone and burnt air surrounds him as the spell forms into something vast, terrible, and consuming. His teeth grind as the storm reaches its peak, the sheer magnitude of the spell making his head spin as he places anchors in the air around the dragon. This is no ordinary fireball. This is a firestorm—something capable of turning the sky itself into a furnace.
The firestorm bursts in an instant, an eruption of raw power that rushes into the sky. The air itself seems to ignite as the flames roar to life. The heat is staggering, and even from his position, Farengar can feel the edges of his own magic searing his skin.
The dragon roars, his voice mingling with the fury of the storm as it envelops him. The flames crawl over his battered wings and scorched scales, and for a moment, he falters, his ascent arrested by the sheer intensity of the assault. His movements become sluggish, erratic, the damage dragging him closer to the ground.
Farengar clenches his fists, every ounce of focus pouring into maintaining the storm. The potion's power bolsters him, but he can feel it waning, the cost of such a massive spell taking its toll. His arms tremble, his vision blurs at the edges, and sweat drips into his eyes. But he refuses to stop. Not until the dragon falls.
"Come on," he mutters, his voice barely audible over the roar of the flames. "Come on, you bastard."
Mirmulnir thrashes within the firestorm, his roars shaking the ground. His wings beat furiously, scattering the flames, but the damage is done. His body is scorched, his once-pristine scales blackened and cracked.
-Melkorn-
Mirmulnir roars as he climbs higher, the firestorm raging around him like a second skin. The flames cling to his tattered wings, glowing embers scattered with every beat. He's defying us, refusing to be brought down. Watching him rise fills me with a fury so sharp it feels like a physical wound. Everything burns: the battlefield, the men and women lying broken and charred, my chest where his claws tore through me, and, most of all, my soul.
The air thickens with heat as I near the base of the watchtower. The firestorm burns brighter around Mirmulnir, its embers glowing like molten gold against the smoke-darkened sky. I can feel the searing heat on my face, can taste the ash in my throat, but it doesn't matter. My anger sharpens into focus, every thought honing itself to a single point: the dragon must fall.
The tower looms above me, its walls cracked and crumbling from the battle. Stones shift and groan as I approach, the structure barely holding itself together. For a moment, I hesitate. The climb will be dangerous, almost impossible with the heat and the damage—but there's no other way.
With a final glance at the battlefield behind me—a vision of fire and ash—I haul myself upward. The heat intensifies as I climb, the firestorm's glow casting everything in flickering orange light. Mirmulnir's roars echo above, each one driving me forward.
I will not let him escape. Not while I still draw breath.
The base of the tower feels like stepping into the mouth of Hell itself. The walls are scorched black, the stones beneath my boots cracking with each step. Heat radiates from every surface, making the air shimmer with waves of distortion. Sweat streams down my face, stinging my eyes as I force myself forward. The roar of the firestorm outside is deafening, shaking the weakened structure with each burst of flame that claws at the crumbling stone.
The first steps of the spiral staircase groan beneath my weight. I grip the hilt of the Ebony Blade tighter, its dark whispers curling through my mind.
I climb, my boots slipping on the loose debris scattered across the steps. Each one feels like a battle, the stones uneven and slick with soot. Chunks of the wall fall away as I pass, sending clouds of dust and ash spiraling into the air. My breath comes in shallow gasps, the heat pressing against me like a living thing.
Then, the firestorm surges. A plume of flame crashes against the side of the tower, sending tremors through the structure. The stones lurch beneath my feet, and I grab for the wall, my fingers scraping against its jagged surface. A piece of the staircase ahead collapses, falling into the darkness below with a sound that seems to echo forever.
I snarl, ignoring the voice as I push onward. My hands ache, raw and blistered from gripping the scorching stones. The flames of Ancestors' Wrath ignite around me as my anger burns even higher, shielding me from the worst of the heat but doing little to ease the suffocating pressure in my chest.
The roar of Mirmulnir is closer now, shaking the very air around me. Through the gaps in the walls, I catch glimpses of him, his massive form illuminated by the raging firestorm. He thrashes against the remnants of Farengar's magic, the flames clinging to his wings and scales like a second skin.
The staircase narrows as I ascend, the stones crumbling faster now. The heat grows unbearable, even with the flames of Ancestors' Wrath surrounding me. My body screams for rest, my legs trembling under the strain, but I refuse to stop. I can't let him leave, I need the power his death will bring me. A chunk of stone falls from the ceiling above, crashing just ahead of me and sending sparks flying. I shield my face, coughing against the acrid smoke that fills the air. The roar of the firestorm surges again, the flames licking at the edges of the tower, their heat wrapping around me like a vice.
Each step feels heavier than the last, my chest burning from more than just the heat. My wounds throb under the strain, the healing granted by Mephala's whispers faltering under the physical toll. But the thought of stopping, of letting Mirmulnir escape, is unbearable. I force myself onward, climbing hand over hand until the jagged edges of the final platform come into view.
The top of the tower is within reach. The roar of the firestorm fades slightly as I pull myself up, replaced by the rush of wind and the guttural snarls of the dragon. The world outside is blindingly bright, the remnants of Farengar's flames casting everything in hues of gold and crimson. I crawl through the half-collapsed doorway, the jagged stone scraping against my armor as I emerge into the open air.
The firestorm still rages, but it's weaker now, its fury waning as Mirmulnir beats his wings against it. His massive form looms ahead, glowing embers clinging to his blackened scales. My breaths come in ragged gasps as I rise to my feet, my anger burning hotter than the flames.
"This ends now," I growl, gripping the Ebony Blade as I step toward the edge.
-Aela-
The battlefield churns with fire and chaos, the air thick with ash and the acrid stench of burning flesh. Around her, soldiers break and reform, their movements frantic as Irileth's sharp commands try to hold the line. But Aela's focus isn't on them. It's on the crumbling tower, its jagged silhouette stark against the raging firestorm, and the lone figure climbing into its heart.
Melkorn.
Her blood hums, her senses sharpening as her inner wolf stirs, roused by his sheer audacity. Her lip curls, a half-snarl escaping as she watches him scale the broken stone.
She draws her bow, the familiar weight settling into her hand as she nocks an arrow. Her eyes narrow, following the line of his ascent, tracking his every move. He's heading for the top, for the highest point where the dragon is struggling to rise higher against the firestorm the wizard called forth. The logic is sound, even if the method is madness. Her wolf growls softly within her, the thrill of the hunt rising in her chest.
This is no different from tracking prey through the wilds. The battlefield, the firestorm, the dragon—they're all part of the same game. And Melkorn... He's the spearhead, the bait that draws the beast's attention. Her role is clear. She'll cover him, strike when the moment comes, and ensure this hunt ends with their triumph.
The firestorm surges, its flames licking at the edges of the tower. The dragon roars, its massive head twisting toward the tower. For a moment, she thinks it sees him. Her muscles tense, every instinct screaming at her to let the arrow fly. But no—the beast turns back, its focus still on escaping into the air.
Good. Let it underestimate us.
She glances at the battlefield, quickly calculating the odds. The Companions are regrouping, their lines reforming under Irileth's orders. The soldiers, though battered and bloodied, are holding on—for now. But this battle won't last much longer. The dragon is wounded, yes, but it's still a predator, and predators are most dangerous when cornered.
She can feel the firestorm's heat on her face, but it doesn't bother her. This is the moment she's been waiting for—a hunt worthy of song.
Melkorn exits onto the top of the tower. She sees him silhouetted against the flames.
He's going to jump. She knows it as surely as she knows her own heartbeat. Her grip tightens on the bow, her muscles coiling as she prepares for the moment. Her wolf growls low, its excitement mingling with her own. This is what she lives for—the thrill, the chaos, the hunt.
She nocks the arrow, her eyes narrowing as she tracks both him and the dragon. The leap will be reckless, dangerous, it's stupid to even try.
"Don't miss," she murmurs, the wolf in her snarling softly as she draws the string back.
-Melkorn-
For a moment, I stand there, catching my breath as the scene unfolds before me.
Mirmulnir hovers just beyond the reach of the tower, his wings tattered and his scales scorched black. The remnants of Farengar's firestorm cling to him like molten chains, glowing faintly in the dim light. His massive body shifts with every beat of his wings, his roars echoing across the battlefield below.
The whispers from the Blade sharpen, almost triumphant:
"There he is. The power you crave, within reach. Strike."
I step closer to the edge, the Ebony Blade gleaming darkly in my grip. My breath comes in short, sharp gasps, my anger boiling just beneath the surface. The dragon looks at me, his amber eyes glowing with a mixture of fury and recognition. This is it. The moment I've been waiting for.
The wind howls around me, carrying the stench of smoke and blood from the battlefield below. From the edge of the tower, I can see it all—soldiers scattering like insects, their once-strong formations broken under the weight of fire and fear. Farengar's firestorm flickers weakly now, its remnants clinging to Mirmulnir's charred body as the dragon beats his wings, his massive wings struggling against their damage. He's wounded, his movements slower, but he's slowly rising to where I am.
My grip tightens on the Ebony Blade. Its whispers have gone silent for the first time since I claimed it, leaving me alone with the sound of my own ragged breaths and the pounding of my heart. My anger burns hotter than the firestorm, every muscle in my body screaming for action. The dragon is within reach. I will not let him escape.
The decision is made in an instant, my body moving before my mind can fully process it. I take a step back, the edge of the tower biting into my heels, and then I launch myself forward with every ounce of strength I have left. The world tilts, the rush of wind deafening as I leap from the tower, the battlefield falling away below me. Time slows, the moment stretching into eternity as I descend.
The Ebony Blade gleams in the firelight, its dark edge hungry and waiting. I angle myself toward Mirmulnir's wing, aiming for the joint where the tattered membrane meets bone. The dragon doesn't see me—not yet. His focus is on the sky ahead, his roars echoing across the battlefield as he struggles to gain altitude.
I let out a roar of my own, the sound tearing from my throat as I drive the Blade forward. The impact is jarring, the force of it sending shockwaves through my arms and shoulders as the Blade bites deep into the dragon's wing. Mirmulnir lets out a deafening scream, his body jerking violently as the Blade tears through scale and sinew.
For a moment, I think I'll fall. The dragon thrashes, his wing buckling under the sudden weight, and the wind threatens to tear me free. My hands tighten around the hilt of the Ebony Blade, my whole arm numb from the force of the strike.
Mirmulnir bucks and twists, his massive body flailing in the air as he struggles to stay aloft. His wing falters, the damage from the Blade too great for him to ignore. The world spins around me, the flames of the battlefield blurring with the smoke-filled sky. My body aches, every muscle screaming as I cling to the Blade, refusing to let go.
The dragon's flight becomes erratic, his movements wild as he thrashes in the air. I catch a glimpse of his eyes—burning with fury, his focus now entirely on me. For the first time, I feel the weight of his malice, the sheer force of his presence. But I do not let go. I will not.
The Blade hums in my hands, its energy surging through me like a second heartbeat as the burns heal.
The wind howls past me as Mirmulnir thrashes, each beat of his massive wings sending violent tremors through the air. My arms strain as I cling to the Ebony Blade, its edge still buried deep in the joint of his wing. Blood, hot and acrid, sprays from the wound, coating my hands and making my grip slick. My body jerks with every movement, the dragon's wild flight threatening to fling me into the abyss below.
Mirmulnir roars, a sound that shakes my very bones. He twists sharply, and I lose my footing, my boots slipping against the blood-slicked membrane of his wing. The world tilts, spinning wildly as the dragon's massive form bucks and writhes. For a moment, I feel the sickening pull of gravity, the Blade slipping from my grasp as the wind tears at me.
"No!" I snarl, the fire in my chest flaring hotter. My hand releases the Ebony Blade—not in surrender, but in desperation. Summoning every ounce of focus I have, I call upon my magic, the Bound Dagger materializes in my hand, and I drive it into the dragon's scales, the blade sinking deep into the thick hide. The impact jolts me, but it holds. I cling to the handle with both hands, my body swaying precariously as Mirmulnir roars again, his fury shaking the air.
The dragon thrashes harder, his wing faltering as the damage from the Ebony Blade takes its toll. I glance down, the battlefield a chaotic blur far below. Soldiers and Companions alike scatter beneath us, their shouts muffled by the wind and the dragon's roars.
Mirmulnir's flight becomes more erratic, his wings beating out of rhythm as he struggles to stay aloft. The damage to his wing pulls him to one side, and he tilts dangerously, his massive body lurching through the air. Below, the faint glint of arrows streaks upward, their sharp points aimed at his vulnerable wing.
The first arrow strikes true. A deep roar echoes through the sky as the projectile embeds itself into the joint of Mirmulnir's other wing. I twist, catching sight of Inigo below, his bow already nocked with another arrow. His movements are calm and precise, his aim steady despite the chaos around him.
A second arrow follows, this one from Aela. It finds its mark, slicing through a tendon in the dragon's wing. Mirmulnir's roar is deafening, his body convulsing as his flight becomes a desperate struggle. He dips lower, his massive form swaying as his wings falter completely.
The dragon spirals downward, his descent rapid and uncontrolled. My grip on the Bound Dagger tightens, my knuckles white as I brace myself. The ground rushes up to meet us, the flames and chaos of the battlefield drawing closer with every heartbeat.
Mirmulnir crashes into the earth with the force of an avalanche, the impact sending shockwaves through the battlefield. I'm thrown from his back, the Bound Dagger vanishing as I'm flung into the air. The world becomes a blur of fire and smoke as I tumble, the hard ground slamming into me with bone-jarring force.
Pain explodes through my body, every nerve screaming as I roll to a stop. For a moment, I can't move, my breath caught in my throat as the world spins around me. The taste of blood fills my mouth, and I force myself to focus, my vision clearing enough to see the battlefield.
Mirmulnir is down, his massive body sprawled across the earth. His wings are broken, the tattered membranes dragging uselessly in the dirt. Soldiers and Companions surround him, their weapons raised but their movements hesitant. The dragon's roars have turned into a guttural growl, his body convulsing as he struggles to rise.
-Inigo-
The battlefield is chaos incarnate—flames roaring, soldiers screaming, and the dragon's massive form blotting out the sky as it thrashes against the remnants of its flight. Inigo's eyes stay locked on the beast, ignoring the madness around him. The tension in his bowstring feels familiar, grounding him amidst the storm. He breathes deeply, steadying himself as the world narrows to a single point: Mirmulnir's other wing.
"Big lizard, big target," he murmurs to himself, his voice calm despite the chaos. "But it must be precise. No glory in a missed shot."
Melkorn clings to the beast like some madman born of fire and fury, his dark blade buried deep in one wing, the flames painting him red. The dragon's thrashing has made its flight unstable, but not unstable enough. If they don't cripple the other wing, the big lizard will escape, and this battle will be for nothing.
Inigo nocks an arrow, the tension in the bowstring resonating like a plucked lute. His muscles tense, every movement deliberate as he tracks the dragon's erratic flight. It dips and tilts, the damage to its wing forcing it lower, but its size makes it a stubborn target.
"Steady, Inigo," he whispers, drawing the string back to its full extension. The tip of the arrow aligns with the faint joint where wing meets body—a difficult shot, but not impossible.
The dragon tilts again, its roar cutting through the chaos, and for a moment, he sees the opening. His breath stills, the noise of the battlefield fading as he lets the arrow fly.
It streaks through the air, a glint of silver against the firelit sky. The impact is immediate, the arrow burying itself deep into the joint. A roar splits the heavens, a sound of pain and fury that shakes the very ground beneath them. The dragon's massive body lurches, the wounded wing struggling to maintain its shape.
A flash of movement catches his eye—the redhead, her bow already drawn. She doesn't wait, doesn't hesitate, her focus as sharp as her arrowhead. The string releases, and her shot follows his, striking true. The tendon gives way under the force of her strike, and the dragon's flight becomes a wild spiral.
"Yes," he purrs, satisfaction curling in his chest. The mighty beast is falling. The hunt is theirs.
Mirmulnir's descent is rapid and chaotic, its body twisting as it fights against gravity. Its massive form dips lower and lower, the damaged wings dragging it down like anchors. Inigo tracks its movements, watching as the dragon plummets toward the earth.
From his position, he can see Melkorn. His friend is still clinging to the dragon, a blur of dark armor and determination. The sight makes him shake his head, a quiet chuckle escaping despite himself. "You are mad, my friend," he mutters. "Mad as a rabid skeever."
The dragon crashes into the ground, the impact sending shockwaves through the battlefield. Dust and debris rise like a tidal wave, obscuring his vision for a moment. Inigo lowers his bow, blinking against the haze as the noise of the crash reverberates in his ears.
The lizard is down.
Around him, the battlefield falls into a brief, stunned silence. Soldiers pause in their movements, their weapons still raised as they stare at the fallen dragon. It's not dead—not yet. The massive beast twitches, its body writhing against the broken earth, but the fight is draining from it.
The redhead steps up beside him, her bow still in hand, her eyes locked on the dragon. She says nothing, her expression hard and calculating as she watches its convulsions. Her instincts are sharp, like his. They both know this isn't over.
"Nice shot," she says, her voice cool but with the faintest trace of approval.
Inigo inclines his head, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Yours was better."
Her lips twitch, almost into a smile, but her attention snaps back to the battlefield. His follows, his grip tightening on the bow. The dragon is vulnerable now, its mighty wings broken, its strength waning. But even grounded, it is dangerous—a predator to the very end.
And Melkorn... He's still there, clinging to the beast, a stubborn blur of motion as he fights to finish what they started.
Inigo draws his sword and races forward to join his friend.
-Melkorn-
I groan, my hands clawing at the ground as I force myself to sit up. Around me, the battlefield is chaos—soldiers scrambling to regroup, the Companions closing in on the grounded dragon, and Mirmulnir himself, his massive body writhing as he struggles to rise. His wings are broken, the tattered membranes dragging uselessly in the dirt, but his fury is undiminished.
The dragon's roar shakes the air, a sound of pain and defiance that sends a shiver down my spine. He thrashes, his claws raking the ground, his tail whipping through the ranks of soldiers who dare to approach. Bodies are flung like ragdolls, the sheer force of his movements keeping anyone from getting too close.
I stagger to my feet, my legs trembling beneath me. I look around frantically for a sword, and there as if in an act of fate the ebony blade gleams in the fires surrounding us.
My hand scoops the blade from where it rests as I take a step forward, then another, each one more steady than the last. My body protests with every movement, but my anger burns away the pain. I will not stop now. Not when I'm so close.
Mirmulnir's massive head swings toward me, his amber eyes blazing with fury and pain. His guttural growl shakes the air, a sound born of rage and desperation. Blood spills freely from the wounds we've inflicted, but even now, he refuses to surrender. He's cornered, his wings broken, his body battered—but that only makes him more dangerous. I can feel it in the way the ground trembles beneath his claws, in the predatory focus of his gaze.
He lashes out like a serpent, his neck coiling and striking with terrifying speed. The motion is almost too fast to track, a blur of scales and blood as his massive jaws snap toward me. Time seems to slow, the world narrowing to the single moment where everything will be decided.
The air around me stills, my heartbeat pounding in my ears. I see the sharp teeth glinting in the firelight, the muscles in his neck taut with the force of the strike. I step to the side, the motion instinctive, my boots scraping against the blood-slick ground. The wind of his strike brushes past me, hot and searing, as his massive jaws snap shut on empty air. He overextends, his neck reaching its full length, the motion leaving him vulnerable for the briefest of moments.
I pivot sharply, the pain in my chest flaring as I twist, but the anger driving me forward is stronger than the pain. My hands grip the Blade with all the strength I have left, its whispers fading into silence as I bring it up.
With every ounce of strength, every fragment of will, I drive the Ebony Blade forward. The dark steel plunges into the dragon's eye, the impact jarring through my arms as the Blade pierces scale, bone, and the soft tissue beneath.
Mirmulnir's roar dies in his throat, replaced by a choking, guttural sound that reverberates through the ground. His massive body convulses, his claws raking the earth one last time before collapsing under his own weight. The light in his eye dims, his immense form shuddering as the life drains from him and his scales start to flake off.
And this is what it feels like to be Melkorn Do'Urden. Mirmulnir falls. His body collapses in a cacophony of muscle and bone, and his death is a ripple through the air, a challenge to the gods themselves. But the storm is not over. The fire comes next, the light—brilliant, golden, alive. It strikes him, no, it invades him, driving through skin, bone, and soul alike. It is not gentle. It is not kind. It is a dragon, and a dragon does not bow. Even in death, it rages. The heat of it scorches his very essence, burning away weakness, stripping him bare. He falls to his knees as the memories hit, fragments of a life not his own. Scales rippling under an endless sky. Flames scorching armies into ash. A predator's pride, the certainty of dominance over all living things. And then…nothing. The memories start to fade, slipping like water through his grasp. But Melkorn is no passive vessel. He doesn't receive. He takes. Through the firestorm in his mind, he seizes it—the power, the knowledge, the ancient language that the dragon spoke with every roar. His fingers claw at the air, his soul reaching into the storm, ripping into the dragon's essence like a predator tearing into flesh. The word he wants is there, burning bright amidst the chaos. He rips it free before the memories can vanish. It lodges in his mind, primal and powerful, its meaning as clear as the word itself: Fus. His mouth opens, raw instinct driving him to shape the word, to test the power now coursing through his veins. The sound escapes, low and guttural, tearing from his throat as though his very soul exalts in it. "FUS!" The air shatters. Power explodes from him in a burst of force and energy, ripping the ground, the sky, and his voice apart in a single devastating cry. Blood coats his lips, his throat torn raw from the effort. He staggers, fire in his veins, the word still echoing in the wreckage of his mind. This is what it feels like to be Melkorn Do'Urden. To wield the power of dragons—and to feel his mortal body break beneath it.
AN
There we are, Melkorn is dragonborn fully confirmed, I hope I made this suitably epic, and remember this dragon is a hunter not a fighter ;)
Hope you all had a great Christmas, Yule or whatever else you celebrate
I am 3 chapters ahead on that dirty P word under MandTeKad, the 2 tiers above would be just supporting atm, holiday week kicked my butt and the latest chapter fought me tooth and nail