The morning air is sharp, crisp with the lingering bite of Skyrim's cold. The ground is still damp from last night's rain, mist curling low over the courtyard of Fort Amol. It clings to the ruined battlements, swirling around the scattered training dummies and the makeshift sparring circle marked by worn footprints in the dirt. The scent of wet earth and pine mixes with the fading traces of wood smoke from last night's fire.

I roll my shoulders, shaking out the stiffness from my muscles. The practice blade in my hand—a weighty, dulled version of my own hand-and-a-half sword—rests comfortably in my grip, but it still feels wrong. I hate training with anything that isn't my blade–which really needs a name now that I think about it. There's a difference in balance, in weight, in the way the steel moves through the air. The parrying dagger at my hip is the same. These blades are good enough for practice, but they don't belong to me like the one Eorlund forged.

Across from me, Kaidan adjusts his stance, rolling his neck until it cracks. His nodachi—a practice one like mine—rests easily in his hands.

I shift my weight, keeping light on my feet, waiting for him to move. The others are watching—Lydia, Inigo, even Lucien, though he lingers near the edge of the courtyard, arms crossed, observing with cautious interest.

Kaidan grins, sharp and confident. "Let's see if that quickness of yours holds up after a few bruises."

I grin, bringing my sword up, dagger angled near my waist. "Let's see if that sword of yours can catch me."

We both move at the same time, stepping into the fight.

Kaidan is quicker though.

His nodachi sweeps in fast, an overhead strike aimed straight for my head. I sidestep, keeping light on my feet, and angle my parrying dagger up, catching just enough of the blade to redirect it.

I twist inside his guard, aiming a quick thrust for his ribs. Too slow. Kaidan shifts, turning the nodachi's flat to slam into my sword, throwing my attack wide.

I pivot with the force, blade flashing in a low riverso, cutting up from my left.

Kaidan doesn't block—he darts back. His footwork is sharp, a single passing step back that gives him just enough space to avoid the strike. His nodachi whirls in a tight arc, already coming for me again.

I throw up my dagger, angling my wrist to deflect the blade over my head, then immediately roll my sword into a counterstrike.

Kaidan reads it.

Steel rings against steel as he catches my blade near the hilt, forcing me back a step. I feel the shift—he's controlling the fight now, setting the pace, making me react.

Not happening.

I fake a stumble, letting my weight drop as if he's gained the bind. He presses forward, nodachi raising for a finishing blow—

I explode upward.

A tight triangle step to his side, dagger darting in to hook the inside of his wrist. He grunts, adjusting, but I'm already moving. I slip behind him, sword snapping toward his exposed neck—

He pivots.

A solid shoulder check slams into me, sending me skidding back, boots sliding on damp stone. My ribs protest lightly.

Kaidan grins. "Not bad. You're quick."

I shake out my arms, grin widening. "Float like a butterfly."

He rolls his shoulders, nodachi coming up again.

I exhale slowly, adjusting my grip. "Again."

And we move.

Kaidan presses forward, nodachi cutting through the air in a sharp diagonal arc. I step back, angling my sword just enough to deflect the strike off my edge.

I keep circling, forcing him to follow. His nodachi has reach, but that means he takes longer to reset. I just need the right opening.

He steps in for another blow, this time aimed at my shoulder. I advance.

A passing step forward, and I parry his blade just enough to guide it past me. My dagger snaps up, pressing against his exposed ribs, while my crossguard lances forward to hover inches from his throat.

A heartbeat of stillness.

Then Kaidan exhales a sharp laugh.

"Well played," he says, stepping back and lowering his blade. He claps me on the shoulder, the force of it nearly making me stumble. "You fight like a damned fox, slipping through cracks before a man even knows they're there."

I grin, shaking the sting from my arms. Fucker was strong and the leverage he had with his sword… "Or maybe you're just slow."

Kaidan scoffs. "Aye? We'll see if you can keep that up when you're forty."

Lydia snorts from the sidelines. "If he makes it to forty the way he jumps into trouble."

Lucien, watching near the edge of the courtyard, shifts from foot to foot. I catch the way his hand lingers near his sword belt, fingers flexing.

Maybe he's starting to enjoy sparring.

I flick my blade up, leveling it toward him. "Your turn."

Lucien blinks. "What?"

"You're up," I say, twirling my sword and stepping back to the center of the courtyard. "Time to spar."

For a moment, he hesitates. Then, with a quick breath, he steps forward.

Lucien grips the hilt of his practice sword like it might bite him. His stance is too rigid, shoulders tense, feet planted wrong—he's overthinking again.

I sigh. "Relax."

He adjusts slightly, but the stiffness is still there. I raise my blade, gesturing for him to attack.

Lucien lunges—too eager, too committed. I sidestep, letting his blade whistle past my ribs, and bring my dagger up in a quick counter thrust towards his throat.

He panics.

Instead of recovering, he scrambles back, nearly tripping over his own feet. His sword twists in his grip, the hesitation clear. I step in again, forcing him to react. His sword comes up just in time to parry my next strike, but it's messy. Unbalanced. His shoulders are too tight, his footing too rigid.

I press forward. A quick flurry of attacks—nothing brutal, just enough to make him move. I let him block, let him feel like he's holding ground. I start pushing, stepping into his space, pressuring his defense just enough to make him resist.

He takes the bait.

Lucien grits his teeth and shoves back, trying to meet my strength with his own. I give him what he wants—until I don't.

The moment he leans into it, I step aside, letting him push against nothing.

He stumbles forward, off-balance. I pivot sharply, blade flicking toward his exposed ribs.

He barely twists his sword in time, my edge scraping his practice blade as he stumbles back again. Still sloppy. Still too slow.

I lower my weapons. "That was better." And it was, at least he blocked it.

Lucien pants, shoulders rising and falling. "Better?" he wheezes. "You just made me trip!"

I nod. "And someone else would've run you through before you recovered."

He exhales hard, frustration flickering across his face. But he's not angry—not yet. He wants to get this right.

I tilt my sword toward him. "You're reacting to me, not controlling the fight yourself. If all you do is block, you'll lose. Make me react. Set the pace."

Lucien straightens, shaking out his hands. His grip is still a little tight, his stance still not quite right, but I can see the anger.

I step back, resetting my guard. "Again."

He hesitates for only a second this time. Then, jaw tight, eyes sharp, he moves.

Lucien steps in fast, sword cutting for my side. Better. More aggressive. I parry hard, trying to rip out from his hands.

He recovers well, turning the failed cut into a looping diagonal slash toward my shoulder. I lift my dagger, catching the blade's edge and pushing it wide. His arms are tense, his movements stiff, but he's not hesitating anymore.

"Good," I mutter, circling. "Again."

Lucien doesn't wait—he lunges.

I let him think he has me for a second, stepping just a little slower, drawing him in. He commits fully, bringing his sword down in a strike at my head.

I sidestep at the last second, angling my body just enough to let his blade pass as I slip around him. At the same time, I flick my dagger forward, tapping his wrist before cutting my sword toward his now-exposed ribs.

Lucien twists desperately—and this time, he makes the right choice.

Instead of freezing or pulling back, he follows through with the movement, pivoting his weight into a natural counter. It's not perfect, but it's the right idea.

I see the strike coming. I could step away. I could parry.

I don't.

His sword smacks against my ribs.

I stop.

Lucien freezes, eyes wide, chest heaving.

For a moment, he doesn't even seem to believe it. Then, from the sidelines, Inigo lets out a loud, exaggerated gasp.

"He has done it! He has slain the mighty Blacksteel!"

Lucien stumbles back, blinking like he just woke up from a dream. His grip on the sword is still too tight, his stance off—but none of that matters right now.

I exhale, letting the tension drop from my stance. "Good."

Lucien gives a breathless laugh. "I—wait, good?"

I nod. "You stopped thinking. You adapted. That's the first step."

His face is flushed, but this time, it's not frustration—it's excitement.

I rest my sword against my shoulder. "Again?"

Lucien grins for the first time all morning. "Again."

-MD-
-MD-
-MD-

I take a slow draw from my pipe, the familiar burn of the smoke curling through my chest before I exhale, watching the thin tendrils twist in the cold morning air. The scent of smoldering juniper and dried hackle-lo leaf drifts around me, mixing with the crisp smell of damp earth as we ride. The world is quiet—not silent, but peaceful in the way only Skyrim's wilds can be.

Morrigan's steady gait is smooth beneath me, her powerful form cutting through the frost-kissed undergrowth as we follow the winding road north. Lydia rides beside me, ever watchful, her eyes scanning the trees for signs of trouble. Kaidan, slightly ahead, keeps his nodachi resting across his lap, reins held loosely in one hand. Inigo and Lucien trail just behind, the former humming some nameless tune under his breath, the latter clearly lost in thought after our morning's training.

The road stretches before us, frost-laced grass crunching under the horses' hooves. It's a good day for travel—cold, but clear. No signs of an impending storm, no ominous clouds on the horizon. Just the steady rhythm of our mounts and the occasional creak of leather saddles.

Kaidan breaks the silence first. "Not bad, Melkorn. I figured you'd be quick in a fight after what I've seen, but I didn't think you'd be that hard to pin down."

I grin around my pipe, taking another slow drag before replying. "I prefer not to get hit. Makes life easier."

Lydia snorts. "That why you let Lucien tag you in the ribs?"

I exhale, a thin stream of smoke twisting into the air. "Teaching moment."

Lucien shifts in his saddle, looking between us. "Wait. You let me hit you?"

I glance over at him. "Would you rather think you got lucky, or would you rather know that you did the right thing?"

He doesn't answer immediately, chewing on that. Then, slowly, he nods. "Right. Because I followed through instead of hesitating."

"Exactly."

Inigo chuckles, nudging his horse forward until he's riding beside Lucien. "Cheer up, my friend! A victory is a victory. No need to sour the taste of it." His tail flicks as he grins. "Besides, there are far worse things than getting stabbed by a friend."

Lucien eyes him. "Like?"

The road winds through rolling hills and scattered pines, frost clinging to the grass where the sun has yet to touch. The horses move at an easy pace, their breath misting in the cold air. It's a quiet ride, at least for now.

Inigo clears his throat dramatically. "Ah, my friends, the road stretches long before us! What better time to share a story of things worse than getting stabbed?"

Kaidan groans. "Here we go."

Lydia mutters, "At least it'll keep me awake."

I smirk, rolling my pipe between my fingers. "Alright, let's hear it."

Inigo sits up straighter in his saddle, his tail flicking with excitement. "A tale of courage, cunning, and excessive drinking!"

Lucien sighs. "Why am I already dreading this?"

Inigo waves him off. "Picture this: I find myself in Riften, pockets light, belly empty, and yet—spirits high! The solution? A drinking contest. The prize? A pouch full of septims and the respect of a very large, very ugly Orc."

Kaidan raises an eyebrow. "And let me guess—you won?"

"Obviously." Inigo grins. "Though, I must admit, I had to employ a bit of… creativity."

Lucien eyes him warily. "What kind of creativity?"

Inigo holds up a finger. "A simple dash of ground frostbite venom, mixed ever so carefully into my opponent's mead. Not enough to kill him, of course! Just… enough to level the playing field."

Lucien's expression twists in horror. "That's horrifying. And also cheating!"

Inigo places a paw over his heart, feigning deep offense. "Cheating? No, no, my scholarly friend! It was a tactical adjustment. The Orc insulted my tail, called it fluffy, and justice was required."

Lydia shakes her head. "Justice? You poisoned a man for calling you fluffy?"

Inigo scoffs. "Fluffy? FLUFFY?! I would never let such an insult stand. My fur is sleek, refined—majestic, even."

Kaidan chuckles. "And what happened to the Orc?"

Inigo grins. "He woke up in the Riften canal. Without his boots."

Lucien groans, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I cannot believe I'm traveling with a criminal."

I chuckle, shaking my head. "And yet, here you are."

Lucien exhales, rubbing his temples. "I don't even know why I'm surprised anymore."

I smirk around my pipe, taking a slow draw before letting the smoke curl from my lips. "Cause you're still innocent." I glance at him, eyes glinting. "Don't worry. We'll change that."

Lucien shoots me a wary look. "That sounds more like a threat than reassurance."

I grin. "Depends on how you handle it."

Lydia chuckles under her breath. "You've already come a long way, Lucien. A few months ago, you probably would've fainted at the idea of a poisoned drinking contest."

"I still might," he mutters. "Gods, I really have been traveling with you lot for too long."

Kaidan chimes in. "You'd rather be cooped up in some library?"

Lucien sighs, adjusting his grip on the reins. "I don't know. I used to think so, I used to think this would be purely about the knowledge I gain. Now? There's something to all of this." He gestures vaguely to the open road, the mountains looming in the distance. "The adventure, the danger, the… morally questionable antics."

"Careful," I say, tapping my pipe against my saddle. "That almost sounded like you're enjoying yourself."

Lucien opens his mouth to argue—then stops. Instead, he just groans and rubs his face. "Divines help me."

Inigo laughs. "There it is! He is breaking, my friend."

Kaidan snorts. "About time."

Lydia grins at me. "You really do have a habit of corrupting people."

I smirk back. "Only the ones worth keeping."

Lucien gives me a deadpan stare. "I can't tell if that's a compliment or a threat."

"Yes," I say simply.

Lydia laughs, shaking her head.

The conversation shifts to easier things—talk of old battles, near misses, and the sheer insanity that is life on the road. The kind of talk that keeps the cold from biting too deep, keeps the journey from feeling endless.

-MD-
-MD-
-MD-

The fire crackles warmly at the center of the camp, the flickering light dancing off the surrounding trees and casting long shadows across the clearing. The night air is crisp, and the scent of burning wood mingles with the earthy freshness of pine and damp soil. The camp is settling into a rhythm. Kaidan is reclining against a tree, his breath slow and steady as he drifts off into sleep. Lydia and Inigo are sparring just out of the firelight, their clashing weapons clashing in a quick exchange, Inigo and his taunts barely audible.

I watch them for a moment but don't feel the urge to join in. Tonight, my focus is different.

I set my pack down beside me, the tension of the day's travel slowly bleeding from my shoulders. Morrigan grazes quietly in the distance, her silhouette outlined against the low, silvery glow of the moon. I reach into my pack, my fingers brushing over familiar objects before pulling out the pipe Aela gave me.

I fill the pipe slowly, almost ritualistically, letting the familiar process calm my mind. I push flames out in a small stream, watching the glow catch in the bowl, the first tendrils of smoke curling into the night air. The warmth from the fire seeps into my bones, and I inhale deeply, letting the smoke settle around me.

The sounds of sparring fade into the background, distant and unimportant. The fire jumps and twists, and I feel the tension from the road leave me in slow waves. This is peace, of a kind. The world can wait for a moment. I close my eyes for a second, letting the smoke linger in the air before exhaling in a long, slow breath.

I glance across the fire at Lucien, who's already deep in his own studies, absorbed in the pages of A Guide to the Path of Restoration. His lips move silently as he reads, focused on his work. A small part of me is reminded that we're not all chasing the same goals, Lucien is not as drawn to destruction as me.

I take one last drag from the pipe and settle back, letting the flames dance before me. Now—now it's time to grow.

The fire pops, sending a shower of sparks into the air. I turn my attention back to the book: On the Art of Spellcrafting, feeling the anticipation stir in me. This is where my true journey begins. I open the book slowly, the first page glowing softly in the firelight.

And with that, I dive in.

"To shape magicka into form is to shape the very threads of existence itself. Many a novice believes that magic is but a means of mimicry, repeating the forms of others without deeper understanding. Yet those with the will to delve further know that true mastery lies in the ability to craft magic, not merely wield it. Spell crafting is the pinnacle of arcane understanding—a discipline that demands equal parts knowledge, willpower, and creativity."

Crafting magic. The concept stirs something inside me. I know the feeling—the urge to create, to make something myself, I had felt it when watching Forged in Fire with my friends. Farengar, for all his wisdom, never had the time to teach me more than immediate spells—fireballs and lightning bolts, wards, basic conjuring to get by. But this—this is different.

I've tried to add bound energy to my wards, to merge them, make them stronger—but without the deeper understanding, it's been nothing more than blind experimentation.

I turn the page:

"Before one may craft, one must first understand. All magic stems from fundamental principles that define its nature and function. To alter or create a spell, one must comprehend its foundation. A mage does not summon fire by thought alone but by understanding the nature of heat, expansion, and release. A shield of magicka is not conjured through instinct but through grasping the force that binds energy into form."

Comprehension. It's not just about casting—it's about knowing. I've used fire, summoned lightning, raised wards, but I've never contemplated the true underpinnings of what went into the energy.

I turn the page, eager to see what comes next:

"Magic is not merely a force—it is an expression of will. A reckless burst of flame is but crude destruction, uncontrolled and inefficient. A refined inferno, shaped with intent, can pierce armor, linger upon impact, or disperse in a controlled detonation. The more defined one's purpose, the greater the refinement of the spell."

-MD-
-MD-
-MD-

The fire flickers far behind me, its warmth barely reaching this lonely place in the night. Darkness stretches around me like a silent veil, thick and unbroken save for the distant hum of Morrigan grazing in the moonlight. The world is quiet here, untouched. Just me, the cold night air, and the steady pulse of magic humming beneath my skin.

I raise my hand, fingers twitching as the energy stirs. Sparks. A simple enough spell. A sustained stream of lightning, useful but fleeting. It shocks, stuns, incapacitates, kills if you hit them for long enough. But that's not enough. I don't just want to jolt my enemies into submission—I want to tear through them. I want something that doesn't act like a sustained taser, useful for weaker swarms but I want something I can hold that will rip my enemies apart.

I draw more magicka into my palm, feeling it coil beneath my skin, eager, restless. The first bolt shoots forward—a brilliant arc of white-hot energy that crackles through the night. For a brief moment, it holds, burning bright, but then it sputters, flickers, and dissolves into nothing. The air still sizzles where it had been, but the magic is gone.

I grit my teeth. Not enough. It's weak and unsustainable.

I tighten my grip, forcing more power into my palm. The hum intensifies, my skin tingling with the static charge. Again, I unleash the lightning, this time pushing harder, demanding more. The bolt surges forward, longer, stronger—but still, it breaks without sustaining itself. The wind scatters it like dust, dissipating its energy before it can truly strike.

Frustration burns through me like a second fire.

I dig my nails into my palm, steadying myself. My muscles ache, not from exhaustion but from restraint.

I will it to obey.

Again, I summon the current. Again, I force the spell outward. This time, I pour everything into it. The night air shudders with the force of it, the ground beneath me vibrating from the sheer energy. The lightning rips through the darkness, a brilliant arc that sizzles with raw intensity. It slams into the nearby rock with a sharp, crackling snap, sparks flying as the stone blackens. It's stronger than before, holding longer—but still, it's not right, if I want a strong single bolt I have Lightning Bolt.

Unstable. Uncontrolled.

I can feel it slipping even as I hold it. Like trying to grasp the wind. It's power without structure, force without form. It's there, burning bright in my grasp, but it's wild, chaotic.

I need more than raw strength. I need control.

I exhale sharply, inhaling the cool air deep into my lungs. The world is still around me, the night an unbroken canvas of silence save for the crackling remnants of energy in my palm.

Sparks isn't just a burst of lightning—it's a current. A flow. Magic doesn't just explode outward without purpose; it follows intent, it follows will.

I close my eyes, focusing on that thought.

Power is not simply unleashed. It is shaped.

This time, I don't just summon the lightning and force power into it—I guide it. I control the current, steadying it, directing it. The energy hums in my veins, responding not just to my command but to my intent. The arc of lightning extends from my fingertips. It holds—not just for a second, but for many. It crackles through the night air, not faltering, not breaking and strong, so much stronger than a regular mage's sparks.

A slow smile spreads across my lips.

I try again, refining the technique, pushing the current further, shaping it with more control. The energy stretches outward, no longer erratic but steady, its crackling rhythm matching the beat of my pulse. The rock I aim for is struck full force, the lightning clinging to it, dancing across its surface and I keep it there.

That's what it should feel like.

The power still hums beneath my skin, restless but controlled. I roll my shoulders, shaking the tension from my limbs. My hand tingles with the aftershock, but it's a good feeling.

This is only the beginning.

I think of the book I've been reading, On the Art of Spellcrafting.

"A fireball designed to pierce armor, to explode upon impact, requires focused intent and shaping."

I turn the words over in my mind, dissecting them, applying them to what I have just done. The thought lingers, curling around my mind like smoke.

A spear of lightning that illuminates Nirn, streaking through the air with the fury of Zeus to punch through dragonscale and castle walls.

Lightning that wraps around me and enhances me, pushing my body to new heights of strength and speed, for just an instant I think of Ay, the lightning cloak in Naruto, my grin splits my face but even that's not enough.

Living lightning.

The idea takes root, thrumming with potential.

Could I become the storm itself?

I lift my gaze to the sky, to the endless stretch of stars above. The night feels vast, limitless. I feel like I'm touching the edge of something greater, the Thu'um is great, I rewrite reality with my voice but to master lightning—It was something I always wanted.

For now, I lower my hand, watching the last crackle of electricity fade from my fingertips. My chest rises and falls, my breath steady. The magic is tamed, for tonight—but there's so much more I can do.

This is only the beginning.

With each step, I move closer to the power I've always wanted to wield.

And one day, I won't just command lightning.

I will be the lightning.

-MD-
-MD-
-MD-

Morrigan's steady rhythm beneath me keeps the chill of the air at bay as we ride through Skyrim's open landscape. The world around us feels still—quiet, save for the soft sound of hooves on gravel and the occasional creak of leather saddles. The hills roll before us, and the smell of pine and damp earth mixes with the crisp, cool air.

Inigo starts humming, and it isn't long before his deep voice fills the air, followed by Lucien, whose smooth baritone joins in effortlessly. Kaidan, always ready to indulge in a bit of song, adds his low rumbling hum, and soon enough, the melody swells between us.

Without thinking, I add my own voice, and we fall into an old, familiar tune:

"O my sweet love, she waits for me,
Through storm and shine, cross land or sea.
I run to her and together we,
Sway as we kiss,
Sway as we kiss."

Lydia remains silent beside me, but I can see the faintest curve at the corner of her mouth. .

"Her graceful shape I heave on high,
And in one hand I hold her nigh,
Her waiting lips are never dry,
Sway as we kiss,
Sway as we kiss."

Lucien sings with unusual confidence, his voice mixing seamlessly with ours. Kaidan's deep hum punctuates the melody, and Inigo's grin can almost be heard in his voice.

For a while, the world is only the song, the steady rhythm of our horses, and the comfort of shared company. But as we crest a small hill, the sound of our voices slowly fades, replaced by the silence of the road ahead.

At the top of the hill, I slow Morrigan, my eyes narrowing as I spot something in the distance. A massive shape moves slowly across the land. The silhouette of a mammoth. Its great tusks gleam in the dying light, and its shaggy coat shuffles across the frost-laden ground.

Beyond the mammoth, I see the telltale signs of a giant's camp. Crude tents, flickering bonfires, and the towering forms of giants moving about, their massive shapes almost blending with the dusk. One of them stands still, watching us from a distance. The weight of his gaze is palpable, and he slowly thumps his club into the ground, the heavy sound carrying through the air.

The warning is unmistakable.

I don't stop Morrigan, edging her forward, my eyes still locked on the scene ahead.

Kaidan, who had been riding behind me grabs my shoulder. "I hope you aren't thinking of attacking them," he mutters, his voice gruff with concern.

I turn my head slightly to catch his gaze, a grin tugging at the corner of my lips. "I don't know…" I muse aloud, thinking back to the last time I fought one of these giants. My body had been weaker then. I was injured, struggling to keep up, throwing a few sparks to help Aela and Vilkas. I'm not the same anymore. I'm stronger now, faster, and I had more magic. "I bet I could take one."

Lydia lets out an exasperated sigh. "Not everything has to be a fight."

I grin, my eyes still fixed on the giants. "Doesn't mean it wouldn't be fun," I reply, but I let it go. There's no need to pick a fight with a giant now. We have other things to focus on. The challenge, for now, is enough just to daydream about.

We ride in silence for a moment longer, the tension in the air hanging heavy as we move forward, the sight of the giants now etched in my mind. The camp is close enough now that I can hear the crackling of the bonfires, the low murmurs of the giants' voices drifting over the open space.

-MD-
-MD-
-MD-

The journey to Cronvangr Cave is nearly complete as the sun begins to dip beneath the horizon, casting the world in hues of orange and purple. The road has become rougher as we near the cave's entrance, winding through a patch of dense trees and thick undergrowth. The air is heavier here, the scent of decay hanging thick and oppressive.

I slow Morrigan as we crest a small rise, my eyes catching sight of the cave's entrance below. It looms before us, dark and foreboding. The mouth of the cave yawns wide, as though ready to swallow anything that dares approach. Web sacks cling to the rocks around the entrance, swaying slightly in the evening breeze, their grotesque shapes a chilling reminder of the horrors that likely lie within.

The stench hits us first. A thick, musty odor of rot and decay that clings to the air, forcing me to breathe through my mouth to avoid the worst of it. My nostrils flare as I try to steel myself against the smell, but it lingers—heavy and thick. I feel the hairs on the back of my neck rise, a shiver running through me despite the cold air.

Lucien pulls his scarf tighter around his neck, his nose wrinkling in disgust. "I take it back. This is worse than the giants," he mutters, his voice thick with distaste.

Lydia groans beside me, her expression matching the unpleasantness in the air. "We're going to be knee-deep in spiders, aren't we?"

Inigo rolls his shoulders, clearly unfazed by the unsettling sight and smell of the cave. He chuckles, giving Lydia a mock reassuring grin. "Most likely. Do not worry, my friend. I will protect you from the horrible skittering creatures." His tail flicks with eager energy as he takes a quick look around, then turns his gaze back to the cave.

"Who said I was worried?" Lydia shoots him a glance that could freeze a man in his tracks.

I step forward, letting Morrigan slowly come to a halt as I survey the entrance. My hand goes instinctively to the hilt of my sword, the weight of it reassuring in my grip. I draw the blade slowly, feeling the familiar frost gleam along its edge, the chill of it biting at my skin even in the cool evening air.

"Let's not drag it out," I say, voice low and eager. "We'll clear it and move on to Windhelm."

AN

An unfortunately short chapter again

I do have a dirty P word under the name MandTeKad that is 3 chapters ahead - i should have 4 chapters ahead again soon but im really fuckied up today and couldnt gert it edited