Chapter 29 - Kynesgrove
Delphine's small cart rattled softly along the earthen path, jolted by roots and ruts. The mare pulled dutifully, head low, through the hush of a golden late afternoon. Around them, the moor spread wide, speckled with pale moss and sulfur-stained stones. Wisps of steam curled up from unseen crevices, drifting silently, while the familiar silhouette of the mountains etched a jagged line against the sky.
Hunfen clutched his cloak tightly around him. The wind was sharper here than in Whiterun, biting against his cheeks despite the sun. He'd spent the whole journey perched at the back of the cart, legs dangling, eyes fixed on the horizon. Beside him, Lydia said nothing. Her worn plate armor creaked with every jolt, one hand resting on the hilt of her sword, as if even the tufts of grass might conceal a threat. At the front, Delphine held the reins in a steady grip. She hadn't spoken more than two words since morning, focused on the road ahead. Hunfen had tried once or twice to start a conversation—he wanted to know what Kyne's Grove looked like, or which group Delphine really belonged to—but she'd answered only with grunts. He quickly understood it wasn't the time.
They were nearing a tiny hamlet now, nestled in a hollow at the edge of a dark forest. A handful of wooden buildings clustered around an old well, with a rough forge, a small stable, and the mouth of a mine not far off. Some fifty paces from the nearest house, Delphine slowed the mare. The cart came to a stop beside an old leaning pine, where the tall, patchy grasses offered some semblance of cover.
Farther up, on a hillside speckled with stunted junipers, the remnants of an ancient barrow rose—what was left of it, anyway. A broken circle of moss-covered stones surrounded a simple, half-collapsed mound. Though barely a hundred paces from the village, no path led to it anymore. The place looked forgotten, swallowed by the land.
Delphine jumped down from the cart and cast a sweeping glance toward the hamlet. Hunfen climbed down silently behind her. Lydia stepped forward, scanning the area with a sharp eye.
"The guards are here," Delphine murmured. "Ten or so, from what I can see. Not many."
Lydia narrowed her eyes, scrutinizing the village.
"There," Delphine whispered, nodding toward the corner of a building. "Look."
Hunfen leaned slightly. At first, all he saw was a lone figure standing near the well—tall, unmoving, cloaked in coarse linen, hood drawn low. Something about the figure's posture, that utter stillness, seemed to warp the air around him.
Lydia moved closer to Delphine, her face grim.
"Thalmor," the innkeeper said under her breath. "I'm almost certain."
"I know," Lydia replied. "He's a Justiciar. I've seen him before."
Delphine clenched her jaw. Her gaze flicked briefly toward Hunfen, then returned to Lydia, a silent question between them.
"He was at Ivarstead," Lydia said. "Asking around about the Dragonborn. Fights like a war mage. Some weird cultists came after him, and they burned half the village down in the crossfire. If he's here, it's not for picking mushrooms."
A chill ran down Hunfen's spine. He'd drifted closer, pretending to adjust the cart's straps, but he heard every word. An Altmer. A Thalmor. Those names alone twisted a knot in his stomach. He knew not to speak to them. And the fire in Ivarstead… the frantic escape… If this elf had caused it, they needed to hide—fast.
Lydia kept her eyes locked on the elf. Her fingers brushed the hilt of her sword in a restless rhythm.
"We shouldn't have come," she muttered. "This was a mistake."
"It's too late now," Delphine replied, jaw still tight. "They've probably figured out the resurrection pattern too. Best we keep quiet. We do what we came to do, and we get out."
Hunfen swallowed hard. He wanted to ask a hundred questions but held them in. He turned his gaze toward the barrow on the hill. A gust of wind stirred the dead grasses. A lone crow cut across the sky, letting out a harsh caw.
The creak of wood made him jump. Two new figures descended a narrow, moss-choked trail, their steps slow, almost ceremonial. They wore long robes of faded brown, cinched at the waist with rope. Their faces were hidden behind elongated bone masks—expressionless, save for mouths carved half open in silent murmurs.
Delphine frowned.
"Who are they?"
Lydia cursed under her breath. "Speak of the devil… Miraak cultists. Those weirdos I mentioned."
Delphine stared at her. "They're what?"
Hunfen lowered his eyes. He knew the name. He'd heard it in Lydia's report. Strange people, obsessed with some old priest—or dragon. Whatever they were, he remembered they meant him harm.
"Are they dangerous?" Delphine asked, her voice lower now.
Lydia nodded slowly. "Completely unhinged. The ones at Ivarstead talked like they were… under some kind of spell. Said Miraak is the only true Dragonborn. They would've killed Hunfen if they'd found him. Mages, most likely. Watch out for stray spells if they go after the Thalmor."
Hunfen's heartbeat quickened. The two cultists were drawing closer to the well, ignoring all eyes. One lifted his arms toward the sky. The other knelt. Their voices rose just barely, a faint whisper, like a lost incantation.
Delphine stepped back, frustration creasing her brow. "Too many people here for it to be coincidence. The word's out. Windhelm's guards can't keep their mouths shut."
Lydia placed a firm hand on Hunfen's shoulder.
"You stay put. You hear me? If anything happens, you run north. Don't stop until you reach Windhelm. No talking. Don't look back."
Hunfen nodded silently. The wind had picked up—colder now, more urgent. The trees trembled with an ancient shiver. And then, the sky dimmed. No clouds. No rain. Just a vast, heavy shadow, as if a curtain had fallen all at once over the valley.
His heart clenched, seized by invisible claws. His legs began to tremble without understanding why. He looked up. High above, a shape tore through the sky—black as coal, vast, relentless. Wings beat with a slow, crushing rhythm, as if each motion pushed back against the world itself.
And in Hunfen's gut, something detonated.
The screams.
The fire.
The blood.
The roar that shook the bones of the earth.
The tower at Helgen crumbling to ash.
The sky devoured by jaws of shadow.
A name rose to his lips, unbidden, a whisper that echoed like a scream inside him:
"Alduin…"
A long cry tore through the air—more than a cry, it was a fracture, a resonance so deep it seemed to split the fabric of the world itself. It wasn't just loud; it was ancient. And everything fell silent. The wind stilled. The murmurs ceased. Even the Miraak fanatics froze, heads turned skyward.
Hunfen hadn't seen it coming, but suddenly, it was there—suspended in the air above the barrow, immense and majestic, its wings barely stirring as though it floated in a time no longer its own. The dragon stared down at the earth with an intensity that was almost... reverent. For a heartbeat, it seemed to hold its breath. Then its jaws opened wide, and its voice rolled like a cataclysm.
"Sahloknir, ziil gro dovah ulse!"
Hunfen felt the words. Physically. They passed through the air, through his body, through his heart. A brutal certainty struck him: Alduin was calling. No—he was claiming. Commanding. He was speaking to a lost brother, but not a forgotten one. A brother of flame and bone. The ground shuddered beneath their feet. From the mound burst a strange glow, reversed somehow—like light itself was retreating. Then a second shout split the sky:
"Slen... Tiid... Vo!"
Each word bent the air like a shockwave, a collision of ancient worlds with the present. The earth seemed to contract in on itself, then something began to rise—not erupting, but returning. The vegetation around the barrow trembled... and regressed. Withered grasses turned green again, blossoming in a sudden surge of vitality—only to curl inward on themselves, twisting into tight spirals, shrinking back into tender sprouts, then seeds, tiny and dark, skittering across the ground with an eerie rustle. The lichen vanished as though it had never been, the mosses slid backward over the stones, and the stones themselves seemed to grow young again—edges sharpening, cracks sealing, their color brightening into something raw and unreal.
Hunfen's stomach twisted. This wasn't just a spell. It was time itself bending to a will that was unnatural, ancient, unbearable. The past was bleeding into the present like bitter reflux, and everything around him felt wrong. False, like a dream where you know something is off but can't say what.
He blinked, trying to shake off the creeping unease—but the light at the barrow pulsed on. It didn't illuminate; it consumed. Like a memory too powerful to distinguish from reality.
Then the mound burst in a muffled explosion. Shards of stone erupted in all directions. A massive form, at first hazy, rose—dragged from the earth like a memory long buried. A great skeleton slowly lifted itself upright, and then, pale flames—green and gold—licked along its frame, feeding it. Muscle, tendon, scale—each piece reformed before their eyes. The dragon was being reborn, a slow resurrection born of reversed agony.
Hunfen swayed. He couldn't move, without knowing why. It was too much. Too much power, too much meaning. Something inside him—in his chest, or maybe in his blood—resonated. Like a tuning fork struck within his soul. Sahloknir. He felt the dragon's name. Its hunger. Its yearning. A waiting stretched over centuries.
Then the newborn roared, raising its head toward Alduin.
"Alduin, thuri! Boaan tiid vokriiha suleyksejun kruziik?"
Hunfen couldn't understand the words, but the feeling—oh, the feeling was clear. This was no ordinary greeting. There was reverence in Sahloknir's voice. Submission, and joy—like a soldier long lost who had finally found his king. He was asking something, seeking confirmation, and Hunfen knew it had to do with power. With the right to rise again.
Alduin answered with a rumble of approval.
"Geh, Sahloknir. Kaali mir."
Then he turned his head. Slowly. Deliberately.
And his gaze fell upon them.
No—on him.
Hunfen felt it. Though no word had been spoken, the cold wave that passed through him was unmistakable. Alduin saw him. Knew him. Weighed him.
And then, with a voice as sharp as shattered glass, the dragon spoke again:
"Ful... losei Dovahkiin? Zu'u koraav nid nol dov do hi."
The words were harsh. Contemptuous. Hunfen still didn't understand their precise meaning, but the message was clear. He did not acknowledge him. He rejected him. It was a challenge. A sneer without laughter. When Hunfen gave no answer, Alduin continued:
"You don't even speak our tongue, do you? And yet you dare to call yourself Dovah… How arrogant."
Shame flared hot across Hunfen's cheeks. He wanted to respond, to deny it, to defend himself. But his throat was dry. He didn't know. But he felt. Was that enough?
Alduin looked away—back to Sahloknir. And then, with an imperious tone, a command snapped through the air:
"Sahloknir… krii daar joorre!"
This time, Hunfen understood everything. Or at least, he felt it.
Kill the mortals.
Sahloknir leapt—and the world ignited.
The burning breath struck one of the hamlet's houses, setting the roof ablaze like a heap of dry leaves. The wind became a gale, thick with ash and flame. The few villagers still present screamed, fleeing toward the entrance of an old hillside mine or scattering into the woods like insects beneath the crushing presence of the dragon.
Hunfen saw only a handful make it out. The others… he didn't want to know. He curled up behind the cart, hands over his ears, but nothing could block out the noise. Everything shook. The ground, the air—himself. He searched the sky for Alduin, but it was empty now. No—there. He saw him, receding into the distance. In the black dragon's gaze, Hunfen sensed something strange: a weariness, ancient and profound. The shout of resurrection had drained him, hollowed him to the bone. He had given birth to the past, and in that Thu'um, something of himself had been lost.
Alduin vanished, but Sahloknir roared again.
Delphine sprang from her cover, sword already drawn, joining the few Stormcloak guards present. Lydia stood in front of Hunfen, arms spread like a shield, her own shield raised, eyes fixed on the sky where death now circled.
But a voice rang out beside them, momentarily overpowering even the dragon's roar. A cold, commanding voice, syllables rolling with arcane force. The Thalmor Justiciar had stepped forward, arms lifted, bolts of supernatural blue lightning leaping from his palms. A blast of magic crackled against Sahloknir's chest, forcing the beast back with a frustrated roar.
The Miraak cultists joined the fray. One lifted his arms and summoned a spiral of flame that condensed and slammed into the dragon's wing. The other conjured a spear of ice that pierced the other wing with eerie precision. Their masks remained impassive, even as they shouted. Even as fire reflected off their scorched robes. They fought with fanatical violence, heedless of their own safety, as if their lives no longer mattered.
The guards, at first hesitant, threw themselves into the melee. Arrows flew. Some bounced harmlessly off Sahloknir's scales; others found purchase in the soft joints between. A few men charged with blades, slashing at legs, flanks, shouting their courage as if giving a final confession.
Hunfen could only watch, frozen. He saw everything through the slats of the cart, like a fever dream through a window half-closed.
Delphine shouted something, but the din was too loud to make out. Sahloknir spun, took flight again, and unleashed another breath that erased the guards from Hunfen's view.
The Justiciar, still alive, gathered a ball of pure flame in his hands and hurled it straight into the dragon's gaping mouth. Sahloknir staggered, howling in pain. But the Altmer, spent from the effort, was struck by a swipe of the dragon's wing and sent crashing into the forge with a sickening thud.
The battle raged on. And Hunfen no longer wanted to see it. He curled tighter against the cart, burying his face in his knees. The sounds grew distant, warped. Dull impacts, screams, the clash of metal on stone, cries of pain… it all blended together in a single, indistinct tide. He covered his ears. He closed his eyes.
And when he opened them again, there was no sound—only the soft crackling of fire on wood.
He rose slowly. Lydia was still standing, breath ragged, knees bent. Delphine, one arm bleeding, her shoulder scorched, leaned against a rock. Everyone else… was gone. The ground was strewn with broken forms. The Miraak cultists had vanished: from one remained only a cracked mask and a scorched arm; from the other, nothing but a blackened stain in the earth, still warm.
Sahloknir lay nearby. Enormous. Broken. Dying. His breath made the stones tremble. One eye, dull and cloudy, stared blankly at the sky.
Delphine raised her sword, staggering, and with a swift motion, drove it into the dragon's neck.
Silence fell.
And then… it came. Like a summons. A light. A shiver.
Hunfen swayed. The world slipped away around him, as though he were falling without falling. He saw no more grove, no Lydia, no Delphine—nothing. Only a vast, dark void. He floated. And before him, a light approached. It surged toward him, passed through him, filled him.
Thoughts came in torrents. Too many. Too vast. Memories that weren't his. Names. Sensations. The roar of wind atop a peak. Claws striking slate. The taste of sunlight. Yes… the sun. He saw it rising beyond the mountains. He felt it on his scales—warm, perfect. Shul, it warmed his bones, carried life, purified the world. Shul, which meant so much more than mortals could ever comprehend of the sun.
When he came to, he was on his knees. The dragon was nothing more than a smoldering heap of bones.
oOo
Lydia watched Sahloknir's charred bones collapse in on themselves, slowly, as if even death struggled to release him. Behind her, she could hear Hunfen's ragged breathing—somewhere between shock and wonder—still caught in the grip of the absorption. His face was pale, his eyes wide, his shoulders trembling. A child, still—despite everything.
She turned her head.
The Thalmor Justiciar lay a few paces away, slumped against a blackened rock, his legs twisted beneath him. A deep gash split his left side, and the tatters of his robe still smoked. Yet his eyes—pale gold and ice-cold—were wide open. Lucid. He was breathing, just barely, but he was alive.
She stepped closer.
He turned his head toward her, his lips blue with cold, curving into a joyless, exhausted smile.
"So… it was true," he whispered. His voice, though weak, still held a strange gleam of conviction. "The Thu'um… soul absorption… the Dragonborn…"
Lydia said nothing, sword still in hand. Her gaze hardened, but her heart was pounding. Too fast.
"You saw," she said at last.
The Altmer nodded slowly, blood dripping from his chin.
"I must… inform my superiors. They have to know…" He gagged, spat more blood, then raised his head again. His eyes burned with a feverish obsession. "He's not supposed to exist. We won't allow it to happen again. A Nord… bearing draconic blood… He's a weapon. A threat. A mistake."
Lydia clenched her jaw. She stepped forward and pressed the tip of her sword against his throat.
"I can't let you leave."
The Justiciar slowly closed his eyes, then reopened them, his pale gaze fixed on the sky as if he were contemplating something far greater than his own end. He didn't flinch. Not a blink. Not a tremble at the steel against his skin. A ghost of a sneer tugged at his bloodied lips—cold, bitter.
"You're going to kill a Thalmor agent? You've sealed your own death."
Lydia leaned in, her voice a low growl.
"If I let you live, he dies."
The Thalmor smiled again, teeth stained red. "You don't understand. You're only executing me. We will destroy what he represents. You won't get another Talos."
Lydia didn't respond.
He opened his mouth to speak again, but the blade struck—swift, silent.
A rasp, then silence.
She stood there for a moment, eyes locked on the elf's slumped form. Her heart still hammered, but suddenly, everything seemed so still. She pulled the sword free, wiped the blade, and slowly sheathed it.
She turned and made her way back to Hunfen, who stood facing Sahloknir's smoldering remains. His breath came in gasps, caught somewhere between awe and disbelief. He was upright, but barely—his arms limp at his sides, his face ashen with soot, hair plastered to his temples with sweat. And yet, he was smiling.
"You killed him," he murmured. "The Thalmor… Did you see how you did it? It was… like something out of a book. Just… like that…"
His voice cracked, but he straightened, as if refusing to let the feeling collapse.
"And the dragon… Lydia, he remembered the sun! That's what I felt… it was beautiful. He'd forgotten, you know? But when he saw it again, up there… he was happy. It had been so long. He remembered… flying… speaking…"
He began to speak faster, overwhelmed.
"And I saw everything. The peaks, the wind, the heat… He was… he was grand, Lydia. Not— Not evil, not really. He just… he wanted to live again. I think I understood his name. And his soul, it was… it was…"
He stopped. His lips remained parted. His eyes fluttered. He staggered.
Lydia stepped forward.
"Hunfen…"
He stumbled back half a step, trembling. His arms dropped to his sides like wet cloth.
"I… I—"
Then everything gave out. Soundlessly. As if the breath had been torn from his lungs. His knees buckled. He collapsed, wracked by sobs—raw, sudden, uncontrollable. He tried to speak again, but the words drowned in the tide. He folded inward, shoulders shaking, fists pressed to his eyes.
Lydia knelt without a word. She pulled him gently against her, the way one might comfort a child who'd scraped their knees. She pressed her forehead to his hair and felt his small body shudder against hers, helpless to stop it.
Kynesgrove was nothing more than a smoking graveyard.
And the Dragonborn, in that moment, was just a heart beating too hard in a body far too small.