DRAGON CRISIS

Destiny Unraveled

XX

25th of Sun's Dawn, 4E 203

The night passed calmly and silently.

Yet, as the dawn came, so did the whiff of trouble. Sasha woke up early, hoping to catch her daughter at breakfast. Excitement bubbled in her stomach, reminiscent of the day she gave birth to the girl. How many years have passed since then? she wondered as she sat at the great table in the main hall. Ziiah had grown so much, as befitting a young woman her age. Sasha grabbed an empty plate, filling it with all the meat, cheese, and pastry she knew her daughter would appreciate.

Suddenly, she heard a loud thump. Looking over her shoulder, she noticed her daughter's companions emerge from upstairs. A slight frown hung on her lovely brows as she observed them quietly. Ziiah had never expressed much desire for camaraderie and friendships. Sentinel wasn't a hospitable place, even to its natives. Nonetheless, Sasha wished Ziiah had more... discrimination in her choice of company.

Shaking her head, Sasha focused on her task, but when she turned to meet her daughter again, she found the girl alone while her comrades waited at the main entrance to the palace. Her smile fell, and her brows furrowed; they were not staying.

"I must go, marshal," Ziiah said, her tone even. "If it wouldn't be too much of a hassle, I'd like to ask for military deployment of a few guards to Kynesgrove as soon as possible."

Sasha shook her head. "Only the Jarl can deploy men out of the city. However, I prepared rations to aid the village in case their crops were burned in the attack."

A curious look crossed Ziiah's features but it disappeared just as quickly. The Dragonborn nodded in reply and was about to turn on her heel. Sasha cleared her throat, putting down the plate in her hand before standing.

"I thought I made myself clear," she said, glancing at her daughter condescendingly. "Your father will return soon. There is much for us to do."

Ziiah ignored the pull of the woman's dominant demeanor, keeping her head high and back straight. "Don't call him 'father' and don't tell me what to do."

She turned around, her black locks twirling in sync as she walked toward her company. Sasha stared at her back, fury coursing through her veins. I have to do something, she thought to herself, wrecking her brain for an excuse, an idea, anything.

Then, she got it -

"If you wish to leave, you have that right," she said with a smirk, "but if you wish to know what really happened in Sentinel, you know where to find me."

Ziiah halted her step, hesitating to reach for the door. Kaani was the first to notice the young woman, followed by Elvaynu, who reacted quickly, leaning down to her ear.

"She's trying to keep you in the city," she pointed out in a hushed tone.

The Dragonborn's jaw was tight, and her lips were pressed. "I know."

Kaani walked over to the whispering duo and put her hand around Ziiah. She urged the young woman to walk. As they walked away, Ziiah looked over her shoulder, her eyes searching for a sign of genuine affection on her mother's face. When she found none but a poised and perfected mask of the enigma that is Sasha the Nightingale, Ziiah sighed and left without a word.

The night air rolled off Lake Honrich in slow, chilling breaths, stirring the reeds along the shore and brushing across Brynjolf's shoulders like a whisper. The stars glittered above, spread across the sky like scattered coins. He sat on a mossy rock near the water's edge, boots buried in damp sand, eyes fixed on the constellations.

The Lover. The Shadow. The Tower.

Old signs. Old stories. None of them spoke to him now.

He was thinking of her again.

Sapphire's report appeared to be true. It had been a while since word finally reached Riften; quiet whispers riding in with travelers and cloaked agents alike. The Dragonborn was in Whiterun. The Dragonborn had shouted a dragon from the sky. The Dragonborn was a young woman.

He hadn't believed it. Not until the rumors stacked too high to ignore. And even then, he didn't dare speak her name aloud. After his initial reaction to the news, he avoided the familiar faces. They pitied him; he knew it. The second-in-command crippled by the thought of his daughter somewhere out there, fighting dragons and possibly dying as a result.

She was the reason he couldn't sleep. Not the Guild. Not the Thalmor. Her.

A soft crunch of sand behind him signaled company. He didn't look up. Only one person moved like that; quiet, practiced, but never hiding from him.

Karliah.

She approached, cloaked in the black and silver Nightingale armor, but with the hood drawn back to let her dark hair breathe in the lake breeze. She knelt beside him silently, watching the water ripple out into moonlight.

Then, she reached into her belt and extended a small parcel, folded parchment sealed in faded wax.

"From her," she said simply.

Brynjolf didn't speak. He took it in steady hands, eyes scanning the seal. Her handwriting danced across the fold: quick, clear, and sharper than a blade.

He read it in silence.

Papa,

I stared at the blank paper for at least an hour. I didn't know what to say.

I've been told the truth is the best course, so here it is.

I've been gone for a while, and I will be gone in the foreseeable future. If the rumors haven't caught up with you yet, then you'll find it out from me -

I'm the Dragonborn.

Still, don't worry too much. I'm not alone, and I will have help along the way. Right now, I'm playing courier for the Greybeards. It shouldn't take me over a week or so.

I miss you, and I pray with all my heart that we see each other soon.

Send my regards to the Guild. Let them know I think of them often.

Walk with the shadows and keep an eye on the sky.

Love, Ziiah.

Brynjolf exhaled long and low, folding the letter neatly and sliding it into his coat. He stared at the lake's surface, the heavens reflecting on it.

"Well," he murmured, "That answers that."

Karliah said nothing at first. She realized she had been too hard on him, too pushy and demanding. For a man such as him, losing composure is as embarrassing as it is unexpected. I suppose that's what parenthood is.

She looked at him, calm and patient, before finally breaking the quiet. "We could still send word."

He shook his head. "No use. She won't be back in a while."

Karliah frowned. "More of our people are vanishing. The Thalmor were seen in the Warrans again. They're up to something and we don't know what."

He finally looked at her, eyes hard. "Then we'll deal with it. Us. The old-fashioned way."

Karliah hesitated. She appreciated his newfound resolve, but the bags under his eyes were becoming more apparent. His wrinkles were deeper, his frown becoming permanent. She didn't like this image of him.

"You're pushing too hard, Bryn. You're not sleeping. You're barely eating."

He stood slowly, brushing the sand from his coat. "I've been meaning to lose some weight anyway."

She stood with him, her violet eyes full of concern. "You're worried about her."

He nodded. "But she's stronger than both of us. That means we pull together, tighten ranks, root out whatever rats have found their way into our home."

He turned to face the lake one more time, watching the wind skitter across its black surface.

"Let her do what she was born to do," he said. "We'll do the same."

Karliah studied him for a moment longer, then finally nodded. "Alright. But you'd better start sleeping again, or I'll start dosing your mead."

That earned the faintest flicker of a smirk.

"Fair enough," he muttered.

Together, they turned and walked up the shoreline, back toward the shadows of the city, where firelight barely reached and the air smelled of stone, smoke, and secrets.

They had work to do.

The air inside the jarl's longhouse in Dawnstar was thick with the scent of herbs and dried blood. Moonlight filtered in through narrow windows, illuminating the crackling hearth and the hasty infirmary laid out before it: a bedroll, a bowl of steaming water, and cloth strips stained copper-red.

Madena knelt beside the injured woman, her brow furrowed, hands steady despite the tightness in her jaw. She pressed a salve-soaked cloth against a shallow gash along Sybil's cheek.

"You're lucky the wound wasn't deeper," Madena muttered, voice edged with fatigue. "Seriously, what were you thinking? It is too cold for you to travel the northern shore for whatever reason."

Sybil winced but didn't look away. Her dark hair was tangled, her robes singed at the hem, and beneath her normally sharp expression, exhaustion had carved hollows into her face. The Archmage of Winterhold - once a composed, formidable scholar of the arcane - now looked half-mad. Not to mention, she had been in the wilderness for barely a week.

Sybil's lips thinned, and she pulled the cloth away from Madena's hand, finishing the wrap herself. "The Oghma is close. I can feel it. I've narrowed the location to three possible ruins. One of them is right here in the Pale."

Madena stood, grabbing the now-bloody rag and tossing it into the basin with more force than necessary. "And if you do find it? What then? You think Hermaeus Mora will just hand it over and thank you for the visit?"

"I don't intend to bargain with him."

"You already are, Sybil. Every time you open your mind to those whispers, you make a deal. And every time, you lose something."

The tension between them thickened, lingering like the scent of lavender and iron.

Sybil stared into the fire. "You always were afraid of what magic could do."

"No," Madena replied quietly. "I'm afraid of what it takes from the people I care about."

Before Sybil could retort, the heavy door creaked open. A gust of cold air spilled in, followed by the soft shuffle of robes and leather. Erandur stepped into the room, his dark features drawn and solemn, followed by a short Argonian in miner's clothing, her frills tinged faintly with frost.

"Tashhee," Madena acknowledged with a nod. "Erandur. If this is another plea about the nightmares, I've already - "

"It's getting worse," Erandur interrupted gently, stepping closer. "More screams. People are refusing to sleep. Some are collapsing from exhaustion. We're not asking for miracles, only help. If you could ask the Jarl to spare a few guards, I'd be grateful."

Madena ran a hand down her face. "Skald will spare men only for war efforts, and I'm barely keeping up. I've got a healer's tent outside the city, a plague spreading through the coastal farms, and now my sister thinks it's a good time to chase eldritch tomes through ruins."

"She's not wrong," Sybil said suddenly, rising from her seat, hand still pressed against her side. "Whatever's feeding those nightmares is not normal. It might not even be local."

Tashhee inclined her head, voice low. "If this is the work of a Prince, it needs to be rooted out."

"I'm staying here," Madena said firmly, picking up a fresh rag and dipping it in the herbal basin. "The people of Dawnstar need someone sane. Someone grounded. I can't leave them."

There was silence for a long moment.

Sybil met Tashhee's gaze, then Erandur's. "Then I'll go."

Madena turned sharply. "Sybil, no."

"I'm the one with nothing to lose," Sybil said, her voice calm, too calm.

"You're still recovering," Madena said. "You can barely keep your hands from shaking, and now you're off into another ruin, another storm? Why?"

Sybil didn't turn to face her at first. She looked out toward Tashhee and Erandur. They were hopeful and worried, tired by the nightmares and driven by the lack of progress in solving the problem.

Then she spoke, voice quiet but sure. "You know why."

Madena's brow furrowed. "Sybil - "

Sybil allowed herself a faint smile. "I've set out on this path to spare those at the College from witnessing their leader succumb to despair. Perhaps, helping Dawnstar could be my way of making the world a bit better before I perish on my journey."

Madena snorted. "The world will be the way it is, whether you aid Dawnstar or not."

"Maybe," Sybil's expression turned distant, a shadow settling over her eyes.

Silence settled between them for a long moment, broken only by the soft wind pushing snow across the docked ships.

"I understand that you're trying to make sense of your predicament," Madena said. "This can't be the answer, though. Running off into the mountains half-frozen with strangers, chasing nightmares?"

Sybil turned fully toward her now, and her voice lost its softness.

"I'm the Archmage of Winterhold, Madena. Let me have my final hurrah."

Madena's lips tightened. "Even when you're falling apart?"

"Especially then," Sybil's breath caught, but she didn't flinch.

Madena looked at her long and hard, eyes bright with frustration, fear, and something deeper. Love, yes, but also grief. That quiet, worn grief of knowing a person's path, and knowing you cannot stop them from walking it.

"Don't let it take everything from you," Madena said softly. "Don't let him take you."

Sybil reached out then, resting her hand over her sister's. "Not everything. I still have you."

Madena squeezed once, fiercely, before letting go.

"Just... come back in one piece."

Sybil nodded.

Rayya met him again on the porch.

The dark-robed Altmer stood at the foot of the steps, radiant in the soft light, as if the sun itself deferred to him. Hands behind his back, he maintained a composed, calculated, and charming posture.

She knew that kind of charm. It moved through courtrooms like smoke and through people like poison.

"Housecarl," Kaelan greeted again, as though this were the first time. "How's the weather inside today? Cold as your answers, or just slightly warmer than your welcome?"

"You're back," she said flatly.

"Did you miss me?"

"No."

Kaelan gave a small, theatrical sigh. "Still so guarded. I was hoping today would be the day you opened the door and said, "Do come in and ask all of your questions and I will ask truthfully and in detail."

She raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. "Must be exhausting, talking that much and saying nothing."

He smirked. "Only when the company insists on silence."

Rayya didn't move from her place by the door. Behind her, the manor loomed quiet and empty, save for her. Kaelan had poked around the grounds a dozen times these days, never crossing the line. Never forcing his way in.

That was what made him dangerous.

He wasn't the kind of agent who threw orders like spears or tortured answers from throats. Instead, he was patient, pretty, and uncomfortably persuasive.

"You know," he said, taking the first step up onto the porch, "if I'd come here with demands, we'd be having a very different conversation, but I respect the chain of loyalty. I admire it, even. It's rare these days."

"Don't pretend we're on the same side."

Kaelan smiled. "I never said we were. Who says we can't enjoy the view from the same porch?"

She rolled her eyes, but he noticed she didn't step back.

"I've been thinking," he continued, his tone shifting to something low, velvet-smooth. "All this time, these little meetings. The way you never quite tell me to leave - the way I never quite do."

She gave him a look, sharp and bored.

"So what, now you're going to try and seduce me?"

"I could," he replied, voice dropping just slightly, "but that would be terribly predictable, wouldn't it? Besides, if I did, I'd like to think you'd at least pretend to be tempted."

Rayya scoffed. "That's your move?"

He raised a brow, amused. "Would you believe it's worked before?"

"Oh, I believe it. I just pity whoever fell for it," she leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. "You talk like someone who's read too many plays about courtship and backroom intrigue."

"I like a bit of drama."

She stepped closer, just enough that he could smell the oiled leather of her armor and the faint spice of her skin. She looked him up and down, slowly, unimpressed, assessing.

"You're not half as clever as you think," she said. "You wear charm like armor, but underneath? I don't think there's anything real. Not for anyone."

Then she smiled at him, not coy, not cruel. Just final.

"And that's why you'll never get what you came for."

She opened the door behind her, took one step inside, then looked over her shoulder.

"Come back tomorrow if you want. Or don't. I've already made up my mind."

And with that, she shut the door in his face.

Again.

Kaelan stared at it for a long moment, the echo still bouncing around in his head louder than it should have been. Three days, three wasted visits, and now, rejection wrapped in armor and a smirk.

Behind that closed door, Rayya was probably already back at her post, arms folded, stance proud, eyes steady. He could still hear the dry edge in her voice.

And the scoff. Gods, the scoff. It cut deeper than most blades.

Kaelan exhaled slowly and adjusted the folds of his robe. The forest around Lakeview was beginning to darken with the weight of early evening. Birds fell silent. Even the wind seemed to hold its breath.

"Fine," he said aloud, to no one in particular. "No more charm. Let's try something less easily dismissed."

He moved off the porch and down the stone path until he found a clearing just beyond the tree line; still close enough to feel the manor watching him. With a roll of his shoulders and a slow, centering breath, he reached for the Aetherius.

The familiar tingle of magicka shimmered beneath his skin as he extended his fingers. The enchantment came easily, carried more by intent than hand signs. He focused on the Dragonborn, calling forward the aid of magic. The air around him shifted, and a silvery-blue thread unfurled in front of him, hovering a few inches above the forest floor.

Kaelan disliked the Clairvoyance spell. It was not as useful as one would believe, given that the existence of maps made them obsolete. They also heavily relied on the consistency of spellcasting and were that much more draining the further the destination. Also, it was quite apparent and gaudy, which in Skyrim screamed 'mage' louder than a pair of pointed ears.

The last thing he wanted was unnecessary attention.

Hence, he hadn't used it and probably wouldn't have used it if the Housecarl were a little more approachable and cooperative. Shaking his head, Kaelan focused on the shimmering trail, expecting it to lead him back to Whiterun.

However, instead of leading back to Whiterun, or toward the road to Riverwood, or even toward Falkreath itself, the path curled northward. He frowned, cocking his head. His eyes follow the blue thread up through the hills and over the ridge.

Toward Helgen.

Kaelan blinked.

Helgen?

The spell pulsed again, confident and resolute, its thread bright and unwavering. Whatever lingering aura the Dragonborn had left behind was pulling him not toward life, but toward ruin.

He hesitated, glancing toward the mountains that loomed in that direction. Helgen had been dead for months. Burned. Abandoned. A warning writ in ash and stone.

"Charming," he muttered.

Still, he couldn't ignore it. The thread was clear. It shouldn't be, not this far from the subject, not with how unstable this kind of tracking magic was over time. The connection must have been deep, recent, or destined.

"Destiny," Kaelan said bitterly, shaking his head. "How quaint."

He tightened his gloves, summoned a small conjured flame to light his way, and stepped into the trees, following the trail like a moth to smoke.