Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It was not often that Rashkan ventured into Winterhold, but even the most reclusive of mages sometimes needed a change of scenery – especially when they needed inspiration for a story. So, writing utensils in hand, he strode through the gates of the town's famous college, across the bridge and out into the remains of Winterhold. The sky was hiding behind a thick layer of low-hanging, slowly darkening clouds, driven by biting wind that swept the snow off the roofs. It sailed through the air until eventually colliding with Rashkan, who quickly tried to shield his journal with his robe. 

In short: the weather was rather unpleasant, and Rashkan was eager to get inside. 

The main road led him to the Frozen Hearth, the last remaining tavern in the ghost town that was Winterhold. After enduring one final gust of icy wind, he stepped over the threshold.

The heat inside was almost as unpleasant as the cold outside. Smoke from the room's central fire clouded the air and mixed with the bittersweet smell of all kinds of food Rashkan used to enjoy when he was still mortal. Forcing himself to ignore the longing for a bite of roast Salmon, he went to the counter, ordered a single ale, and made himself comfortable at a table to the side of the room. 

Although evening had yet to fall, the tavern was already quite crowded. A woman with shoulder-length red hair, wearing an even redder dress, hurried from table to table, balancing a tablet full of drinks on her hand. 
In a corner, a middle-aged man with short, shaggy brown hair was caught in the middle of an argument with a different woman, something about going home already, Rashkan overheard. 
The face of the man was red from anger and too many drinks. The woman, tall, with stern features and blond hair, looked exhausted; chance was this was neither the first nor the last time the two had this sort of argument. Rashkan recognised some of the other patrons, having seen them in passing, or while running errands, but their names he did not know. At the counter, Dagur, the innkeeper, had just prepared a cup of honeyed milk for a young girl — his daughter, presumably. 

Readying his slightly worn, leather-bound journal, ink and quill, Rashkan began taking notes. The different smells, the varying voices, the architecture of the Frozen Hearth with its central namesake and its thick beams sturdy as the trees from which they had been carved, and even the appearance of the patrons –hairstyle, facial structure, clothing–, it all found its way into his journal, ready to be twisted, mashed up and repurposed in whatever plot would hopefully come to him over the course of the evening.

Distrustful eyes watched his every move. A college mage at the Frozen Hearth, all alone, sitting in a corner, watching and taking notes? 

Suspicious.

Even more suspicious that he had not yet touched his ale. The amber liquid looked tempting, droplets of condensation sliding down the sides of the glass, hinting at the coldness of the drink. Sadly, it would neither taste nor assuage his thirst. No, sooner or later, Rashkan would have to find a desperate drunkard to whom he could graciously donate his alibi-ale. 

Watching, listening, writing. Thus, the evening progressed and the pages filled with more and more impressions but no story to employ them. At last, Rashkan let out a defeated sigh and leaned back in his chair. His eyes were burning, and the heat was starting to become insufferable.

"You look tired. Is that one vital spark, that one breakthrough eluding you? Ah, I know the feeling — I'm a scholar myself, you know."

The voice belonged to a tall —perhaps as tall as Rashkan— lanky Altmer leaning against a wooden beam and wearing the pale lavender robes customary for apprentices of Alteration. From under his hood, piercing yellow eyes mustered Rashkan with great interest. 

In response, he received a frustrated grunt.

"Sit, if you wish." Rashkan pulled up a second chair. "I am in need of some diversion." 

The Altmer took him up on the offer.

"I'm Nelacar, by the way."

"Rashkan. Pleased to meet you," he mumbled. Gods, he hated introductions. "I have not yet seen you at the college. Have you still to apply?" Before his mind's eye flashed the image of a much younger, naive dunmer drowning his sorrows, having just been rejected by the college. "Or have you perhaps been denied entry?”

Nelacar shifted uncomfortably in his chair. 

"I haven't been with the college in ages — Personal differences." His voice had a nervous tremor to it as if he were half-expecting Rashkan to shoo him away.

Instead, Rashkan nodded slightly and stared at the table. 

Back at the college, some clamoured for a change in leadership; they were dissatisfied with Savos' work as archmage — or even saw themselves in the position. Therefore, finding a critical spirit so close to home was nothing unusual. Once, in this very place, many years ago, Rashkan himself had met another such spirit and joined her coven of necromancers. 

"What are you researching?" Nelacar asked, eyeing the journal.

Rashkan looked up.

"Oh, I am not really researching anything at the moment," Rashkan explained. "I fancy myself an author; this is my notebook. I have been on the hunt for inspiration, but alas," he sighed wistfully. "It has managed to elude me so far." 

Nelacar chuckled. "You must not have heard the rumours, then. Winterhold couldn't be more interesting right now — not that it's a good thing considering the circumstances." 

"Oh?" Rashkan cocked an eyebrow. Had inspiration perhaps come to him in the shape of a pariah scholar? "Well, stop beating about the bush. What are those rumours?" he urged, curious eyes transfixed on Nelacar, who clasped his hands together and took a deep breath.

"What I know is that, three days ago, a Stormcloak patrol vanished  — Reinforcements from Windhelm. Apparently, they just disappeared into thin air. No signs of battle — Not a trace—, but then again, it did snow quite heavily that night."

Rashkan frowned. An entire Stormcloak patrol just vanishing was already reason for concern, but the fact that it had happened at night when they had likely set up camp, been together and somewhat fortified… 

"I can imagine just how much this got the rumour mill running. Do tell, what is the word around town?"

"You have no idea the kinds of stories people tell," Nelacar groaned and rubbed his temples as if to ward off an approaching headache. "Some say an imperial patrol took them prisoner; according to others, it was an avalanche that buried them; Haran says the dead have risen from the Sea of Ghosts to take the living with them." 

Struck by the spark of inspiration, Rashkan flicked through his journal and scribbled the words: 'Ghost story — Undead from the sea' onto a free page.

"One strange occurrence is all it takes for them to throw any rationality out of the window," Nelacar shook his head but smiled nevertheless. 
"Still, I'm glad this nonsense helped you come up with something." 

In the corner of his eye, Rashkan saw the blonde woman storming out through the door. It seemed the Frozen Hearth's perpetual patron had won the argument. 

"So am I, believe me. It feels like it has been hours since my arrival," Rashkan chuckled, but soon his expression took on a darker tinge. "Let me guess: they were also quick to blame the college?"

"But of course. Runaway apprentices, secret necromantic experiments down in the midden — the whole deal." 

Rashkan grit his teeth. At this point, blaming the college for any strange event might well be Winterhold's favourite pastime. No doubt poor Savos would have to deal with all those accusations soon enough. He made a mental note to avoid the archmage after the fact; official business was wont to sour his mood. 

"What do you believe?" he asked, hoping Nelacar had more sense than those close-minded oafs — despite whatever grievances he might have. 

"I believe they may just have taken a different route due to the wind and snow; people are overreacting left and right, so I keep calm, wait and form my opinion based on what few facts we have. If they don't turn up within a week, the town guard can still investigate. If they do turn up again, there are no amends to make. It's for the best." 

Rashkan listened intently. Objectively speaking, Nelacar was right. But he could not shake the feeling there was more to this story than meets the eye. 

"Let us just hope this has been a false alarm," Rashkan declared as if to rid himself of the doubts festering in his mind. 

"Yes," Nelacar sighed in agreement. "Yes, let's do that." It seemed this topic stressed him out; most likely, he had had this conversation before — More than once. "Are you not drinking that?" He pointed at the ale simmering in the smothering heat of the tavern. 

"I was so engrossed in my craft, I forgot about it," Rashkan shrugged. "It is probably warm by now. You can have it." 

Nelacar grabbed the glass. 

"I don't mind if I do," he said, took a large swig and shuddered, lips crinkling. "Ugh, how long has this been standing there?" He grimaced, struggling to regain control of his features. 
"Dagur, be so kind and bring us two new pints of ale," he called, waving at the innkeeper. 

Rashkan frowned and straightened his legs. He was in for a long evening.

Chapter Text

It was rare for Savos Aren's schedule to be completely clear — or rather, it was rare for it to be clear and for Savos to feel like socialising. In fact, the latter was usually the bigger obstacle. Still, today was one of those rare occasions; with Rashkan on the hunt for inspiration and the rest of the college engrossed in their own experiments, Savos had decided to use the evening to pay a long overdue visit to an old friend. Kraldar was the last remaining noble in all of Winterhold, although that did not mean much beyond him being a well-respected citizen slightly better off than the rest. 

His house, big and in better shape than the others — except for the Jarl's very own longhouse — was just across the bridge. The exterior was deceiving, however: inside, the house contained only a single —if spacious — room. A large double bed stood against the northern wall; the southern one was home to an unmade single bed. A fire was crackling away in a nearby fireplace, and over it, a large kettle was filling the only room with steam and the mouth-watering smell of rabbit stew. Kraldar and Savos were seated at the biggest table — the only one suited for more than two people. Having tossed aside the ornate mantle of his robes to prevent any stains, Savos now missed its warmth as he nursed an icy cold pint of mead. Before the two, empty plates stood neatly stacked, waiting to be washed and stowed away.

"Did you like it so far?" Kraldar leaned over the table, mustering Savos intently. Maybe his perception was deceiving him, but Kraldar seemed quite tense as if he feared Savos might be displeased with the evening.

Why Savos did not know. Thonjolf, the manservant, had prepared a feast that would make even the pickiest of Jarls seethe with jealousy. Food in Winterhold was a tragedy made up of the fish inhabiting the waters around town and with horker meat in any and all variations. In spring, when the cliffs became their nesting ground, the occasional murre — a sea bird, or fish-thieving problem as far as Savos was concerned — became a welcome addition to that monotonous diet. He was used to it — as anyone who had spent his entire life in Winterhold would be — but at times, he longed for something a little more refined, something neither his own meagre cooking skills nor the Frozen Hearth could provide. Today, Savos was in luck: The first course, a generously packed plate of oysters, had already fallen victim to his appetite.

"It was truly delicious; I can't wait to taste the wonder that is Thonjolf's rabbit stew." Savos breathed in the aroma of boiling broth and spices, nodded at the manservant and smiled politely.

"I'm sure you won't be disappointed," Kraldar assured and went to get himself a bottle of ale. "I've told him to use only the best of ingredients for this special occasion." 

"Special occasion," Savos scoffed, rolling his eyes. Was it? True, he and Kraldar had not seen each other in a long time — almost a year if he was correct — but was all that trouble really necessary? "If sharing a meal with me already counts as a 'special occasion', that past year must have been awfully dull," he took another sip of his mead, watching as Thonjolf stirred the stew before adding a pinch of salt. "Speaking of dull, I don't suppose there is any news from Winterhold proper? It's been quite a while since I last left college grounds." 

Kraldar stroked his beard; a habit, it appeared, common to all wearers of increased facial hair. Without thinking, Savos mirrored his movements.

"Then you haven't heard about the disappeared Stormcloak patrol, I suppose. Strange thing, that. It's making me a bit anxious, to be honest. My nephew wanted to come to visit but -"

"The little boy who wanted to be a wizard? The one who scorched my beard trying to cast his first spell? That one? Oh, I know just how to awe him," Savos grinned, thinking back to how wide those eyes had grown when they had spotted their first fire Atronach. Quite the young pyromaniac, that kid.

"Oh, Savos, dear Savos," Kraldar burst into laughter, slamming his ale bottle onto the table. "That little boy is now twenty-six years old and hoping to marry."

Savos Aren, despite his long life, had never considered himself old. Advanced in years, mature perhaps, but never old — until that moment. It was frightening how much a single sentence could age a person.

He must have looked remarkably dumbfounded, for Kraldar failed to contain another outburst. 

"Really? It's been so long? How come the two of us haven't aged a day?" Savos winked, a broad grin on his lips.

"Oh, please, keep talking, you old charmer," Kraldar wheezed until he finally calmed down and wiped the tears from his eyes, a frown replacing the previous merriment. "At any rate, the trip from Dawnstar isn't that far — despite the ice rendering the sea impassable — but he still hasn't arrived yet." 

Elbows on the table, Savos let his head rest on his hands and examined Kraldar. Despite being so much younger, the man appeared almost his own age, and although humans and mer did mature differently, Savos was sure time alone was not at fault. 

"The weather has been quite bad recently. Give it time; your nephew probably had to postpone the journey," Savos reasoned, trying to calm his friend as best as he could.

Kraldar nodded, worry still carved into his forehead. "Shor's bones, Savos, I hope you're right." An uncomfortable silence stretched out between the two, only broken by occasional sips of mead or ale, until, at last, Thonjolf brought over two steaming plates carrying rabbit stew and mashed potatoes. 

Savos' stomach roared with delight, and finally, Kraldar was able to smile again. The two ate in quiet gluttony. As their plates cleared, so did the mead reserves empty. By the time they were gone, Savos felt like he was about to burst.

Yawning heartily, he leaned back in his chair. Beyond a nearby window, darkness had fallen over the town, and snowflakes battered mercilessly against the thin glass. 

When had it gotten so late? 

Savos dreaded the thought of having to get dressed and venture into the cold. Even more so, he dreaded getting up. 

"You look tired," Kraldar noted.

"Tired, stuffed and bloated." 

At that, Kraldar nodded sagely and ordered Thonjolf to bring them two short glasses of snowberry schnapps. 'Medicine', he called it. And indeed, Savos felt better after the first glass and relieved after the second. Still, he definitely did not want to face the bitter, biting cold. 

"It's getting late," Kraldar announced. He looked tired too but eventually managed to get up and take the mantle of Savos’ robe, holding it out to help him get dressed. However, before Savos could reach for it, another yawn escaped him.

Kraldar smiled gently. "Maybe it's best if you stay for the night. It's dark, it's snowing violently, and we both had quite a bit to drink; I wouldn't want you to lose your way and freeze — or worse yet: slip off the bridge." 

Savos eyed Kraldar, tilting his head to the side. His friend was no doubt overreacting, but in the end, he only meant well, right? 

"You may be correct."

 "Wonderful," Kraldar's face lit up. I could push some chairs together or…" He hesitated, staring at the floor. "We could share". 

His cheeks seemed slightly redder than usual, causing a smug smile to appear on Savos' lips. He would have to take him drinking more often if alcohol had such a potent effect on the younger man. 

Still, it was a rather daring request, one Savos was not entirely against — there was a certain appeal to having someone sleep next to him — but knowing how horrible of a bedfellow he was, it was better to take the chairs. 

"Savos?"

"Don't take it personally," he replied, realising he had failed to answer. Missing the usual fur, he instead fidgeted with the hem of his robe. "But I would prefer the chairs." 

For a split second — maybe Savos had imagined it —, Kraldar seemed disappointed, but when he spoke next, his expression was an entirely neutral one.

"No, no." He dismissively waved his hands. "Please, you're my guest — take the bed." 

For a moment, Savos wanted to protest, but, like all Winterhold Nords he had come to know throughout his life, Kraldar was remarkably stubborn, and frankly, Savos did not have it in him to argue at this hour.

 "Fine then." Again he tossed the mantle aside. "Since I don't have to go anywhere now: Care for a nightcap?" 

Chapter Text

By the time the Frozen Hearth closed its doors for the night, Winterhold was at the mercy of a raging snowstorm. Within moments, it tightened its grasp around Rashkan, piercing through his robe and lashing his face with strands of long black hair. To shield them from the assault, he clutched his writing utensils tightly, cursing himself for not having brought a bag.

'It is just a short distance,' he remembered telling himself. Some lessons had to be learned the hard way, it seemed. If he did not want to end up soaked and frozen solid, he needed to get moving, so he sucked up his frustrations and, head held low to avoid the wind, hurried towards the college. 

Few others dared to be outside in such weather; Rashkan passed by a guard on patrol who was—in the most literal sense of the word—shielding her torch, losing the battle to keep it burning. Apart from that, Rashkan was all alone. Even from within the houses, no light shone out into the street, and what few desolate lanterns swung with the wind were snuffed out by the whirling snow. 

In a weird sense, Rashkan welcomed the solitude. Dodging prying questions, discreetly making his share of ale disappear—it had been a long, stressful evening, as interesting as talking to Nelacar might have been. In the next few days, he would stay away from people—except Savos or Phinis. 

At last, he reached the massive archway leading to the crumbling old bridge—the college's rite of passage. Rashkan vividly remembered the excitement when he first crossed it many years ago and the shame he felt when he returned to Winterhold, sent back as soon as he had arrived at the main gate. Now, the bridge was again a source of excitement, pride even; a symbol that he had, at last, become a real mage. At least it was, usually.

Just as Rashkan stepped under the archway's sheltering roof, he spotted a blanket-wrapped figure huddled in a corner, snoring lightly.

"Hail!" Rashkan called out. A moment later, the tired eyes of Phinis Gestor peeked out at him from under the covers.

"Evening," came the mumbled reply. Mimicking him, Rashkan too crammed himself into a corner for additional shelter.

"You? Outside the midden? At this hour? Colour me surprised; where is Faralda?"

"Asleep. We, mortals, need that, remember?" Phinis yawned as if to prove a point and snuggled himself deeper into his blankets. 

Vampires also needed rest, to some extent, Rashkan wanted to explain, but in his current state, Phinis would have likely forgotten come morning. 

"Why Master Ervine hasn't assigned you for the night shift is anyone's guess," Phinis grumbled.

"Perhaps, she wanted to teach you a lesson for shirking guard duty the last three weeks. Or maybe she did not want me to scare away any late—night arrivals—you look so much more welcoming, mummified as you are." Rashkan shrugged, smirking. "Oh, and speaking of late-night arrivals: Has Savos safely crossed the bridge? He mentioned wanting to meet with a friend for dinner —What was his name again? Kraldor? Kraldir? Kraljolf? Oh, what does it matter?—; chances are they drank a lot." 

Phinis shrugged. "Didn't pass by me. And no, I haven't been sleeping all the time. Indeed, I haven't been sleeping at all. I just dozed off a little." 

Rashkan raised his eyebrows but refused to indulge Phinis' bullheadedness. Instead, he repeatedly tried to brush a few black streaks out of his face—in vain. "Do you think he is still there?" 

The question received an annoyed groan in response. "Do I look like the archmage's personal chaperone? Rashkan, I know you mean well, but damn, you're sticking to his ass like a hemorrhoid—give the man some space." 

Rashkan stared at his feet, pouting slightly. Was he really as clingy as Phinis led him to believe? He had never really considered if, perhaps, his constant presence was going on the archmage's nerves. 

"I—"

"He's a few hundred years old; he can take care of himself." Phinis' expression softened notably until it vaguely resembled a smile. "At any rate, I'll see you in the midden tomorrow afternoon so we can prepare to summon and bind a Xivalai. Might be easier for you, linked to Coldharbour as you are. We'll set up everything so that we only need a new sigil stone. Enthir said he had found a reliable source; I would avoid summoning an unbound dremora on college grounds—You remember last time, don't you? How Tolfdir freaked out? Safety this, safety that? Almost as bad as you."

"I remember it as if it was yesterday," Rashkan chuckled. "Well then, until tomorrow." 

He gave a cordial smile and headed off across the bridge. As he did so, the storm revealed its full wrath, sweeping the snow off the bridge; a frosty veil that threatened to take Rashkan with it if he was not careful.

Phinis was right, he reflected. Savos was the archmage of Winterhold and his elder to boot. He had no right to constrain him so—even out of concern. But still, there was a trace of doubt, which bore into Rashkan like a tick needing pulling out. It was already very late—past midnight—and he had not returned yet. Something was off; Rashkan grew ever more sure of that. Savos was a very private man. Not shy, necessarily—he had shown himself quite hospitable when Rashkan had asked to join the college as an independent scholar—but secluded all the same. Private and secluded—not one to trade the comfort of his chambers for someone else's guest bed, friend or otherwise. 

He stopped dead in his tracks, countering the wind as best as he could.

There had been no light in any of the houses, had there? The parasitic worry burrowed deeper under his skin. 

He turned around and rushed back into Winterhold, dropping his writing utensils in Phinis' lap, casually overhearing his comment about him being an insufferable worrywart. 

No, Rashkan was sure the lights were out, and that meant Savos must have gone home without ever arriving. And on such a short route, right under Phinis' nose… 

Hurrying through the drifting snow Nelacar's words rang clear in his mind:

'They just disappeared into thin air. No signs of battle—Not a trace.'

He had reached the house of Savos' friend in no time, and indeed, the windows were blurry sheets of ice hiding pitch-black gates into the void. 

Not a trace...

Rashkan stroked his goatee and began to pace. In the distance, the guard had turned around, slowly coming back towards him.

It was unlikely Savos had gone in that direction; the only reason for that would be the Frozen Hearth, and Rashkan had just emerged from there. With the route to the south and the bridge ruled out, there were only two options left; the northern trail beneath the bridge, sloping evenly towards the shore, and—by the gods, please no.

Rashkan's heart sank to his stomach as he turned to the east, where the gaping abyss had swallowed Winterhold, its bones still littering the cliffs. Had Savos wandered off? Perhaps something had piqued his interest, and he wanted to investigate—curiosity was a blessing and a curse alike, after all. The alcohol, the storm, the snow—what if he had fallen? Rashkan dared not think of it.

Just as he was about to rush to the cliffside, the wind carried with it a strange smell. Faint enough for mortals not to notice—and even evade some of the keen noses of his own kind. But there nevertheless. It awakened something inside Rashkan, something more consuming than dread.

Head held high, nose to the wind, he let it guide his way along the northern route down to the shore, where roaring tides tore at the land.

With every step, the scent became stronger and stronger. Rashkan shuddered once he realised what it was: blood.

Hunger began to rebel against Rashkan's common sense. That smell, gods, that smell...

He sped onward, dread driving him, spurring him on as if he were a warhorse charging into battle until, at last, Rashkan discovered the source of the tempting no—he bit his tongue—distressing, awfully distressing, coppery smell. 

Before him, a grand sleigh lay overturned; its contents spread out around it. Its draft mules were nearby; their bodies gnawed on by ice wolves or sabre cats, flesh and bones exposed. A lone snowberry bush, thrashed about by the raging gale, clutched a shred of blue fabric. Not far from it, a shield was lodged firmly into the snow. Its sigil, resembling an ornate cross, bore deep gashes all over.

Rashkan took another whiff. It was still fresh, that blood; only a day old, at maximum. Despite all his reservations, his Hunger was growing stronger by the minute—and he hated himself for it.

Just what had happened here? 

There was no sign of an avalanche or a rock slide—something that could have toppled the sleigh. And, had the mules been spooked, what about the shield and fabric? Where was their owner? 

He stepped closer and bent over to inspect the sleigh. What he found made him reel back and cover his mouth with his hand, fighting back the rising bile. 

From under it, hollow blue eyes were staring back at him.

Rashkan was strong, both physically and mentally—thought he was, at least. That certainly was not his first encounter with a dead body. Before, however, he always managed to avoid their eyes. Always. 

Balling his fists and silently counting to ten, he steeled himself and began pushing the sleigh. It was much heavier than it looked; he all but managed to free the upper body of the corpse. A man, deathly pale, facing upwards, neck unnaturally overstretched, eyes and mouth wide open. His long strawberry blond hair spread out across the ground, frozen to the ice and clotted with blood. He was pretty young, Rashkan pondered. An adult, sure, but much younger than the likes of Phinis or Arniel Gane—although, with humans, it was hard to guess exactly.

A picture formed inside his head as he bent down to close those damn, bloodcurdling eyes: An attack—either a group of bandits or an animal; perhaps even a frost troll—, spooked the mules, thereby toppling the sleigh, crushing its passenger; the overwhelmed guards dragged away to a lair or cave, while the wind vanished the tracks.

Except… 

On the dead man's white, frozen neck, Rashkan saw—no, thought he saw—some discolouration, almost entirely covered by the collar of his coat. Likely, the weight of the sleigh had snapped his neck. 

Or…

Immersed in his thought process, he noticed neither the light approaching him nor the sound of snow crushed under heavy steps. Only when he felt the cold burn of steel against his skin did he finally turn around, slowly.

A Winterhold guard stood over him, torch in hand, burning horizontally, a shield fastened to her belt. She was pressing a sword to his neck.

"I always knew you mages were up to no good."

Chapter Text

Savos had never been a morning person. Too often did he spend nights brooding over his research, tormented by nightmares or, rarely, drinking and although he could take a lot, that did not mean he never felt the consequences. Therefore it was only natural that, despite daylight having long broken, he turned over and snuggled into the covers once more, despite it becoming terribly warm under there—and he was already wearing only the innermost layer of his robe. He felt as though a coat of fuzz was covering his tongue, numbing it; he yearned for a cold glass of water—although, in his current state, he would have just as well nibbled on an icicle. A dozen hammers clattered against the inside of his forehead. Groaning, Savos turned the pillow over to the cold side, buried his head in it and pressed it over his ears. 

But the hammers continued unbothered.

Only an eternity later did he finally realise that his head was not at fault; someone was frantically knocking on the door. 

What a racket. 

Squeezing his eyes shut, Savos stretched and continued to lay there motionless, waiting for Thonjolf to answer the door but, upon looking around the room, he noticed the manservant's bed was empty. Perhaps he had gone out for breakfast or grocery shopping—Savos did not care. However, it meant he now had to get up and to the door—or at least wake Kraldar. In the end, he decided to wait for the knocking to stop.

It did not.

Instead, it turned into a hysterical clamour calling for Kraldar.

More annoyed than he had any right to be, Savos rolled his eyes and out of bed, taking all the time in the world. Kraldar lay draped over the chairs, hugging his blanket like a small child, entirely unaware of the disturbance. With wobbly steps, Savos walked over to him and began gently pushing his shoulder.

On the one hand, he envied his friend's ability to sleep through the noise, but on the other, the headache that was going to follow in the wake of his slumber would surely be much graver than Savos'. After all, Kraldar was the less experienced drinker of the two.

"Sod off," Kraldar grunted and turned over, away from Savos.

"Kraldar," Savos pleaded, not in the mood for such childishness. "Wake up! The door!" 

Kraldar yawned and opened one eye, shooting Savos a disapproving glance before mumbling: "Is it important?" 

"I'd say so. The way that rowdy is banging against it, you'd think he wanted to tear it down."

Looking less than excited, Kraldar finally crawled out from under the sheets and slid off the chairs. "Coming. No need to yell," he called out, grimacing as his eyes encountered daylight. For a moment, he seemed dangerously sick, covering his mouth with one hand; Savos rushed to fetch a bucket, but thankfully, Kraldar gathered himself in time.

Quickly—as quickly as a hungover man was able to—he got dressed. 

Nevertheless, by the time he opened the door, he still looked entirely unpresentable. 

Savos, in the meanwhile, had withdrawn out of sight. There were already so many rumours floating around town, so much tattle and prattle that he did not want to be the cause for an altogether different kind of gossip.

The morning nuisance turned out to be a Winterhold guard so big he threatened to burst right out of his armour. A heavy iron helmet obscured his features. He handed Kraldar a piece of parchment and spoke quietly —too quietly for Savos to hear—but as the conversation progressed, Kraldar's expression became more and more distressed. A tremor had taken hold of him, his voice hitching as he spoke, growing ever more agitated. 

Remembering their conversation from the night before, Savos had a terrible hunch. Anxious, he strained to listen, but it was futile; he was too far away. All he could do was pray for his intuition to be wrong.

When the door closed, at last, Kraldar wordlessly stepped back into the room, slumped down limply onto his chair-bed and covered his face with his hands, still holding the crumpled paper between his fingers. On closer inspection, it appeared to be a letter. 

"Kraldar?"  No response. He sat there, petrified like a memorial statue.

Minutes passed as Savos, too, stood frozen, not daring to breathe while he waited for his friend to respond. Eventually, Kraldar's hand dropped to his lap like the falling branch of a tree. He leaned back and stared at Savos with watery eyes.

"He's dead."

Savos slowly shambled backwards until he found some support against the wall. Kraldar's eyes remained fixed on him, staring at him, through him, as if he were not there at all. 

"They found him buried under his sleigh just outside town. To think that he was so close all this time..." A heart-rending sob choked him, strangled him until he eventually regained his voice after a bitter struggle. "So close while we were eating and drinking and laughing..." he mumbled. Not to himself, not to Savos, not to anyone in particular. 

Breathing in deep, Savos ultimately found the courage to approach his grief-struck friend.

"Perhaps... perhaps it wasn't him? How can the guards be so sure when they haven't seen him in ages—if at all? Perhaps—" 

Wordlessly, Kraldar handed him the crumpled letter. The snow had taken its toll on it, blurring some letters and rendering others wholly illegible—hardly any trouble for someone with years of experience reading student notes. 

Savos frowned.

It was indeed reliable evidence: A letter from Kraldar to his nephew congratulating him on meeting his would-be fiance and encouraging the relationship. 

"They found it in his back pocket."

Savos' heart sank to his stomach as he slowly sank down on the chair-bed next to Kraldar. Not knowing what to say, he resorted to gently patting his friend's shoulder. He, more than any other, knew what it was like to lose a loved one. He knew so painfully well. Oh, poor Kraldar. 

"I'm so sorry," he said quietly, never stopping his shoulder-patting. It was a clumsy gesture but a well-meaning one all the same. Savos had not known the young man wanting to marry, but his heart wept for the little boy who had wanted to be a wizard. 

They sat in silence. For how long, Savos could not tell—he would sit there as long as need be if his presence was any comfort.

"... one of yours," Kraldar finally whispered, so quietly that Savos almost did not catch it. Almost.

As if zapped by lightning, he withdrew his hand and stared at his friend. He could not believe his ears. "I'm sorry, what?"

"They say it was one of yours. A mage, caught red-handed," Kraldar explained, louder, his voice strained and coarse.

A college mage? But who would—No! None of his colleagues was a murderer! There had to be a reasonable explanation—an error by the guards, or perhaps a hedge-mage mistaken for a college member. Yes, something like that had to be the case.

"I assure you the college—"

Kraldar turned to him, having aged ten years in that short time. Deep rifts now distorted his forehead, and his eyes, red and teary, had taken on an alarming lifelessness.

"My nephew is dead, and a mage was caught at the scene, bent over his dead body. What assurance can you possibly give?" He choked and gripped Savos by the shoulders, squeezing painfully. There would be bruises later on. "Just because you don't want it to be true doesn't mean it isn't." 

Savos frowned and pressed his lips into a flat line. Kraldar was not in his right mind, he was well aware of that, but still, it stung to stand accused of willful ignorance—concerning murder, of all things! He had to choose his next words carefully. Alas, what could he possibly say to reassure a man who had just lost someone so dear to him?

"Kraldar..."

"It's better if you leave now, Savos." Kraldar let go of his shoulders. He was not chasing him away—not in anger, at least—just the pure weariness of his world crashing down around him. 

Savos sighed, collected his belongings, and headed for the door before hesitating at the last moment. 

"You have my sincerest sympathies, old friend. If you wish to talk, I—" He hesitated. Talking to him was probably the last thing Kraldar wanted right now. "You know where to find me." 

Without receiving an answer, Savos stepped out through the door. 

Chapter Text

The Chill was a dreadful place: A desolate prison on an island surrounded by the freezing sea north of Winterhold. Few people knew it existed—for good reason.

Despite there being no real guards, none had ever escaped and lived to tell the tale.

Rashkan glanced through the bars of his cage. They were an intimidating sort, those ice atronachs, unfeeling and entirely inhuman—icebergs come alive. Rumour had it even the occasional unsuspecting fisherman had fallen victim to them upon coming too close. 

Leaning back, he let out a tired sigh. How much time had passed since his arrival? Without any sunlight to give him a hint, it was impossible to say—and his silent keepers could not tell. 

The Chill.

There was no place in all of Skyrim with a more tell-tale name. A tiny glacial cave filled with little more than ice, snow, and a few cages too small for comfort—and as if that was not bad enough already, an ever-present freezing breeze swept through the place, stirring the dense mist emitted by the atronachs until it mirrored the waves outside.

A dreadful place indeed. 

Rashkan wanted to scream, to let it all out, but that would no doubt draw his keepers' ire. So, he grit his teeth and swallowed his anger until it writhed within him like a nest of snakes, their venom eating him up from the inside.

His eyes stung with tears, unwilling to fall.

To think that he had come so far, no longer the clueless young mer who had run away from home looking to build his own future, nor the ambitious hedge-mage always desperately trying to prove himself as he rose through the ranks of the necromancer coven. 

No, he had made it. 

Unlike so many years ago, he now was accepted into the College of Winterhold. He was a full-fledged scholar—a real mage.

Was.

For the time being, he was just a prisoner. A simple mer locked up for a crime he did not commit. 

Briefly, Rashkan thought about escaping. It was easy: he would melt the atronachs while using the bars of his cage to shield himself from their deadly hits. Afterwards, he would turn into a swarm of bats to fly through the gaps and away across the sea. 

And then? 

What would he have left? 

He thought about Solstheim, about the family he had abandoned when they needed him most. Would they take him back? It had been so long; perhaps now they would find it in their hearts to forgive? Rashkan remembered his parents. His mother, confined to her bed; his father, working himself to the bone to keep the family afloat. And then there was his brother. Dralas had always been passionate, of righteous but unyielding character—no wonder he once dreamt about joining the Redoran Guard. 

Rashkan shook his head. Not impossible, but too unlikely to make the gamble.

Not to mention that escaping would only prove his guilt to those still in doubt—if anyone still doubted at all. It was likely that the story had made its rounds around Winterhold. The townsfolk had probably already condemned him for being one of them mages , and those at the college who knew his true nature might well believe he had lost control.

He rubbed the back of his head, wincing when he brushed against a bit of scab.

The guards had made their verdict clear; the one who had ferried him over once the storm had subsided had even threatened to throw him overboard. ' One less problem' , he remembered her saying. By the time they had reached the prison at the break of dawn, Rashkan had actually felt ready to commit a murder. 

He crossed his arms in front of his chest.

What now? 

There had to be something he could do, something that would convince the people of his innocence. Something—Or someone!

Phinis! Phinis could vouch for his innocence! After all, how could he have committed the crime in the short time after their little chat? And Nelacar too! He could confirm the time he left the Frozen Hearth.

But Phinis was at the college, Nelacar at the inn, and Rashkan in his cage without any means of messaging either of them.

Back to square one.

Perhaps some sleep would pave the way for fresh ideas. Yes, that was a good plan; some rest would surely benefit him. And if it did not, it would at least make the time move faster.

His cage included a shoddy old bedroll too short for his tall frame—still better than the cold hard floor, though. Rashkan tried to make the best of it, crawling into the bedroll, then turning on his stomach and forming a makeshift pillow with his arms. It took a while for sleep to find him, but when it eventually did, it was not the mercy he had hoped. 

Hollow blue eyes, staring right into his soul, chilling him to the bone. The terrible image repeated in his mind, burning itself into his memory like farmers branded their cattle. Whatever those eyes had seen before their demise must have had the same effect on the poor young man. 

Half asleep, half awake, Rashkan waited for the hours to pass. Eventually, he gave up and just lay there, suspiciously eyeing the ice atronachs, waiting for one of them to move, but they remained little more than statues, pillars of ice ready to strike should he even reach through the bars.

The Chill was slowly sinking its icy claws deeper into his flesh, making Rashkan cram himself into his bedroll. Although the frost could not kill him, it was far from pleasant nevertheless. Turning his head to the wall, he resumed thinking.

Would he ever get out again, cross the bridge to the college, a proud scholar, not a prisoner? 

Right now, Rashkan was not sure. 

As long as he was stuck on that dreadful island, in that dreadful cave, the future was looking pretty bleak. And worse yet, he was starting to feel thirsty. Oh, the uncertainty was driving him up the walls.

Hopefully, someone—Savos, preferably—would come to get him soon. 

Savos.

In a sense, Savos was the reason why he now found himself in this awful situation, was he not? If Savos had been home on time, he would have had no reason to look for him. Yes, Savos was just as guilty as the guards, was he not?

In a sudden fit of rage, Rashkan slammed his fists against the bottom of his cage so hard the skin flayed off his knuckles. Damn it all! Damn the stupid guards, damn the silly tavern gossip and damn Savos for making him worry. Yes, damn them all to oblivion!

A bitter smile on his lips, he returned to rest on his throbbing fingers, sweet catharsis washing over him. The accursed Chill would drive him mad.

He closed his eyes.

Somewhere behind his back, something moved—snow was treacherous terrain. Rashkan frowned. The steps were far too light to belong to any of the atronachs. 

He shuffled around in his bedroll before rolling over. 

There was a cloak, a thick fur cloak with a person hiding somewhere inside. That cloak—Rashkan would have recognised anywhere. It belonged to the most chilly mortal in all of Winterhold: Savos Aren. No wonder the atronachs let him through.

Pressing his mouth into a thin line, Rashkan scowled at him. On the one hand, his heart soared at the thought of getting out of this mess; on the other, Savos was the one who got him into it in the first place.

Savos threw back his hood, revealing pallid skin along with sleepy, sunken eyes and—was he swaying slightly? 

"You look wretched." 

"Can't recommend going on a boat ride while hungover." He crouched in front of Rashkan's cage. "How in tarnation did you end up like—well, like this?"

"How I ended up like this?" Rashkan sneered, glaring daggers at Savos. "I was worried about you; that is how."

Savos raised his eyebrows and retreated slightly. "I'm sorry, what?"

"You heard correctly. If I had not been looking for you, I would not have stumbled into this mess." Rashkan crawled closer, gripping the bars with his fists.

"You were looking for me? But I told you I was with Kraldar, didn't I? So why—"

"It was late, there was a storm raging outside, and you were not home yet. I was bloody worried!"

Savos stood up and mirrored Rashkan's expression, throwing back the daggers.

"I appreciate the thought, but consider: I don't need you to be my personal escort." Although he did not sound outright angry, his voice had a cutting edge to it. "In fact, I can take care of myself just fine."

"Sure, I bet you can," Rashkan grumbled and stared at the ground. Could Savos not see how he had given him every reason to worry? Could he not imagine how worried Rashkan had been that night, thinking he had wandered off the cliffs?

"There is... another matter," Savos stated, scuffling around nervously, snow crunching under his feet. At last, he took a deep breath and broke the ever more uncomfortable silence. 

"There are... concerning reports... about you—"

"Lies, all of them!" Rashkan's head shot up. "Nothing but lies!" He snapped.

"That, I want to believe—really, I do," Savos stammered into his cloak, avoiding Rashkan's gaze at any cost while fidgeting with that one already abused spot at the fur lining of his robe. For a moment, he remained silent, his face slowly contorting as if he had bit his tongue. "But..."

"But what?" Rashkan strangled the bars until his knuckles turned red-to-white. "Do you believe that nonsense? You think me a murderer?" He yelled. Savos could not be serious, could he? 

"I need evidence, Rashkan," Savos snapped back. "I'm the archmage of the College of Winterhold; how do you think it will look if I demand they free you on good faith alone? The town is already in turmoil; I mustn't agitate them further!"

Evidence? Evidence?!? What evidence was needed? He was innocent—that was obvious! Blatantly so! To oblivion with the town; how dare they meddle in college business anyway? 

What little of Rashkan's blood remained was boiling in his veins.

"I am stuck in this stupid cage, and you care about the college's reputation?!?" He shouted. "I did not kill him! Savos, I did not! I was there at the wrong place at the wrong time— ask Phinis! Ask Nelacar! There you have your evidence!"

"Rashkan—"

"If you will not help me, get out! I wish to have my peace slowly starving and rotting in this cage while you are off collecting evidence to prove that which needs not to be proven."

"Rashkan, please—"

"Sod off!"

His scream echoed off the walls of the small cave so loudly that Rashkan thought it would bring down the ceiling. Savos flinched and covered his ears. His brows drew upwards, wrinkling his forehead as his mouth formed a pitiful pout.

A part of Rashkan felt sorry for the old mer—his friend—his friend who did nothing to free him from a dreadfully chilly prison in the middle of nowhere because he fell for straight-up slander. Bloody fool.

"Get out," Rashkan repeated sternly. 

Savos followed suit, pulling his hood back up and turning whence he had come, but just as he had taken a few steps, he stopped dead in his tracks and looked back.

"I want to believe you." 

Chapter Text

Archmage of the College of Winterhold   was an ungrateful position. 

As the primary representative, the archmage was the one very important person other very important people had to consult on very important college business. It was stressful, provided few privileges and was a target for antagonism from all sides. For many years, Savos Aren had managed just well enough to keep things running, independent, and himself from going insane. 

Never had he hated his job more than now.

Not only had the entire town decided the college was behind the mysterious disappearances; not only was Rashkan locked in a cage on a desolate island; no, Savos had also deeply scarred his friendship with Kraldar by asking that the corpse of his nephew be examined by Colette. A request that, after a heated shouting match, had been granted. 

Caught in a storm of whirling thought scraps, Savos prepared himself some tea, slumped down in his favourite chair and looked around, absentmindedly filling the cup with honey.

His quarters were a mess. Fresh spiderwebs had appeared between the legs of the tables, cabinets and drawers, a pile of yesterday's clothing lay carelessly discarded on a chair at the other side of the room and, in the garden, thirsty Dragontongues called out for a drink. 

When this was all over and done, Savos vowed he would take a nap. For a week. At least. 

He glanced at the door, hoping for rescue from the prison that was his troubled mind. Once Colette finished her examination, Mirabelle would come to get him, but for now, the door remained shut, leaving Savos at the mercy of his anxiety. 

He took a sip of his tea, shuddered, and promptly fought the urge to spit it back out. Instead of losing himself to the soothing aroma of chamomile and lavender, his tongue endured a crime against good tea making and taste: the tooth-rotting sweetness of pure honey sludge.

Savos set the cup down and began to pace around his garden, pausing to water his poor Dragontongues on the way.

As an act of spite—at least Savos assumed it to be—Jarl Korir had disregarded the testimonies provided by Phinis and Nelacar, despite the latter having absolutely nothing to gain by lying. 

If Savos were any good at alteration, and if transforming a jarl into a Horker were not considered a capital crime, he would have done it then and there. To raise his spirit, if nothing else.

If only he could sit the jarl down and tell him the whole extent of the situation. The longer Rashkan remained locked in his cell, the more dangerous the young vampire became to anyone approaching, friend or foe. He was no murderer, Savos was sure, but there was a chance he might become one, if only out of self-preservation. Of course, that was hardly a point to bring up if he did not want the townsfolk to gather their torches and pitchforks. 

Now, all his hopes rested on Colette. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. If she could at least pinpoint the time of death, there would be solid evidence. 

A single, loud knock echoed through the chamber. Savos rejoiced. Salvation, at last.

"Ah, Mirabelle, come in," he called.

The door opened and, instead of the ever-busy Master Wizard, revealed Phinis Gestor. 

"I'm not Master Ervine, I'm afraid. She got held up—Colette sent me instead," the conjuration master explained, doing little to hide the distaste in his voice. It was an open secret that Colette Marence was not particularly well-liked among the faculty, to put it lightly. Savos could not entirely blame his colleagues; the restoration master could be quite irritable—though perhaps her prickly demeanour was only the reaction to the bullying she received. He did not care either way.

Nearly stumbling over the steps and skipping at least a dozen, Savos followed Phinis down the stairs, past the Arcanaeum and to the main entrance, from where they would cross the courtyard and enter the Midden via the Hall of Countenance.

"You know," Phinis began as they stepped out into the cold. "If I were in charge of the investigation, I would have just asked the man how he died." 

Savos bit his tongue. Necromancy of that sort was vile magic; a practice that caused immeasurable anguish to the spirit summoned; a practice Savos was all too familiar with—for all the wrong reasons. His steps slowed as his body grew stiff.

Phinis sneered: "But that would require a black soulgem, and Enthir seems to have ported to a different plane of oblivion to obtain those sigil stones Rashkan and I requested for our experiment."

"A shame he isn't here then," Savos replied dryly.

"A shame indeed," Phinis agreed, every syllable dripping with venom.

They continued wordlessly, through the trapdoor in the Hall of Countenance, towards the makeshift morgue deep within the bowels of the Midden. It had always been a dark and gloomy place, even back when Savos was but a student. Back then, it was where unruly students would hide away from their professors' watchful eyes. Nowadays, few lost souls dared venture into the murky old caverns. The walls were damp and caked in layers upon layers of moss and algae. Down here, the weather outside mattered little; the Midden was permanently just above freezing temperature. Only at the highest point, where the college's wastewater plummeted into the depths below and further down, where the caves had crumbled, did an icy breeze paint the walls in rime. Savos and Phinis passed the foul-smelling, misty waterfall and entered a low, cobweb-filled tunnel opening up into a spacious room supported by crumbling columns framed by torches. A long time—possibly centuries—ago, it might have been a wine cellar. Now it served a more grisly purpose.

Savos covered his nose and breathed through his mouth. 

Although they had passed the most disgusting part of the way, this place was hardly an upgrade. The air was stale and pregnant with the stench of decaying plant matter and mould. Skeever droppings lay scattered across the floor, which already bore the age-old markings of countless questionable experiments. On a hastily erected dissecting table, Kraldar's nephew was laid out, pale and bare, only a loincloth protecting what little dignity he had left. His strawberry blond hair was dangling off the table, swaying like wheat stalks in the wind when Colette passed by.

"Ah, took your time, but good, you're here now." 

Colette's voice, though strained, was as shrill as always. Dark shadows clouded her eyes. Thin streaks of red were smeared all over the simple white apron shielding her robe; her shoulder-length hair looked unkempt and stuck to her sweaty forehead. Savos made a mental note to allow her a few days of rest or even a pay rise—if the college budget allowed for it.

Phinis glared at her and, wasting no time with hospitalities or other pretences of friendliness, left her and Savos alone. 

"It's good to see you, Colette," Savos greeted more amicably. "Please tell me you found something that could absolve Rashkan and the college as a whole. Please. I could use at least some good news today."

Colette stepped away from the table and shuffled around restlessly. 

"Colette, please—"

Holding his breath, Savos frowned. 

"There is good news, bad news, and worse news."

Savos grimaced and braced himself for whatever he was to hear.

"The good news," Colette leaned against the table, "Is that it probably—very likely—wasn't Rashkan." 

Savos exhaled a sigh of relief, surprised at how long he could hold his breath without noticing. 

She walked around the table, raised the man's arm, and let it flop back into position. "No Rigour Mortis anymore."

His wide-open eyes apparently betrayed his disbelief, for Colette immediately continued explaining:

"Yes, yes, he was brought to me at midday after they arrested Rashkan. But, you see, at that time, the body had already begun entering a stage of secondary flaccidity. He must have been dead for around 36 hours; considering the cold, it may well have been longer."

"And the bad news?" 

Savos almost did not dare ask. Was an alleged murder not enough?

"When he got crushed by the sleigh, his neck merely cracked and did not break completely." She pointed at a swelling that indicated a fracture of the cervical spine. “There's a chance the poor man would have been paralysed, left slowly to freeze without any hope for rescue.” 

Savos grit his teeth and stared at the floor. It was hard to imagine the terror the poor man—Kraldar’s nephew, the boy who wanted to be a wizard— had endured just before his death. His mind was torn; should he spare Kraldar of the terrible truth, or should he tell him his nephew suffered a slow and painful death while they were entirely oblivious? 

“Archmage?”

Colette was standing beside him, her concerned eyes glimmering in the torchlight as she gently patted his shoulder.

“Are you alright?” 

Savos unclenched his jaw and nodded slowly, barely moving his head at all. “I’m fine. It’s just… such a horrible way to go.”

“If it's any comfort, he was on the way out before the sleigh even crushed him," Colette walked around the table until she was standing beside the man's neck. "Look here.” Her fingers moved along the external carotid artery until they arrived at a bruised area. “Feel for yourself.” 

Savos stepped forward, reached out, and shuddered at the touch of icy skin. Far more interesting than the colour change was a change of texture. His fingers grazed the spot, trying to estimate its full size and nature. Eventually, something clicked. 

“Scar tissue,” he mumbled, more to himself than Colette.

“Correct. The bruise and the fact that it scarred so badly suggests that the wound didn’t heal naturally, but was, in fact, the victim’s desperate—and quite amateurish—attempt at restoration magic.”

“So, you’re suggesting this wound killed him?”

Colette's expression darkened. Shadows flickered across her face, grim and foreboding.

 “That’s where the worse news comes in, I’m afraid.”

Savos’ heart sank to his stomach. What could possibly be worse than that? 

"As a healer yourself, is there anything you notice? Anything that seems strange to you?"

Suppressing the urge to roll his eyes at this spontaneous test no doubt meant to underline the importance of good healers—as if he did not see their inherent value already—, Savos mustered the body. 

The skin was pale and spotted in black and green from frostbite and the ongoing decomposition process, now uninterrupted by ice and snow. Still, something was indeed amiss. Savos knelt and pushed the body up ever so slightly to check if the angle was at fault. If perhaps, the clue he was looking for lay hidden under the man's torso. 

It did not.

"Where's his blood?" Savos asked, a tremor breaking his voice. "It's been a long time since I studied humanoid biology, but," he hesitated, unwilling to face his conclusion and all it implied. "Shouldn't his skin be a red-or-purple colour around, I guess, his back? I don't know which position he was found in, but regardless, the blood should have gathered at the lowest points."

Colette seemed pleased with his findings. His horrible, horrible findings. 

“Indeed there should be, but as it turned out, our poor victim was severely anaemic. I even cut him up to make sure, but what little you see here,” she motioned at her apron. "Was almost all that was left."

"So the cause of death—"

"Was a lack of blood, yes. He fought back after the initial attack,” she pointed at the man’s hands. The fingernails, upon closer inspection, were ripped up and caked in gore. “But there was no blood found on the scene, so neither he nor the attacker bled out."

It was not Rashkan, Savos reassured himself over and over again. Colette had made that clear. It was not Rashkan, and that was good, but at the same time, that only made it worse. So much worse. Feeling his stomach turn over, he supported himself on the makeshift dissecting table, trembling like a leaf and breathing in deep. 

In and out. 

In and out. 

In and out.

“Colette, we have a problem," he sighed at last, once he managed to get his voice past his lips without bringing his breakfast along. "A massive problem.”

Pacing around the room and breathing along with his steps, he tried to rein in his nerves enough for a semblance of rationality. "We need to gather the students. I want everyone— everyone! —to be taught some basic defence against the undead—repellent spells, purification rituals, wards—now! And don't raise a panic!"

Colette tilted her head, raised her eyebrows and opened her mouth. 

"Just do it!" Savos barked, gesturing for her to get moving. "Do something!" 

He had to alert the town, had to convince the jarl to assign more guards, had to—

With a cry, Mirabelle tumbled into the room. Savos raced to her aid just in time to catch his loyal Master Wizard, who seemed to have stumbled over a crack in the floor. Her fingers burrowed deep into his shoulders as she gasped for air.

"Savos...? Colette...? Thank…" She gulped while trying to steady herself. "Thank the gods. It's Enthir, he's—"

Savos wanted to scream.

Chapter Text

Awful, Horrible, Dreadful—words could not even begin to describe the Chill. Rashkan leaned back against the bars. 

Before him? Ice. 

To his sides? Ice. 

Behind him? The terribly uncomfortable bars and even more ice. Oh, a kingdom for a change of scenery. He groaned, closed his eyes and cursed himself for leaving his beloved journal with Phinis. With so much time on his hands, he could have easily written the first few chapters of his ghost story. The Chill had fuelled his inspiration: a mage left to rot in prison for a crime he did not commit, teaching himself to raise the spirits of the dead and making the Sea of Ghosts come alive to take revenge against his tormentors. Alas, nothing to write down the tangled plot threads and scattered themes. Rashkan would have to remember it all until his release—if they released him at all.

"You know, the longer I sit here, the more I feel sorry for you," Rashkan opened his eyes and nodded at the ice atronach closest to his cage, "You are stuck here all day with nothing to do, no one to keep you company..."

The atronach did not react at all. 

"Ah, though I suppose such things are irrelevant to one who neither thinks nor feels."

The atronach remained unfazed.

Rashkan's eyes fell upon a nearby tray carrying a bit of stony bread and some  allegedly  dried fish. He had not touched the sorry excuse for a meal, nor the one before. The guards did not seem to care; perhaps they believed it a sign of protest. 

"Not even you would eat that, would you?" He asked and pointed at the tray. 

The atronach remained as little more than a statue.

"I give up." Rashkan groaned and drew his knees up to his chest, trying to suppress his stomach's yearning cries. If the boredom did not drive him mad, the thirst surely would. How long had it been since he had last fed?

Clenching his teeth, he laid his head down on his knees. Vampires did not die without blood. However, the effects of prolonged withdrawal were just as bad, if not worse.

He had seen it, only once, a shambling husk of rage and bloodthirst, no saner than the average draugr.

He shuddered. 

It was stirring already, deep inside, that incessant craving—that building desperation—grasping for him with greedy claws. His mind stumbled over itself, conjuring up all manner of horrible scenarios.

Although he was not a pure-blooded vampire, he had mastered all abilities that came with the change, not to mention his command over the arcane…

What, under normal circumstances, was a source of pride was becoming a reason to worry.

If he were to lose control, who could stop him? 

Perhaps, Colette. Perhaps Colette and Mirabelle. Definitely Savos. 

Rashkan grimaced, his stomach twisting at the thought of the man, his friend, tremendous idiot that he was. 

Despite all his frustrations, he did not wish a confrontation upon Savos—on anyone. Eventually, his thoughts turned to Solstheim. 

He frowned. 

Even if his family did not take him back, he had to try; it would put a safe distance between him and Winterhold. 

Rashkan closed his eyes again and began to focus. 

From his fingertips to his toes, the flutter of a thousand wings thrashed through his veins, tearing at him from the inside, trying to break free. All those years of learning, the pride he felt upon becoming a real college mage, the friends he had made—it tore him apart as the tingling grew stronger and stronger. Soon. Soon he would escape, leaving behind what he had hoped would become his new home.

"Rashkan!"

A familiar voice broke through the icy monotony.

"Rashkan! Rashkan, quickly!"

His eyes snapped open. A thousand wings stilled in his veins. Speak of the devil.

"Oh? Look who is stopping by. Have you come to rescue me from my freezing cell?" Rashkan asked, his voice sharp as a razor blade and icy as the Chill itself. 

Savos groaned and shot Rashkan an equally cutting glare. 

"Now's really not the time to be petty," he produced a key from his pocket and began frantically unlocking Rashkan's cage. "A guard is waiting outside. I got her off my back just barely. Feed quickly, if you must, then come with me." 

Rashkan squinted, mustering Savos. The way he so nervously fumbled with the lock, the rush—something was wrong.

"Would you at least tell me why you are so eager to see me freed all of a sudden?"

"Because," Savos grunted as the lock finally gave way, "You're off the hook. There's been another attack. Come, it's urgent." 

The door to the cage opened with a creak, and for the first time in days, Rashkan tasted freedom. He stumbled forward before yanking Savos' arm, tearing through the confines of his sleeves. Savos yelped but did nothing to push him away. Greedy fangs burrowed deep into ashen flesh. A wave of pure ecstasy broke over him, making him shiver. Coppery delight filled his stomach, each mouthful sweeter than the last.

"...kan!"

Somewhere beyond his mind, someone was calling his name. Rashkan did not care. This. He tightened his grip on Savos' arm. 

This was sweeter than freedom. 

A surge of biting pain shot up his leg. Rashkan recoiled, winced and glared down at himself, only to find Savos stomping on his toes.

"Ouch! You little—"

"I said feed  quickly ," he snapped, shoving Rashkan towards the exit. "We really haven't got much time. Come now." 

In a flash of gold, the wound was gone, and the two headed outside. 

As soon as he stepped into the sun, Rashkan flinched, squeezed his eyes shut and raised his hands to block out the bright light. It burned— burned —in his eyes and on his skin. It was terrifying how sensitive he had become after only a few days without exposure. 

Only when they reached the boat did Rashkan eventually regain his sight. It was little more than a nutshell resting in still waters. He rejoiced. An empty stomach was bad for a boat ride, a freshly filled one, twice as bad. Next to the boat waited a familiar, grim guard. 

Rashkan smirked as he settled himself in the boat across from her. Sometimes, gloating could be so much fun. Despite the sunlight setting his blood ablaze, Rashkan enjoyed the crisp breeze and the splashes of icy water occasionally hitting him. At last, a change of scenery. Savos was leaning against the boat's rail, head to the sky, eyes closed, a perpetual frown on his brow. Rashkan and the guard exchanged a few hostile glares every once in a while, but neither dared to speak.

As soon as they set foot on shore, Savos spurred Rashkan on, up the short path to the college and across the bridge, into the Hall of Attainment and Enthir's room—of all places. 

To say that Rashkan cared much about the shady wood elf would be a lie, but Enthir was a useful asset and, for the college, irreplaceable. He lay in bed, motionless, looking as pale as bone dust, the pungent coppery scent of blood cloaking him like a mantle, yet there was none on his clothing or the blanket. Sitting by his bedside, a bag with utensils at her feet, writing something in the dim light of a burnt down candle, sat Colette Marence.

When she spotted Savos and Rashkan, she jumped off her chair, nearly toppling it over.

"Finally!" 

Rashkan winced. Of all people... 

If he could choose how to spend his regained freedom, aiding Colette was the absolute last thing on his mind. He crossed his arms in front of his chest. 

"What do you need of me?" Without waiting for a response, he approached the nightstand and reached for her notes. The sooner he got this over with, the better. Just as he was about to turn around, he spotted something unmistakable in the corner of his eyes. There, on Enthir's neck, two small dark dots caked in scab. 

"I suppose that solves  what  was behind the attacks."

Colette ignored his comment. "It's dire. I've done what I could but—"

"What do you need of me?" Rashkan repeated. He was not in the mood to spend his newfound freedom listening to the restoration master's ceaseless prattling.

"If you let me speak," Colette complained, raising her pointer finger, "You would know by now. I've done what I could, but the vampire drained him of a lethal amount of blood."

"So he is dying," Rashkan concluded dryly. Somewhere behind him, Savos muttered a curse most foul.

"Yes," Colette sighed, staring at her feet. "He doesn't have much time left—that is unless my theory works." 

She went over to a cupboard and fished out a knife and a cup from among various bottles of booze and gods-knew-what. 

"I don't need much."

Rashkan raised an eyebrow. 

"You want to turn him?"

"Yes—but no—somewhat, I suppose."

Rashkan rolled his eyes but bit back any remarks. 

"Sanguinare Vampiris is transmitted via direct contact. So, to allow for the disease to take hold, the host shouldn't die too quickly after a vampire attack, yes? The infected should—as far as my theory goes—be more resilient than the average person. We could use this to—"

"Do you have an antidote?" Rashkan interrupted brusquely. The plan was far from ideal, but it could work. Gods, he hated when Colette was right.

"I have." Savos joined the conversation. "Always keep a stash should I get infected after feeding you." He nodded at Rashkan as if to remind him.

Even though that eased his troubled mind to an extent, there was still a much greater cause for concern. Rashkan grimaced. To be the bearer of bad news was never a good thing, but still, what he was about to say weighed heavy on his conscience.

"You have three days to speed up his recovery. At maximum. The moment the fever decreases is the moment you need to cure the disease. If he has not sufficiently recovered by then, he will die. One way or another"

"That's not for you to decide!" Savos declared, indignation in his wide-open eyes. He balled his hands into fists until his knuckles turned white. "There must be a way—why could we not allow him to turn fully? Surely, we could feed another vampire if more people helped."

Rashkan pursed his lips. Although Savos' optimism was admirable, there was no way he would let him commit an error as grave as this.

"Because, dear archmage, a fledgling vampire is an uncontrollable menace. No matter how restrained a vampire may seem, there will always be a point when they break. And young ones break quickly."

Savos glared at him through narrowed eyes. His whole body was tense, almost rigid, yet his voice quivered as he spoke:

"But you've learned to control—"

"That I have, that I have..." Rashkan stared at the ground to escape that piercing crimson gaze. The memories of his change were hazy, but what he remembered was enough to squash any hesitancy: The heat burning in his veins, the thirst, the screams. 

Blood. 

So much blood.

Yes, he had learned to control himself, but at what cost? No, he could not allow it. He had to persuade Savos, somehow.

"Look," Rashkan drawled, finally having found the courage to face Savos again. "I have witnessed more turnings than anyone in this room; I know how dangerous new vampires are," he hesitated, pondering his words carefully, "I have also... ended...enough fledgelings that lost control and injured someone—or worse. You care about the college, do you not? So do not put its people at risk." His voice still carried some of that earlier bite—to strike where it mattered.

Savos frowned, sighed, and turned to Colette, who nodded solemnly.

"Good," Rashkan grabbed the dagger and sat down at the edge of the bed. "Let us proceed," he beckoned Colette to come over and hold the cup. It looked menacing, that blade. He steeled himself. Now, he would find out what Savos had felt when he fed Rashkan during that ice wraith hunt. 

Colette nudged him with the cup.

"Come on! Time's running out." 

Gritting his teeth, Rashkan shot one last angry look at her and plunged the dagger into his arm, drawing the blade upwards following his artery. Black sludge spilt from the open wound and into the cup. 

"Sheesh, Enthir should be glad he's not awake to see this," Colette said, watching as the cup filled up, the blood-sludge bubbling and hissing like hot tar. Although his tongue curled with repulsion at the sight of that accursed black goo, a part of him was just plain curious. If this, injected directly into the patient's bloodstream, could indeed be used to accelerate the recovery process and even bring said patient back from death's door, it was well worth further study. 

In fact, it could be a breakthrough in restorative alchemy. Somewhere, in the deepest recesses of Rashkan's mind, a more egotistical prospect emerged: He would be invaluable to the college—just like Enthir.

When the cup was half-full, Colette collected the last drops and patted Rashkan on the shoulder. 

"Savos, patch him up, please," she hurried over to her bag, threw a set of bandages at Savos, who caught them—just barely—and painstakingly proceeded to dress the wound.

"Three days, huh," he mumbled, glancing back at Colette, who was preparing a syringe full of blood—sludge.

Rashkan lowered his head.

"Three days."

At that moment, an ear-piercing screech ripped through the small room. Enthir spasmed and quaked, frothing at the mouth; his fingers curled and uncurled in rapid succession, bending past the breaking point; his back arched off the bed, further and further, culminating in a nauseating  crack . 

At last, he fell slack once more. 

Chapter Text

Savos sighed at the imposing mountain of books before him. 

Urag had been incredibly thorough, providing every book on vampirism the Arcanaeum had to offer. Every single one. Savos had skimmed them all, but the more he learned, the more lost he felt. Not only were there over one hundred variations of vampirism in Tamriel—to his horror—, but their strength and abilities also depended on age and feeding state. Some could turn into mist, others were indistinguishable from mortals except under candlelight, and some hid in frozen lakes to drag their victims into the depths. 

"What a gruesome way to go," Savos mumbled and huddled himself into his robes. His head was pounding, his throat dry, and his eyes burning like the pale magelight floating above his head. Urag was adamant that no fire—not even a candle—was allowed in the Arcanaeum, his very own realm of oblivion. Failing to withhold a yawn, Savos leaned back in his chair. How long had it been since his last good night of sleep? 

In his younger years, staying up for nights on end had never been a problem, but now, perhaps for the first time, Savos felt his age. He stretched his tired limbs before producing a beat-up quill, a flask of ink and a piece of crinkled parchment from his pockets. If only Rashkan had provided him with actually useful information, he could have saved himself the tedious research. 

The quill met the parchment, pitch-black ink seeping into it when the hinges of a door squealed, and a familiar, overly tall vampire stepped into the room, carrying a grim expression and his share of books. Wordlessly he walked over to Savos' table and let them crash onto it. 

"Tea?"

Savos half-dropped the quill, tiny ink droplets scattering all over the paper. 

"I'm sorry?"

Rashkan pursed his lips, a scornful glint in his burning orange eyes. 

"Did I stutter? I asked if you want some tea." 

What a wonderful, fantastic, marvellous offer—one he could not possibly refuse. Savos' heart leapt at the prospect of a hot drink.

"I suppose some tea would be nice; I'm quite parched."

Rashkan nodded. "Then, I shall make some. In the meantime, see that you finish taking notes."

With that, he abruptly turned around and left for the Archmage's Quarters. Savos groaned and forced himself to concentrate on his findings. Some vampires were sneaky and subtle, preferring to stay undetected and charm rather than overpower their victim; others were unnaturally strong, swift and preferred subduing their prey. 

Some this, some that—It was getting him nowhere.

He picked up the quill again and quickly scribbled:

• Susceptible to fire
• Heightened strength and speed
• Potentially good at magic (illusion, frost, conjuration) 
• Can turn into bats, mist, mortal form
• Potentially susceptible to restoration magic

He rubbed his aching temples and crushed the paper into a ball. One did not have to read all those books to find out those things. Still without useful information, Savos allowed his eyes a modicum of rest until Rashkan's return. 

To his misfortune, it did not take long until the hinges squealed again. Rashkan was carrying a steaming cup of tea as well as honey nut treats on a wooden tray. Savos frowned and turned to Urag. Motionless, like a gargoyle waiting to break free, the librarian glared at Rashkan as if his gaze could turn him to stone. Should any honey end up on a book, Rashkan would have greater worries than a rogue vampire.

The tray had not even touched the table when eager hands grabbed the cup, relishing the heat spreading through trembling flesh and stiff joints. Savos had not realised just how cold he was—nor how hungry, for that matter. Had he even eaten anything since they found Enthir? 

Rashkan stood at the other side of the table, glaring down at Savos as if waiting for something. For as long as Savos had known him, Rashkan had never been good at hiding his emotions.

"You're still mad at me." 

"Are you surprised?" Rashkan asked, his eyes never once meeting Savos'. "You left me in that dreadful cell. The only reason I even got out was that our foe had the courtesy to attack while I was behind bars. Pray tell, why would I not be mad? "

Savos hummed, seeking Rashkan's gaze, which shunned him still.

"The college is at precarious peace with Winterhold proper. As archmage, I can't risk jeopardising that without a damn good reason. Our supply lines and fishing rights depend on it."

He prayed that this tedious discussion would end once and for all. Judging by the disappointed scowl on Rashkan's face, he prayed in vain.

"Is a friend not a good reason?"

Rashkan's voice was soft and quiet, full of disappointment rather than accusation. Savos nibbled on a honey nut treat, carefully deliberating his words.

"Rashkan," he sat the cup down, leaned forward and let his head rest on his now free hand. "I like you, I enjoy spending time with you, but there are things more important than my own whims and wishes, more important than friendship, even. Pout if it makes you feel better. Right now, I couldn't care less. There's a vampire on the loose. They've hurt one of our own, and that," Savos pointed his honey nut treat at Rashkan, "That, I will not let go unpunished. So either help me or leave me to my research. We're losing time."

Rashkan sat down, scowling still.

"So, have you found out anything that could help us?" Savos finished his snack and wiped the fingers on his pants. He was way past caring at this point—even more so, he did not want to risk Urag's wrath.

"One thing strikes me as odd," Rashkan stroked his goatee.

An ever so soft smile graced Savos' lips. Had they found a clue at last?

"The Stormcloak Patrol vanished without a trace; Enthir was found with just the marks on his neck. Only your friend's nephew—was it?—seems to have died violently. Someone is either very good at hiding their tracks or avoiding battle altogether."

"You're thinking illusion?"

Rashkan shrugged.

"That, or our vampire is remarkably charming. Surely, you have read about vampiric seduction . Unless, of course, you slept through those books."

Savos rolled his eyes and stuffed another honey nut treat into his mouth. Let him have his immature little quips.

"There was a vampire in our coven," Rashkan recounted grimly. "Valdis was her name. A powerful sorceress whose illusions could frenzy the most docile creature, charm anyone, and even glamour her appearance to hide her true self. She was a longtime friend of our leader. Blinded us all to her schemes until it was too late."

"Too late?" Savos frowned. He knew the hedge-mage coven Rashkan used to belong to had dissolved; else, he would not have joined the college, but how it had fallen apart, Savos had never dared ask.

"She wanted to take over the coven and bewitched me, lured me into a trap," Rashkan rolled up his robe, revealing a large, bright scar on the dark skin of his abdomen. "Left me a nice little present," he scoffed.

Savos inhaled sharply and reached for the cup again. "How did it happen?"

"Ice spike. A friend of mine discovered the plot, warned our leader and raced to my aid. He freed me from her chains." Rashkan's expression darkened, twisted into a grotesque grimace. "She killed him, Savos. She killed Beroth, my friend—one of the few—, the man who taught me my first spells as well as how to read and how to write," Rashkan leaned forward and shot a cautious glance at Urag before looking Savos straight in the eye. Behind bright orange burned a fierce blaze of hatred, chilling Savos to the bone.

"I killed her."

Savos swallowed hard, nearly choking on his tea.

"I killed her, and I would do it again," Rashkan snarled through bared fangs. "That is how far I will go for my friends, for the people important to me. You said you would not let the attack on Enthir go unpunished. I hope you are aware of what that might entail, and, for your sake, I hope you are willing to commit. Right now, I am not certain whether you have enough of a spine for it." 

Rashkan sighed and closed his eyes, quietly counting from one to ten. When he opened them again, he was back to his usual self. "At any rate, a vampire like Valdis would be capable of committing the crimes we are facing."

Savos sat the cup down, grit his teeth and began stroking his beard. That certainly was near the top of the list of things he did not want to hear. A desperate fledgeling or a brainless bloodfiend he could deal with, but a cunning vampire-mage was on a whole different level. Whatever higher power was behind their misfortune had better be having a damn good laugh.

Abruptly, he stood up, toppling a stack of books in the process. When had the Arcanaeum become so constricting? He needed some fresh air and frankly, they had wasted enough time already.

"Urag," he turned to the librarian, who seemed entirely engrossed in his own research—whatever it was. "Please, do me a favour: tell Master Turrianus to bring forth any items enchanted to resist magic. Starting tomorrow, he shall also offer a discount on his services to the town guard. I'll go to the jarl's longhouse and inform Korir of this development. Rashkan," he glanced at his companion, still sitting at the table, grim and broody, listlessly flipping through ' Immortal Blood' , "Why don't you pack up in the meantime?"

With that, he spun around and headed down the stairs, leaving no time for neither Urag nor Rashkan to talk back. His mind was whirring with more important concerns. 

How was any of them going to fight that vampire? 

Sure, Rashkan had experience fighting his own kind, and Faralda's fire spells would be highly effective, but could either of them deal with a master illusionist? Drevis and Mirabelle, on the other hand, certainly could. However, neither was a particularly skilled fighter—although Savos was proud of how well both had fared during his lectures on warding techniques so many years ago. 

He breathed in deep as he entered the courtyard. Where once hordes of students rushed to their classes, huddled around their schoolwork or merely enjoyed the crisp Winterhold air, now, an immaculate layer of snow glistened in all shades of pink, turning ever more crimson as the sun sank beyond the bleeding horizon. Under different circumstances, he would have taken a moment to enjoy the spectacular play of colours, but now, Savos stomped through the pristine snow without so much as looking left or right. Only once he had reached Winterhold proper did he stop and gaze back at the college.

To any outsider, it must have looked grim and imposing, a dark fortress at the end of the world. 

To Savos, it was home.

He had been there when the rest of the city fell into the sea, he had been there when the Great War threatened its independence, and he would be there when a bloodthirsty vampire threatened his colleagues. 

He balled his fists.

Rashkan had some nerve to question his dedication.

By the time he reached the jarl's longhouse, night had fallen over Winterhold. Was it a good decision to head out at this hour? Savos shook his head. What a question. Every moment lost was a moment the vampire might claim another victim. So, he greeted the guards by the door before knocking and entering. 

The jarl's longhouse was brimming with people and the warmth of a large hearth burning in the centre of the room. The jarl's son, a boy of eight or nine, was sitting near it brooding over a worn-down abacus. Thaena, the jarl's wife and housecarl, grim and stalwart, sat by her son's side, berating him for even the most trivial mistake. Savos briefly caught sight of the steward Malur Seloth, whom, for some godsforsaken reason, the jarl thought connected to the college—Savos had never bothered to correct him. It was already hard to make a living in Winterhold; why should he put the mer out of work for the jarl's ignorance? 

Jarl Korir himself sat on his throne, intently listening to two figures dressed in robes of pale violet. Savos recognised them immediately: they belonged to the Vigilants of Stendarr, an order dedicated to rooting out all things daedric or undead. Thank the gods!

"Archmage," the jarl greeted brusquely, a permanent scowl above his disdainful eyes. "It's about time you showed yourself again after warning us of that terrible menace. He pointed at the Vigilants. "Those are Kvinna and Muzgog. I hired them since you lot evidently don't care."

Savos bit his tongue. 

"A pleasure," he greeted the Vigilants with a polite smile. "Although the college is neither at fault nor responsible for clearing up this mess, we are happy to help, despite your guards' overzealous arrest. That vicious vampire nearly killed one of our own."

Savos revelled in the bitterness of the jarl's gaze. After all the stress Korir had caused him, he could allow himself some thinly veiled gloating, could he not? 

"It doesn't matter whose responsibility it is. What matters is that a dangerous vampire needs dealing with," one of the vigilants, Kvinna, interrupted. She was a young woman with brown hair, hazel eyes and too many freckles to count. Surprisingly short for a Nord, too; her chin reached just above Savos' forehead. And, loathe as he was to admit it, Savos was anything but tall.

"Agreed," Savos nodded and rubbed his cold hands. "Our research suggests that this vampire is particularly powerful, using illusions to charm its prey before draining it dry. That is why I've come to warn you; your guards shall come to the college and speak with Sergius Turrianus, our enchanter, to have their armour warded against spells."

Jarl Korir's frown deepened, the corners of his mouth dropped all the way to his chin, forming a grimace that, under different circumstances, would have looked hilarious. No doubt that inside him, his pride, his hatred for the college, and his desire to keep Winterhold safe clashed like warring armies.

"Fine," he muttered and beckoned Malur Seloth to come over, "Tell the guards they should go to the college first thing in the morning. If the archmage himself is so kind as to offer its enchanting services, who are we to deny him?"

That tone—Savos knew it all too well. Nothing more than contempt wrapped in a thin pretence of respect. Still, not even Korir would be stubborn enough to refuse him this time. If there was one saving grace to the jarl, it was his love for Winterhold. Having achieved his goal, Savos said his goodbyes and turned to leave when—

"Archmage," Kvinna tapped him on the shoulder. "Good that you came; spares me the trouble of seeking you out. Is it true you're a master of wards?"

Savos smiled and glanced at his feet. Before he knew it, his fingers had found that one abused spot of his robe's fur lining and began fumbling with it.

"Master? How quaint," he chuckled, "But it's true, I do possess a certain talent for protective magic. And conjuration, though I don't suppose the vigilants are interested in that." 

For a moment, Kvinna seemed uncertain, looking at Muzgog, who nodded at her as if to say go ahead . 

"There are reports of strange goings-on in the mountains west of town; lights and noise—could just be bandits," she shrugged, "but if it's our vampire, I'd like to be on the safe side. Therefore, if it's not too much to ask, would you accompany me? Don't get me wrong; those guards are doing their job just fine, but against a vampire, magic is worth a thousand swords." 

Bandits, a rogue vampire—neither encounter sounded particularly pleasant. Still...

"I'll come with you."

Kvinna was right; who better to fight a vampire-mage than he, who had devoted half of his life to the study of warding spells? He, who had mastered the schools of Restoration and Conjuration alike? He, who had vowed to punish that vampire for preying on college mages?

"Wonderful," Kvinna grinned, clasping her hands together. "Tomorrow morning in front of the longhouse? Alright?"

Savos nodded and clutched his robe around himself, bracing for the cold night outside.

Yes, if anyone in this town could take on that accursed vampire, it was he. Jarl Korir and Rashkan would eat their snide remarks, would reconsider doubting him.

In a morbid way, he could not wait until tomorrow. 

Chapter Text

Finally. 

Finally, Rashkan got to sit down and work on his ghost story.

Quill scraped across parchment; page after page filled with bullet points and diagrams, outlines and character arcs. 

He had followed Savos after collecting his belongings—much later than originally intended. Rashkan scoffed. It seemed absolutely nothing could keep the archmage from oversleeping, not even an urgent murder investigation. 

He put the quill down and leaned back in his chair, stretching his tired limbs. Why he had come to the Frozen Hearth in the first place was long forgotten amidst his writing frenzy. Still, even at this hour, people crowded around the scattered tables. Some of the patrons Rashkan had seen before: that drunkard, already nursing a pint of ale, as well as the jarl, having brunch. 

He averted his eyes; in Winterhold, rumours travelled fast. No doubt his wrongful arrest had made the news. And wrongful as it may have been, jail time still carried a stigma. 

Dagur, the innkeeper, paid him no mind; instead, with the finesse and attention to detail of the gourmet himself, he prepared a large platter of food for his hungry guests. Without a harbour and with large parts of the sea of ghosts regularly freezing over, Winterhold depended on imported supplies. For many people, it was more affordable to eat at the Frozen Hearth than to buy fresh ingredients for themselves. Rashkan could not blame them; if he still had to eat, he would do anything for a break from fish and horker. 

Despite the people, the tavern was still quieter than usual. It smelled differently, too, of freshly baked bread and snowberry jelly and honeyed milk—not a trace of the seared onions and pungent ale that sullied the air every evening. 

Rashkan turned his attention back to his writing. Throughout his stay, the whole table had become covered in neatly sorted sheets of parchment. Quickly, he picked up the first one and began writing the prologue:

It is the 21st of Evening Star, the longest night of the year. Outside, a raging storm all but sweeps away the cheer of the bonfires and merry New Life celebrants. It howls and claws at the windows, whose glass rattles and clatters in fear. As I lean back in my rocking chair, the fire in the nearby fireplace cracks and collapses in a flurry of sparks. I get up and add new wood when the clock—a large, intimidating thing of Alinori make—strikes twelve. Midnight.

With a bang, the tavern door flew open. Rashkan flinched, splattering ink all over his notes. In came a mountain of an orc taller than Rashkan, taller than anyone he had ever known, and bulky like a fully—grown frost troll. His bright—blond hair was cropped short, and his cheek and chin bore the spoils of battle. A thick cloak of bear fur hung from his shoulders. On the belt of his lilac robes dangled a rusty mace. His dark eyes scanned the room.

Rashkan was content being a vampire, the kind of vampire he was, yet at that moment, he wished he were of a bloodline that could dissolve into mist. Those robes, he recognised them—any child would. That orc was a Vigilant of Stendarr. Curse the gods!

All other tables were full. Nelacar's chambers lay across the main hall, locked. The guest rooms were nearby, but Dagur would surely notice if he tried slipping inside and the last thing Rashkan wanted was arouse suspicion.

Should he run? 

Perhaps he forgot something. Perhaps, a sudden stomach bug caused him to feel sick—if anyone asked. Futile excuses! Too well would his flight fit the Vigilant's arrival.

Louder and louder, the floorboards cried out under each step. Rashkan stiffened. Slowly but surely, his intestines curled up, and by the time the orc arrived at his table, he wanted to throw up. 

" 's free?" The orc asked, his voice coarse and dry. "Tavern's pretty full."

For a moment, Rashkan failed to process the question and stared as if the orc were a two-headed horker wearing a funny hat—two funny hats. 

"Is that chair free?" The orc repeated more slowly, pointing at a leftover chair across from Rashkan, who gave a nod.

He had to stay calm. Had to! So why could he not stop his hands from shaking?

The orc sat down, and, for a moment, Rashkan thought the chair would collapse under him. It could have made for a comical scene, under different circumstances, that massive orc on the small chair.

But circumstances were were as they were, and laughter was the last thing on Rashkan's mind. He cleared the table before quickly folding his hands in his lap. The orc would surely need the space.

"You a shy one, eh?" 

If that was supposed to be a smile, it was one that would send a child running. Large tusks and snaggleteeth—some missing entirely— formed the hideous grimace of a monster ready to sink its fangs into innocent flesh.

Rashkan's mind was screaming for him to run, yet he remained glued to his chair. 

"Shy... I suppose, yes," he said flatly. 

The orc hummed, then nodded. Deep dark eyes examined Rashkan, peeled away layers of pretences and excuses until he felt like they had stripped him of his clothes as well. At last, they met their bright orange counterparts. Rashkan shivered and immediately broke off eye contact. 

" 's common among mages. Always hiding away from people, building their castles in the middle of nowhere," he continued, leaning back in his chair, which let out a desperate cry for mercy. "Got a rough beauty, your college. Shame I'm here for business. Name's Muzgog, by the way." 

Rashkan mumbled his name, focusing on the bread crumbs and ink splotches scattered all over the table. At last, digging his fingernails into his palm, he dared another glance at Muzgog. "You must be one of the people the jarl hired to deal with the vampire plaguing us. In this skeleton of a town, rumours travel fast." 

A frown snaked across Muzgog's forehead.

"Nasty business, that," he grumbled, looking at the counter. "Bloody parasites. Preying on poor innocent people… Last victim was a college mage. Wouldn't happen to know anything about it? You look the part, with your robes and all that parchment."

Rashkan swallowed hard. Was Muzgog implying something? If he knew about Rashkan's real nature, there was no doubt he suspected him. Proven innocent or not, mentioning the arrest would still raise uncomfortable questions. Moreover, if Muzgog really did know, there was a good chance he might think him in cahoots with the actual killer. Blood was thicker than water—this was no less true for vampire clans. 

Through tight-pressed lips, Rashkan spoke:

"We assume the vampire may be quite powerful. Enthir—the victim—is very wily; he must have been hard to overwhelm—more so to outsmart," Rashkan hesitated. How much could he reveal without exposing some conspicuous knowledge of vampirism? "Our archmage thinks illusion magic may be at play." 

He studied Muzgog, searched for flashes of thought and suspicion in those eyes, dark like mountain lakes on a cloudy day. Finally, Muzgog tossed the cloak off his shoulders. "Thanks. That'll help." He got up and turned towards the counter. "Anything you'd recommend?" 

Quickly, something—anything. What did people here like—other than ale? Rashkan cursed himself. How could 'normal' be so hard to pull off?

"The bread," he said at last. "You want to try the walnut bread."

Again his eyes roamed the room. Dagur was washing the dishes, wiping some glasses. Could Muzgog please order already and leave him alone? Why draw it out? If he knew, he had the power to expose him. So why did he not—

"You want something too?" 

Was this a test? Should he order something and eat it, risking that he could not keep it down? Would Muzgog grow suspicious if he rejected? It was maddening; each word a step on eggshells.

"No, thank you. I have already eaten at the college." 

Muzgog shrugged. "Your loss."

He turned his back to Rashkan and walked towards the counter.

Now.

His chance had come, at last. Now, he could sneak away, now he—

"Hello there!" 

From the corner of his eye, Nelacar approached, one arm waving, a bag of vials and herbs slung across the other. A bright smile glimpsed over the outline of a thick woollen scarf that cradled his head like a bird's nest. 

On any other day, Rashkan would have been happy to see a familiar face. 

Any other day. 

Right now, he cursed Nelacar's very existence.

"Hail," Rashkan called, surprised how his words echoed within the almost empty tavern. The calm before the storm to come at midday. 

Nelacar grabbed a chair from a nearby table and sat down, freeing himself of his scarf.

"Are you alright?" He asked. "You seem tense."

"I am fine. Just… tired. Very tired. The whole situation is stressing me out." Technically, it was not a lie. Since his release, there had been nothing but bad news and worse. "I worry about Enthir's present condition; Colette did not—"

"Wait, Enthir is the mage who got attacked?" 

Nelacar's jaw dropped alongside his bag, which landed with a dull thud.

Rashkan raised an eyebrow. "You know him?" 

"He comes here to drink every once in a while, but we rarely talk. Still…" Nelacar seemed more shaken than expected for a fleeting acquaintance. Perhaps not only the college's more obscure experiments depended on Enthir's talents. "It's difficult to believe that vampire got the better of him, a college-trained mage. How?" 

"If I knew the investigation would be ten steps ahead."

Nelacar groaned. "Figures. It seems we're really just sitting ducks waiting to be picked off one by one. Does he have a chance?"

A shadow hushed across Rashkan's face. He could hardly tell Nelacar that Enthir had only one more day to live unless his recovery finally progressed.

"Last I heard, he was balancing on a razor's edge. One moment it looked like he was leaning towards one side, and shortly after, he was once again drifting towards the other. Everyone at the college is worried sick." 

Nelacar stared at his feet until the anguished cries of floorboards announced Muzgog's return. He was carrying a large platter of bread, honeyed milk, snowberry jam, dried fish and slices of blue-shimmering cheese—a speciality known as Ghostflesh.

Stroking his goatee, Rashkan considered his options. Muzgog had to have realised what he was; if he had not, he would be a fool of a vigilant. However, he had neither shown hatred nor any indication that he would out Rashkan to the jarl. He just had the chance, after all. Perhaps it was best to humour him, make him grow attached?

" 's gone quiet in here. Earlier I thought the entire town had come." 

His chair screamed in agony as he sat down.

"So, five people," Rashkan said dryly.

"Don't be ridiculous," Nelacar scolded, "I counted at least six."

Muzgog roared with laughter and banged his fist onto the table, causing the cutlery to clatter. Soon enough, Nelacar joined in. Rashkan allowed himself a small chuckle, careful not to open his mouth. Damn fangs. 

The three continued talking. Trivialities, nothing more. 

All the while, Muzgog gobbled up platter after platter. Big portions for a big orc, it seemed. Slowly but surely, the knot in Rashkan's stomach untangled. It seemed Muzgog's interest had shifted to Winterhold and college life rather than Rashkan.

As time went on, stacks of empty platters and cutlery cluttered the table. From atop a small teapot warmer, a can of Frost Mirriam infusion spread its soothing aroma throughout the room. Rashkan leaned back in his chair, momentarily closing his eyes. Perhaps, things would turn out fine after all.

"Rashkan," Muzgog said after a while. 

Rashkan's eyes snapped open. About which part of college life did he wish to learn next? Or did he want to hear more about the story Rashkan had been working on before Muzgog claimed the table for himself? 

"I've been wondering," dark eyes dragged Rashkan into their depths, "Your eyes. What's up with your eyes? Never seen dunmer eyes like that." 

Rashkan's blood turned to ice. Son of a—

He grit his teeth. Fool! He had been made a fool! Rightly so. What madness led him to believe that a Vigilant of Stendarr would let him off the hook? Could he lie to them? To Muzgog? To Nelacar? His brother always said he was a terrible liar—as did Savos.

With every passing second, Muzgog's gaze burrowed into him, through him. 

"I..." 

"Yes?"

This was no longer a friendly chat; this was a trial. Rashkan glanced at Nelacar, scoffing inwardly. He even had a jury.

"Well, I…"

Time came to a screeching halt. His mind was sluggish, drunk on fear. Yet, at the same time, his thoughts raced, then stumbled, one over the other, forming a tangled pile of incoherence.

"I…"

His eyes were the result of his nature; they helped him see in the dark—Of course. He fought back a grin. Of course! A spell! There was a spell. Any luck, and Nelacar would not even comment on it. 

Rashkan cleared his throat. "Pardon my hesitancy. The story is rather awkward—I am afraid—and my shyness does not help." He braced himself to be as convincing as possible. No stuttering, no trembling voice. Then, with one last look at his captivated audience, he continued:

"For as long as I have been studying magic—which is to say, a very long time—, I have been drastically abusing the spell ‘Vision of the Tenth Eye’ to grant myself night vision. My teachers even warned me: If you do not stop, your eyes will get stuck that way," Rashkan feigned to chuckle. "Did I listen? Well, guess." 

Muzgog frowned, his eyes narrowing until they resembled streams more than lakes. He opened his mouth, taking a deep breath.

"It's true. I received the same warning when I was still with the college."

Rashkan blinked. Once, twice.

Did he hear correctly? Did Nelacar just...? Why would he...?

The shadow of disappointment hushed across Muzgog's features before hiding behind a broad, grisly grin. 

"Night vision, eh? Been reading under the covers?" His laugh was rough and low, carrying a cruel edge. "Don't wanna know what books, though." 

The corners of Nelacar's mouth twitched until he could no longer restrain his laughter.

Rashkan defensively raised his hands. One more reason for the ground to open up.

"I assure you it was nothing of the sort." 

As if summoned, the door slammed open. An icy draft entered the tavern, making the flames in the fireplace shiver and sweeping away any laughter. With hurried steps, a grumpy college mage wrapped in thick pelts neared the table, muttering that he was no courier.

"Phinis?" 

Sure enough, from deep within his furred cowl, the conjuration master's dusky face peeked out at him. Rashkan frowned. Usually, Phinis avoided the Frozen Hearth like the plague.

"I bring news from Colette."

Chapter Text

Sometimes, Savos hated Winterhold. 

Its austerity, the loneliness that came with living so far north, the early nights and the lacklustre food. 

What Savos hated most was the cold. 

Mercilessly, it battered against him as he trudged through the deep snow, piercing his robes and making him shiver. By now, he believed even Atmora could not hold a candle to Winterhold. For each step forward, they were taking two steps back; so ruthless were the elements. 

The mountains west of Winterhold were perilous; rugged peaks and steep slopes, stone giants rising towards grey skies, ancient and weathered, looking down at the tiny travellers scuttling around their feet. Apart from Azura's faithful regularly making their pilgrimages to her shrine high above the Sea of Ghosts; and poor old guards watching their journey, no one voluntarily traversed the narrow ravines and desolate passes. 

Insane. It was the only answer: Savos and his companions had to be utterly insane. He rubbed some tears from his aching eyes and wiped his nose. If not for the considerable risk of the wind setting him on fire, he would have clad himself in a cosy cloak of flame. 

Farther ahead, Kvinna and the captain of the Winterhold guard—Verna she had introduced herself—searched for a way through the remains of a massive rockslide that had ploughed through the windswept pines and firs clinging to the bluffs.

"How far?" Savos called, his voice echoing off the rock.

"Not much farther," came Verna's reply. "Just around the corner." Her cape flapped wildly like an excited blue jay.

"Getting tired already?" Kvinna teased. From under her thick fur cowl, loose strands of long brown hair whipped around her frame, getting tangled in the clasps and buckles of her backpack. Savos could hear the grin in her voice, and as he came closer, he saw it as well. Broad and bright —the kind of grin that could light up even the darkest of days. He could not help but smile back, and as he did, it occurred to him just how young she was. She had to be as old as Mirabelle when the latter became a teacher—and Mirabelle was the youngest mage who had ever joined the faculty. 

Gods, how cruel to send a half—child into this frozen wasteland to hunt vampires. Savos shook his head and hurried, hoping the movement would warm his poor, freezing body. 

"How," he panted, his breath escaping him in short misty puffs, each a dagger to the chest. Oh, what would he give to be home now, huddled in thick, warm blankets, a hot grog in hand? "How come your friend isn't with us? A big orc like him... surely...would be useful."

Kvinna burst into laughter.

"Muz? Ha! Don't judge a book by its cover, archmage. He's a big wuss—Couldn't even bring himself to swing a mace properly if his life depended on it," she wiped a tear from her eye. "If we encounter that damn vampire, I'd rather not have a target his size bumbling and stumbling about." 

"How nice of you," Savos chuckled. 

"Just saying how it is. And don't worry, Muz gives as well as he—," she stumbled over a root protruding from the snow, cursing under her breath. Savos rushed to her side and helped her back up. She was surprisingly strong for one so petite—though, he supposed that strength was necessary to—in her own words—swing a mace properly.

"Thank you, archmage," she said and continued onwards, always following the blue. "At any rate, you wouldn't believe the amount of scolding I got under Muz' tutelage. He teaches restoration and potion—making to the recruits, you see. Believe me: as soon as we return, he'll nag me about the curative potions I forgot."

Savos bit his tongue. Perhaps he should help Muzgog with the scolding; if Kvinna had not insisted on packing their supplies, they would now have a stash of potions—essential against a vampire.

Kvinna seemed to have noticed his discontent. Dismissively, she waved her hand.

"The captain of the guard, the archmage of Winterhold and a senior Vigilant of Stendarr—"

Savos' eyebrows shot up. "You're a senior?" 

Just how long must she have been with the Vigilants? 

"Mhm. I joined when I was only eight—didn't start training right away. Swept floors, mended robes, those sorts of things." She smiled gently before—in the blink of an eye—,all happiness vanished from her freckled face. "My parents had a mill in Helarchen Creek..."

Helarchen Creek? Savos frowned. He knew of a region called Heljarchen but did not recall any settlements there, only an inn. An inn he had been to on several occasions, even before the Great War. 

"I don't suppose you mean Heljarchen? To the far south between Dawnstar and Winterhold?"

"Heljarchen? No, archmage, I don't think so. Though I suppose it's a common name. It means  'site of a small but brutal battle'  in old Nordic. The irony... My village got razed to the ground, you see. Vampires," she spat. "They descended upon us like a swarm of locusts. If I hadn't squeezed into the damn chicken coop, I'd be dead now—or worse."

Poor girl. To live through something so horrible—and at such a young age...

"My condolences," Savos said, bowing slightly.

Kvinna smiled gently. "Thank you. For what it's worth."

They walked on, undisturbed by anything but the snow crunching under their feet. Slowly, the pines vanished as the slopes became steeper and steeper, forming a narrow ravine barely big enough to be classified as such. Only stray snowberry bushes and the occasional patch of blue mountain flowers emerging from the snow were hardy enough to survive out here. Judging by the sun's occasional glimpses through the fast-moving clouds, they had not been walking for long—despite Savos' feet claiming the contrary.

"Here," Verna called at last. "This is where the boys and I saw the light."

Here  turned out to be an overhang covered in massive icicles; some were as long as Savos' arm, others as tall as his entire body. Some even eclipsed Verna as they collided with the ground, a frozen waterfall in the absence of a stream. Under the icicles' shelter, the earth opened up into a pitch-black hole.

A mine.

Though hardly deserving of the name. Some poor sods had dug a tunnel into the rock. Fools. Such digging exploits usually ended at the bottom of a glass rather than with pockets full of gold. 

"Sure looks like a good hideout. If I had ill intentions, I too would seek sanctuary here," Savos said, pacing around the icicles. "Still, there seems to be no sign of any recent activity. Are you sure this is the place?"

"As certain as a new dawn. There was light here when we last patrolled the path to the shrine of Azura."

"Then let's look around," Savos suggested, catching a doubtful glance from Kvinna. 

Still, a moment later, the three spread out. If there had been a fire—or any sign of life—it had vanished into thin air. A thick layer of undisturbed, bright snow was the only thing under and around the overhang. The wind had even sugared the mine's entrance.

"There's nothing he—"

"Look!" Verna came rushing, clutching something in her fist.

Kvinna and Savos gathered around her. 

"What's have you got there?" 

"Let me see." Savos held out his open palm.

It was a strange object of darkest, purple-spotted blue, some six centimetres in length. Frozen, but clearly of organic material. Overall it resembled an elongated plum. Savos turned it over. The tip was hard and square except for a rounded edge. Almost like a—

Savos shuddered, dropping the strange object.

"Archmage?"

"Finger."

"I'm sorry?"

"It's a fucking finger!" Savos cried, his voice echoing off the mountainsides.

Verna and Kvinna exchanged cautionary glances.

"Where did you find it?"

"Over there," Verna pointed at a nearby snowberry bush. "More importantly, where's the rest of the body?" 

Savos frowned. There was no trace of life anywhere around the overhang. No trail indicating a wolf or some other beast had dragged away a body. No blood or fabric either. He looked at the mine and swallowed.

"We need backup," Verna said, slamming her fist into her palm. "If we head back now, we'll be home before sundown, and I'll still have enough time to gather a patrol and prepare them to head out tomorrow."

Kvinna pursed her lips. "Any time lost might mean another victim. If we're lucky, it was a bear—the snow could've covered the tracks, after all—; at worst, it was our vampire. We should enter and find out now," she looked Savos in the eye, hers burning with determination and something Savos could not quite decipher. He looked away.

"Don't you agree, archmage?" 

Savos grit his teeth. Head back and potentially alert the vampire to their presence, thus allowing them to rebase and continue amassing victims. Head into the lion's den and either slay whatever was inside, ending the threat to the area, or be overwhelmed and... He folded his hands behind his back. Was it reckless to head inside underprepared as they were, or was it a necessary risk to catch the beast off guard?

Kvinna cleared her throat.

"The captain of the guard, the archmage and I, a senior Vigilant of Stendarr. Not to mention anything you," she pointed at Savos, "Can conjure up. We'll be fine. Any time lost, and the blood of the next victim will be on our hands."

Savos clenched his fists and stared at the ground. ' No more untimely deaths' —the words from long ago haunted him. Back then, he had been but a meek apprentice. Had nothing changed in all those years? Could he allow himself to still be as craven? After everything? After everything he had sworn himself a mere day ago? 

"Kvinna is right," he declared at last. "We can't let a chance like this pass us by."

"Then it's decided." Kvinna stepped into the dark. 

Savos followed, a ball of light floating over his shoulder. Verna came last, forming the rearguard, muttering about this being a bad idea. 

The mine was warmer than outside and reeked of rotting wood and bat droppings. Step by step, the light from the entrance grew weaker until eventually, the magelight stood on its own against the dark. In its cold glow, shadows slithered along the walls, forming shapes of unknown monsters. More than once, Savos caught himself glimpsing over his shoulder, but every time, he found only Verna. Neither of them dared say a word. They hardly dared breathe as well; too great was the fear of alerting whatever lurked within the depths.

As they continued deeper into the bowels of the earth, it became clear that the mine must have been abandoned for decades, if not a whole century. Like the town of Winterhold, it had fallen into disarray and become a grave for old lorries, pickaxes and other equipment; bones of busier days, they lay scattered across the ground or leaned against the walls where time and rust feasted on their marrow. In that forlorn underworld, time became meaningless, an abstract construct for the people above to worry about. Savos struggled to keep his mind from straying, peeking at past regret and putting others in the place of Kvinna and Verna. 

Atmah and Hafnar… 

It was as if they had parted only a few days ago. The clever, ambitious Redguard new to Winterhold, who had immediately found a friend in Savos; and Hafnar, the bold, jolly Nord, the brother Savos never had. He hoped they still stood firm after all those years, encasing Morokei in his eternal prison; eternal imprisonment they shared, all of them, in their own right. 

He did not know how long they had been walking when amidst the staleness of centuries, a stomach-turning stench assaulted his nostrils.

It was hard to make out any potential source; the light was bright—too bright—and the nooks and crannies of the mine too dark for Savos' eyes to adapt quickly. He squinted and, after some time, spotted the dim silhouette of a lorry rising from the rock. Secluded and inconspicuous, it stood shoved into a small gap, possibly put out of the way on purpose.

Savos' mouth tasted as though laced with wormwood. He prayed his intuition would prove wrong, that it would turn out to be an animal carcass or a large pile of bat dung. Yet, somewhere deep inside, he knew this was not the case.

"Kvinna, wait."

She turned around. "What's the matter?" 

"The stench. Don't you smell it?" He pointed at the lorry. 

"I only smell dingy old mine," Kvinna shrugged, a frown on her face. It made her look old beyond her years. "You must've imagined it."

Had he? Were exhaustion and the cold finally getting the better of him? He hoped—prayed—for it to be so. How ironic that he should wish for his sanity to leave him, if only it meant some respite from this nightmare. 

"I smell it too," Verna remarked, instantly crushing Savos' hopes.

Kvinna rolled her eyes. "Fine, fine, let's take a quick peek. We haven't got any time to lose." 

Savos wanted to say something but swallowed his words at the last second. Yes, they should not waste any time, but did they not owe the victims a proper investigation? He sure would want the same if something happened to him. 

With each step towards the lorry, it became clear that they had not erred about the stench. Sickly sweet with an underlying whiff of ammonia—the telltale smell of rotten meat—and the more familiar, if no less worrisome scent of copper.

Taking a deep breath and forcing down bile, Savos gathered all his courage and glimpsed over the lorry's edge. At first, his eyes did not fully register what they saw; when they did, he reeled backwards. 

"Talos preserve us," Verna whispered.

From blue rags and filth, burned-out torch remains, and strands of hair rose a twisted hand, withering in the stale air, four fingers clawing at shadows.

"Well, that solves one question." Kvinna seemed unfazed, almost annoyed at the interruption. Then again, battle-hardened as she claimed to be, it was not surprising that she would not even blink twice at this gruesome find.

"And what happened to the missing Stormcloak patrol," Verna added.

"We should go on," Kvinna turned to leave. "The sooner this is over, the sooner we'll be back home—and good old Muz won't have to worry any longer."

Much as he tried, Savos could not tear his eyes away from the hand. In the pale magelight, it looked almost inhuman, the gnarled branches of a tree emerging from blue and brown.

"We really should get going," Verna said, gently laying a hand on Savos' shoulder. He startled and crouched.

"Archmage?"

On the one hand, they needed to go on. But on the other… Should they not inspect the victims? Surely Verna knew some of them. And even if not, they should at least burn the bodies to prevent potential resurrection. Now that he thought about it, Kvinna had been acting rather strange since they arrived at the mine, had she not? Nor had she wanted to investigate the lorry at all...

"Go ahead, I'll…," he pretended to gag, "I'll catch up with you. I just... I just need a moment to make sure my breakfast doesn't say hello." 

With a flick of his hand, he cast another magelight at Kvinna. It collided with her shoulder, where it got stuck. 

"I'll make it quick, I promise."

For a moment, Kvinna looked at him with disdain, as if scandalised that seeing a dismembered hand could shake him so. But ultimately, she nodded and continued into the dark, Verna on her heels.

Savos remained still, watching them disappear. Only once they were finally out of sight did he force himself onto his shaky legs.

"Here goes," he sighed and reached into the lorry. The cloaks were damp and sometimes glib with—good gods Savos did not want to think about it. The sensation sent shivers down his spine. Oh, he could not wait to get home and wash his hands. It took a while to untangle the mess of blue cloak and corpse waste, but when he eventually did, he stumbled backwards and retched.

Those eyes.
Those eyes!
Those dull, hazel eyes; those freckled cheeks; that long brown hair. Savos' blood rushed to his ears; his breath hitched in his throat as he gasped for air; his heart raced so fast he thought he would faint. What now? There was no time to call for help; Verna was alone in the dark with that—that monster! She would be dead upon his return, and it would all be his fault!

'No more untimely deaths' —the words echoed in his mind. His solemn oath.

Savos balled his fists and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. 

If he left now, he would never be able to look at himself in the mirror. He was the archmage of the College of Winterhold, for Azura's sake; a "Master of Wards" as Kvinna—or false-Kvinna  for all he knew—had put it, and a skilled conjurer to boot. 

That bloodsucker would regret the day she came to Winterhold! 

Shaken but fuelled by a raging thirst for justice, he clad himself in Stoneflesh, summoned a magelight and followed the lorry tracks until they came to an abrupt end against what used to be a wall of solid rock. 

Used to be. 

Where once had been a dead-end, time had chewed a passageway into a natural cave, a pitch-black crevice leading into the unknown. 

No sign of Kvinna and Verna.

Nothing but the void. 

Chapter Text

An oppressive silence hung over the Hall of Attainment. From behind partly closed doors, anxious eyes glimpsed into the blue twilight of the octagonal main chamber. 

Although Enthir's story had made the rounds, Phinis had not said anything other than 'it is urgent' . 

And urgent was always bad news.

A strangling tightness took hold of Rashkan's chest as they approached the door to Enthir's room. He threw a glance over his shoulder. If Phinis' expression was already grim, Muzgog looked as if he were on the way to a funeral. Rashkan could have laughed at the irony. Only Nelacar had looked bleaker when Faralda had barred him from college grounds. Unwelcome , she had said. Rashkan had half expected the otherwise calm and mild-mannered pariah-mage to lose his temper and push her off the bridge. 

"I'll leave you to it," Phinis excused himself and promptly hurried back down the stairs. Rashkan wished he could follow. Whatever they would find behind that door would not be pretty. Had Enthir sufficiently recovered? Had he woken? Or… 

Suddenly, the dark, oaken door looked all the more imposing, a gate to oblivion in all but material.

Muzgog cleared his throat. "Won't you knock already?" 

Rashkan's fingers caressed the wood, barely making a sound. 

"Oh, for Stendarr's sake."

Muzgog flung the door open with one wide swing, catching it just before it hit the wall. A wave of stale air infused with the stench of sweat and decay rolled over them as they stepped inside. 

Colette sat slumped in a chair by Enthir's desk, snoring quietly. From the foot of a burnt-down candle, an ivory-coloured lake dripped off the edge of the desk, where a cascade of waxen stalactites had already formed. Below, a corresponding set of stalagmites began to emerge from the floor. On the nightstand by his bedside, bottles and vials in all shapes and sizes gleamed in the dying candlelight. Torn or crumpled paper bearing hasty scribbles cluttered the floor, and, upon closer inspection, an intricate network of spiderwebs cloaked the shelves lining the wall, on which books and all manner of oddities gathered dust. All in all, it was a scene of stress-born chaos.

Enthir, in contrast, was the image of deathly stillness as he lay in his bed, eyes closed. His face had taken on an ashen dullness, and his veins broke through his skin, black poison vines creeping over his body, pulsing in the flickering light. 

"Colette?" Rashkan's deep baritone broke the silence. It came out more caring than it had any right to, but the restoration master was a pitiful sight.

"That man's infected!" Muzgog barked. "If you don't cure him, you'll have a bloodthirsty monster on your hands in no time." 

His hand twitched towards his mace before withdrawing just as quickly. Rashkan bit his tongue and leaned against the doorframe, stabbing him with his eyes. Monster, he scoffed, such a rude thing to say after sharing a table with one.

Colette shot up from her chair, regarding Muzgog and Rashkan as if they were the Dwemer returned. She rubbed the sleep from her eyes and yawned loudly. She looked aged, her eyes sunken, her hair unkempt and greasy, her robe stained and sprinkled with a myriad of undefinable crumbs. 

"Oh, sorry, I didn't mean to—"

"Where's your alchemy equipment? I need mudcrab chitin and hawk feathers—maybe some vampire dust. Is he still feverish?"

"If you weren't so rash, I could have told you already. The fever is steadily decreasing. He seems to have recovered a bit but… I'm not sure, you know. I did everything I could, but I—"

"Recovered…?" 

Muzgog frowned, and Rashkan could practically see his brain working behind his dark eyes. "You let the infection take its course?" 

Nervously, Colette glanced around the room. "Actually—"

"Yes, we let it," Rashkan said forcefully, "I doubt our methods are of any concern now. The fever is decreasing. Now is our last chance to administer an antidote." 

Colette nodded, skimming the vials and bottles cluttering the nightstand before deciding on a thick-bellied one of green glass. The label was new and unmistakably bore Savos' scraggly handwriting.  

Could Enthir even drink? It was such a mundane thing to consider but still, in his condition? To think he was incapable of satisfying even the most base of mortal needs… 

A shiver crept across Rashkan's back.

"Are you going to inject it?" he asked, biting his tongue just before a treacherous 'Too' left his lips. He crossed his arms in front of his chest.

"No, the shock might kill him in his current state. Let that be my worry. You!" Colette pointed at Muzgog, her eyes and face filled with rekindled fire. "Turn him on his side so that he doesn't choke. I'll pry his mouth open and administer the antidote."

For a moment, Muzgog stared in shock making a face like a dog being scolded by its master. Tail between his legs, he obeyed, turning Enthir over without any trouble. 

From his spot against the wall, Rashkan watched with growing anxiety, digging his nails into his arms, as Enthir swallowed smallest sip after smallest sip until the bottle was empty. 

Would he wake up? 

Back when the disease had entered his veins, it had shaken him to the very core. But now, he did not show any reaction at all. He just lay there, ashen, drooling a grey spot onto the pillow.

"Enthir?" Colette frowned and fiercely—more fiercely than necessary— patted his cheek, which did nothing besides leaving a dark spot.

Rashkan pushed himself off the doorframe and began to pace around the room.

"So? What now?" 

"We wait," Muzgog concluded and made himself comfortable in the chair Colette had previously occupied—earning him a glare from the restoration master.

And so they waited. Muzgog questioned Colette about how and where Enthir had been found until she eventually excused herself, needing rest and having nothing worthwhile left to report. Meanwhile, Rashkan busied himself with cleaning up the room. In a sense, he was glad Colette was gone. Pitiable as her condition may have been, Colette was still Colette, which meant arguing if it came to the worst. 

"To oblivion with it all," Muzgog muttered, stretching his legs. "Here we wait while Kvin-Kvin and that tiny archmage of yours are out there, faced with gods-know-what."

Rashkan peeled a particularly big shard of wax off the desk. 

"Kvin...Kvin?"

"My partner and mentee. Small Nord girl, just taller than your archmage. Bold, always eager to prove herself," Muzgog chuckled, his voice filled with warmth. "Been a bit standoffish lately. S'pose humans her age just are like that." He shrugged. 

Rashkan nodded and dug through the drawers of the desk until he eventually found a fresh candle. 

"She may feel overshadowed and wants to come into her own."

"Speaking from experience?"

Rashkan sighed, flames forming at his fingertips, licking the wick of the candle. 

"More than I care to divulge." 

He glanced at Enthir. Throughout the entire conversation, his state remained unchanged. Lying halfway off his pillow, he had not even moved one bit.

Was it too late? It should not take this long, should it? Rashkan cursed himself for never asking how exactly the antidote worked; all he knew was that the fever was the last chance to cure the disease but beyond that? Had Colette spilt too much? Had Savos, stressed as he had been lately, made a mistake?

Such concerning thoughts.

“What’re you doing?” Muzgog's eyes followed Rashkan, who bent over Enthir’s bed to examine the death-bound patient. By now, the pillow was rank with sweat, drool and spilt potion, yet Enthir’s breath stank even more, carrying the accursed stench of rot every time he exhaled. His heartbeat was faint, barely more than the distant rumblings of a dying storm, but there all the same.

Rashkan sighed in relief.

“He good?”

“I hope so.”

He opened one of Enthir’s eyes, breaking through a thick crust of grime. His sclera was the same black taint that coloured his veins. His pupil, however, narrowed at the sudden influx of light before locking onto Rashkan, staring intensely.

Rashkan flinched and reeled backwards, flames relighting at his fingertips.

Muzgog jumped out of his chair, mace in hand.

“What’s going on?”

“Never…” 

A weak voice hung in the air like flakes of dust. 

“Never seen a living corpse?” Enthir’s chest heaved with each tortured breath as the words rattled through his throat. “Water…” 

Rashkan stepped back and proceeded to search the cabinets and dressers for something to drink. 

“Who attacked you?” 

“Easy now, easy,” he wheezed, “Just…just had Arkay and Molag Bal play tug-of-war with my soul,” he tried to chuckle, which resulted in a raspy cough. “Water…”

At last, Rashkan found a bottle of ale—or rather an entire stash—hidden under a layer of robes. Muzgog raised an eyebrow.

“Do you see any alternative? Me neither; go, get Colette—and some water while you are at it. Just across the hall. I shall make do for the time being.”

Muzgog grimaced.

“I'm not your errand boy. The jarl ordered that Kvinna and I—”

“To oblivion with the bloody jarl! What has he accomplished so far? Had me arrested, that is what. Wrongfully! So let us not argue over the orders of an incompetent oaf,” Rashkan snapped, “And besides: if it is too late..."

He let a couple of flames flicker around his fingertips.

Muzgog grumbled, muttering, "This job's gonna drive me mad." 

With a bang, the door fell shut behind him.

Rashkan rushed to Enthir's side, opened the bottle and helped him drink. Voraciously, Enthir downed its contents in one go, ale flowing down his chin in narrow golden streams.

"Bah," he spat, "Tastes like horse piss…"

Ignoring that comment, Rashkan carefully wiped his chin.

"Who attacked you? I know you have just woken, but every moment lost could mean another death."

Enthir's head fell back onto the pillow, followed by an agonisingly slow deep breath.

"The details are hazy. Was down by the shore... Meeting point with the contact selling sigil stones," a dry cough ripped through his chest, "She was short, pale, and bony. Not," he took another deep breath, "Not unusual for my contacts. Heh, now I fit right in. We talked and—"

His tale was interrupted by the bang of the door against the wall, revealing Muzgog and a groggy Colette carrying a decanter encrusted with rime. 

"Enthir! You're finally awake." A smile spread across Colette's tired face. Even Muzgog looked happy—as happy as his trollish features allowed, anyway. 

Rashkan stepped aside to make room for Colette. Surely she would want to check up on Enthir as soon as possible, and more importantly, Enthir needed a proper drink.

"Who attacked you?" Muzgog asked again, brusquely, as if he were interrogating a prisoner of war, not a man barely escaped death.

"I was just telling the story but you… you interrupted." He shot a dirty grin at Muzgog. "As I was saying. Short sickly-looking woman, brown hair. We talked, and I—I don't know what got into me. Her voice was a song, every word a divine command. I was glued to her lips, and before I knew it, I felt hers on my neck."

"Vampiric Seduction," Muzgog mumbled, settling himself in Colette's chair again. "Terrible magic."

"Damn right," Enthir rasped, "I screamed while she drained me. Must've... must've chased her off." 

"Possibly. I am surprised you accomplished even that; very few people can resist the magic's calming effect." Rashkan leaned against the desk to relieve his legs and lower back, but he dared not sit down—that would be barbaric. 

"Savos—our archmage—could," Colette said—to Rashkan's surprise—while feeling Enthir's temperature and scribbling something on a scrap of paper.

"How do you know?" 

"Master Neloren once had him assist during a lecture on calming spells. He originally wanted Tolfdir's help, but Tolfdir was—I probably shouldn't say it—but he had some funny mussels the day before and—"

Reaching out, Rashkan cut her off. 

"Colette, too much information," he tried to banish the image from his mind, "Too much information."

Thankfully, at least Muzgog managed to stay on topic. 

"If he really can, that's at least a small silver lining. Still, we have yet to find our foe. And 'short, brown-haired Nord woman' probably leaves half of Skyrim as suspects. Was there nothing unique about her?"

Enthir groaned, mimicking the wail of a wispmother. Colette hurried to his side, placing a wet wrap on his forehead.

"My head feels like a mammoth ran over it," he muttered, "Unique huh? Not that I could—wait," he pushed the blanket off his torso, sending a whiff of sweat through the room, "She had a… a birthmark or something. Right here," he pointed at his chest, a finger's length below his clavicle. 

"Should've questioned why she didn't freeze her ass off in that garb." 

"A birthmark?"

"Yeah, pretty distinct too. Looked like… like a," Enthir inhaled deeply, gesturing for Colette to give him water. Once he had finished drinking, he continued,

"Like a butterfly."

Rashkan frowned, his nerves tingling with a sense of foreboding. It was impossible—absolutely out of the question! And yet...

"I have seen a birthmark like that before."

Muzgog and Colette turned to him, staring wide-eyed, an unspoken question looming over Rashkan like a headsman's axe. Even Enthir watched with tired but expecting eyes. The information was crucial, but how to deliver it without implicating himself? Rashkan's fingers scraped across the desk, scratching at what little wax remained.

"Many years ago, a friend and I were ambushed by a vampire with such a birthmark. The rest of the description fits her too—but that would be entirely impossible."

"How so?" Muzgog leaned forward, propping his elbows up on his legs, interlacing his fingers.

"Because," Rashkan hesitated, "she is dead; I managed to defend myself. My friend though…"

"And you saw her die? Saw her disintegrate?"

Rashkan hesitated, glancing at the floor, then at Colette, Muzgog and, at last, poor Enthir. He had not. But still, it was impossible. How could she have survived that ?

"I set her on fire."

"But you didn't see her die?" Muzgog pressed.

"I…" Rashkan sighed, at last. "No, I did not. I was... distracted."

Muzgog let his head fall into his massive palms, groaning.

"I was looking for help! My friend was dying, and I had an ice spike stuck in my bloody gut!" Rashkan banged his fists against the desk. He pressed his lips together, closed his eyes and counted to ten. Muzgog had some nerve to pretend as though he would have acted differently in that awful situation. "Regardless, if it is truly that vampire, Savos and—what was it?" 

"Kvin-Kvin."

"Right. Savos and Kvin—Kvin may be in danger." 

Within the blink of an eye, the room was so silent the wind could be heard whispering through the walls. Muzgog exchanged a meaningful look with Rashkan. 

"I'll go get my things." He stood up. "We'll meet in front of the Frozen Hearth." 

Leaving no time for closing remarks, he stomped out the door. 

Rashkan turned to Colette, who had retaken her chair. 

"The chance that he might still turn is slim. He drinks, still has a sense of taste and a heartbeat. Good signs. However, is he otherwise over the hill?"

Colette glanced at Enthir, her brows furrowed in endless worry. At last, she nodded and beckoned Rashkan to come closer. He complied and bent down to her level.

"There may be permanent damage," she whispered, "But I think he will live—I can't guarantee it, though. I need more time to see whether there are complications."

Rashkan stood upright and cast one last, pitiful look at Enthir. Stuck in bed with no way of escaping Colette's shrill tirades—perhaps death would have been mercy after all.

"Good. Do not annoy him too much." 

With those words, he hurried after Muzgog, jogging down the stairs and rushing across the bridge, unbothered by the wind and the beginning snowfall. The sky was cloaked in thick grey clouds, but Rashkan could tell the sun was setting. Even after living diurnally for several months, the night still filled him with vigour. If Valdis was still out there; if Savos and that other Vigilant happened upon her—he dared not think of it. Even if Savos could resist bewitchment, Valdis was a force to be reckoned with. Rashkan wanted to slap himself for not killing her off back then. All those deaths, they were his fault too, were they not? 

"Rashkan!" 

Nelacar stood by the foot of the bridge. Had he been out in the cold the entire time? 

"Say you have not been standing here since Phinis called us."

Nelacar chuckled and shook his head. 

"Goodness no; Muzgog stormed by, so thought I'd see what's going on. How is Enthir?"

"He looks like the corpse of a Skooma addict resurrected by an inept necromancer, but he will live—I hope." 

All tension fell off Nelacar, escaping his mouth in a puff of mist.

"Thank the gods." 

For the first time since Phinis had come to get them, Nelacar smiled.

"Say," Rashkan began. It was not his place to pry, but still, it was hard to believe that Enthir and Nelacar were just fleeting acquaintances. "Why do you care so much?" 

"I," He shuffled around anxiously, glancing at the gate to the bridge. "I suppose there's no harm in telling you. The mages of the college don't look kindly upon me. Few are hostile, but most won't be caught dead talking to me. Others, like Faralda, view me with pity, as some poor lamb led astray. It's no better than being ignored." 

Poor Nelacar. To be so close to the college, to the knowledge hidden behind its walls, to his former colleagues—only to be treated like an abandoned pet. A surge of anger shot through Rashkan. He would have to have a word with Savos.

"Enthir doesn't judge, doesn't care," Nelacar continued, "He comes over, drinks his ale, and we chat and chat, and the hours fly by in the blink of an eye."

Rashkan could not hide a smirk.

"So you are friends after all." 

Nelacar smiled nervously.

"I guess. I don't want him to get in trouble."

In the distance, Muzgog exited the Frozen Hearth. 

"It is time," Rashkan said, "will you join our search?"

"Oh no, no. I'm a mere scholar; I wouldn't be of use in the field."

Rashkan nodded and said his goodbyes before hurrying towards the Frozen Hearth. He had already crossed half the distance when Nelacar called out again. 

"Rashkan!"

He turned around. Nelacar was waving at him.

"Good luck and...thank you."

Chapter Text

Savos Aren had never been afraid of the dark. As a child, he would stay up well into the night reading by candlelight—much to his parents' dismay. As an apprentice, only Girduin regularly outlasted him in the midden after dark.

No, Savos Aren had never been afraid of the dark. But this…

A shiver crept over his back.

The walls of the cave seemed to close in on him the farther he advanced into the belly of the beast.

Kvinna and Verna had to be somewhere ahead. Savos frowned and absentmindedly stroked his beard. Should he feign cluelessness? Call out? Play the part of the concerned tag along? 

He glanced at the sheen of green shielding his ashen skin and frowned. No, she would notice, and with Verna in her grasp, Savos could not grant her the fist strike. Moreover, she likely suspected that he had found the real Kvinna. Savos shuddered at the memory of her pallid face and hollow eyes. The poor girl. His only solace was that she likely had died painlessly, lulled by the illusion magic Rashkan had warned him about. The more he thought about it, the more he was sure he, too, had felt tendrils of magic subtly tugging at his mind. He sighed. He was moving out of the frying pan and into the fire—no way out in sight.

No more untimely deaths , he scoffed. How could he have allowed this to happen? How could he have been fooled so easily? Was a simple glamour and some illusion really all it took? 

Savos cursed himself a thousand times over as he trudged onwards, flinching at every sound, each quiet echo that reached his ears. He could not say for sure, but the path seemed to lead upwards—a glimmer of hope as far as he was concerned; it would be much easier to confront Kvinna in open terrain rather than down there in the cramped darkness of the cave. He continued up a limestone shelf before stopping dead in his tracks. 

Before him lay a gaping maw big enough to comfortably fit the Hall of the Elements and the Arcanaeum beside one another, and at least as high. It was riddled with fangs of limestone, some of which so high that they vanished into blackness. A beam of light fell through a collapsed section of the ceiling. Not bright enough to illuminate the whole room, but enough for Savos to ditch the magelight turning him into a walking target sign. 

The cavern floor was a wet mirror, only disturbed by occasional droplets raining off the stalactites. It was as if Savos had passed through a gate to a different world, one far away from the troubles of the vampire hunt. A treacherous serenity overtook him, tempted him to let his guard down, to marvel at the view and take a moment to appreciate the beauty on display. Yet even more than his inner nature admirer, this underground lake roused Savos' inner researcher.  

Bending down, he dipped a finger into the water and licked it. He grimaced. The water was as salty as that horrible pickled elk jerky they had back at the college. 

It had to be an underground salt deposit that had become flooded with meltwater. 

Savos shook his head and banished any questions to the back of his mind. There would be time to ponder them when he was safely back at the college. Studying the hall, it quickly became clear that the only thing of note was a dark slab of rock in the middle of the lake, a stark contrast against the bright limestone surrounding it.

Savos renewed his mage armour and carefully dipped his boot into the lake. The water was shallow, only reaching just below his ankle, and so far, it did not seep through. Thank the gods; he wanted to keep his toes, after all.

With every step, the mirror cracked, making the bone-white limestone shiver. 

An eerie stillness surrounded him, only broken by the water sloshing around his feet, mixed with the steady drip-drop-drip-drop of weeping stalactites, a forlorn serenade keeping him company. Soothe, it did not. Too great was his fear of that one misplaced note, that one out of place splash.

Savos glanced over his shoulder. 

Nothing. 

Nothing but the deep dark cave from which he had emerged. Still, he could not shake the feeling that something was very, very wrong.

By the time he reached the centre of the giant cavern, it had gotten so dark that he had to recast the magelight, anchoring it to the ground under his feet. Pale and cold, it reflected off the water and made the limestone cones glitter like sugar. But Savos had no mind for the light show around him, for his blood was turned to ice by what it revealed at his feet: The slab of dark rock was a body. Verna's body. 

Savos muttered a curse and fell to his knees. Magicka rushed through him, twisting and shaping to his command until a healing spell broke forth from trembling fingers. A brightly shining Magicka cocoon enveloped Verna, scouring her body for injuries. Her eyes were closed, but her nose flared with every breath.

"Verna? Verna! Hang on! We have to get out of here. It's Kvinna. She's— Verna?" 

Verna remained deathly still. A bitter taste filled Savos' mouth as he reached out to her, however, the moment his fingers made contact, she disappeared, leaving only her blue cloak. 

"What the—?" 

Savos reeled backwards and scrambled to his feet.

Where was Kvinna, and—more importantly—where was the real Verna? Was she even still alive? The cloak showed no signs of battle, no stains or tears as if it had just slipped off its wearer's shoulders. Perhaps Verna had taken it off at Kvinna 's command? Perhaps Kvinna had turned her into an unwitting accomplice to her murderous plot?

Savos was just about to drop the cloak when time came to a screeching halt.

There, on his hand, a wet speck of crimson, barely as big as a pin. 

He dared not breathe. Slowly, agonizingly slowly, he forced his muscles into obedience, took a step back and looked up.

Drip.

Drop.

Drip.

Drop.

A crimson rain fell upon him, trailing down his cheeks like tears. His wide-open eyes stared in terror and into a pair of crimson ones between the stalactites high above him. Eyes that held no light within yet glowed with an infernal need. They regarded him. And they hungered.

For a moment, time, and the blood in Savos' veins remained frozen. But then— 

He jumped aside, landing square in the water. Where he had stood a mere moment ago now lay the bloodless carcass of Verna, staring at her attacker, an expression of perpetual terror frozen on her face.

Savos staggered to his feet. 

Kvinna was gone.

Feeling his heart sink to his stomach, Savos whirled around, a ward ready at his fingertips.

An ice spike struck with full force, making Savos slide back on the wet stone. He grit his teeth. Kvinna was strong, and, in the dark, he was at a massive disadvantage.

A second ice spike hit its mark and disintegrated, showering him with rime.

"Show yourself!" Flames ignited at his free hand, lashing out at the darkness.

"Why would I?" 

Savos frantically looked around. A cruel giggle echoed through the cavern, coming from left and right, front and back and from above. 

"Annoyingly nosy, aren't we, archmage," cooed the disembodied voice of Kvinna . "I know you found her." 

"Why?" Savos called hoarsely, never letting his guard down, "Why all this suffering? Why attack Enthir? And Verna? And the others?"

"Oh, dear archmage, still you continue to be nosy. Let me tell you this much," the voice was so close that Savos could feel it brushing his ear, yet far away at the same time. 

"You have to die." 

A bright blue glow enveloped the cavern. Before Savos knew what happened, he flew backwards through a field of smaller stalagmites, breaking them before crashing into the shallow water. 

He groaned. Dots of pain throbbed all over his body as he struggled to get back on his feet. They would become some nasty bruises, no doubt. Through narrowed eyes, he glimpsed his attacker.

Before him stood Verna returned, her bright blue eyes no less menacing than Kvinna 's red ones. Her sword swung towards him with deadly speed. Savos ducked, the swing swooshing over his head. 

"Damn," Savos muttered. Blocking another string of ice spikes, he ran and hid behind a large limestone pillar. 

This was not looking good; he needed a plan and fast.

Bright blue eyes peeked around the pillar. Savos flinched. Sparks flew as Verna's blade scraped across the stone, leaving a long, thin gash.

His heart was racing at the speed of lightning, his Magicka rippling through his veins. A burst of gold broke from his fingertips. Verna screeched and fled, water splashing around her feet. 

Now.

Now his chance had arrived. If his foe was of Oblivion, his allies would be too.

Savos took a deep breath and closed his eyes until his heartbeat was all he could hear. His thoughts voiced a silent command, a call for aid, repeating it again and again, an invocation for all it was worth. Savos felt light as a feather, torn between here and there . Tendrils of Magicka sprung from his fingertips, reaching into the farthest depths of Oblivion until, at last, they tautened. Savos stemmed against the draw of Oblivion, pulling, pulling. Sweat was running down his forehead, and he was breathing heavily. 

Verna was rushing at him. Savos held on to the spell and put even more Magicka into it. His fingers tingled, but he did not care.

Just a little more. 

A flash of violet light cut through the dark, bringing with it the stench of smoke and sulfur.

Savos shielded his eyes.

Swords clashed. Water splashed. A dremora lord, dark-skinned and decorated with red war paint, was slashing away at Verna, who was backing off, parrying blow after blow.

Savos renewed his mage armour and rushed out from behind the limestone pillar. 

"Oh, not as much of a coward as I thought," Kvinna giggled. Savos' hands shot out, the air before him crystallising in ice and magic. This time Savos did not hesitate. Following the trail of the ice spikes, he unleashed a hail of fireballs. 

The ground shook.

Stone crumbled from the ceiling.

A scream pierced Savos' ears. 

He smiled.

The vampire materialised atop a broken limestone pillar. Flames were gnawing at her flesh. Gone was any semblance of Kvinna , and a near-skeletal, scarred grimace had taken her place. Its bared fangs gleamed in the light.

Savos readied another fireball, but before he could shoot, the vampire burst into a swarm of bats and vanished into the dark.

Savos grit his teeth, recast his mage armour and created a ward in front of him. This hide-and-seek was getting tedious; he was shaking, his teeth rattling from the icy water soaking through his robes and, much worse, his hands were itching with the sting of a thousand needles.

"Haven't you had enough?" He searched the cavern and, just as his gaze passed the large limestone pillar, caught the dremora thrusting his sword through Verna's chest. "Your little puppet show is over; you're outnumbered. Give up and never return! Or do you really want to die here?"

The answer came swiftly: An ice spike soared towards his dremora, who was busy removing Verna's corpse from his sword.

"Watch out!" Savos yelled.

Too late.

The ice spike struck, horizontally piercing the dremora's cranium, causing it to vanish into thin air. 

"Shit," Savos hissed. So much for that. Still, this could not continue. Not like this. He needed shelter, and so, he retreated into the limestone labyrinth. For the first time in his life, he was grateful for his short height. Here, even the vampire would have a hard time finding him. Another dremora was out of the question, so what could he— oh! 

He closed his eyes and tried to focus. For the blink of an eye, the cold was driven from his body, replaced by a cosy warmth, the sensation of hot tea with Flin spreading from his stomach to his limbs, steadily growing hotter until fire was surging through his veins, spewing from his fingertips, swirling and swirling, shaping into the elegant form of a flame atronach.

His chest swelling with pride and deep breaths, Savos supported himself on his knees. His arms were shaking.

Maybe I'm truly getting old , he thought, a bitter smile on his lips. 

Gracefully dancing through the air, the atronach sought its foe. This time, the dark could not protect the vampire. This time, her opponent did not need eyes. 

And so, it did not take long until the first firebolts shot through the air. Ice spikes were the answer.

Again, Savos clad himself in mage armour, green light glistening on his skin, and hurried through the limestone maze, every step a splash in the shallow water. If the vampire was busy with the atronach, maybe he could—

Savos lunged forward, throwing himself onto the ground. An ice spike streaked over his head, chilling the tips of his ears. So much for that. Shivering uncontrollably, he fought to get back on his feet. In the corner of his eye, Kvinna evaded a firebolt, spun around and prepared to fire an ice spike directly at him. Savos reached out and tried to form a ward. His fingers felt stiff and sluggish and gods, did they hurt. He clenched his jaw, strained and tried to gather enough Magicka where he wanted. 

The air in front of him briefly seemed to shimmer before returning to its prior state.

"Come on, come one," He begged through his teeth. "Please..."

It was of no use. The steady influx of Magicka caused by the enchantments of his robe would allow for a ward soon enough, but not soon enough . Savos closed his eyes, breathed in deep and prepared for the worst. Despite the occasional brush with death, he had never thought much about how he would die. Or when. It always seemed a thing of the distant future, something abstract that happened to others, not him. Now, he did not know what to think. People said a Nord's last thoughts should be of home. Was the same true for dunmer? How would the college fare without him? Who would take care of his garden? What would Mirabelle do without someone to steal her away from her busy schedule for tea and honey nut treats? What would Tolfdir do without his favourite fishing companion? Or Urag and Arniel without a third player to humble them at 'Draugr, Draugr, Lich' ? And Rashkan... they never got a chance to lay aside that stupid argument of theirs. Tears filled his eyes.

A wave of heat washed over him, getting hotter and hotter, and although Savos had expected death to free him from his icy suffering, he had not imagined it to feel like an inferno either. His eyes burst open and found themselves immediately dry.

Before him, his fire atronach disintegrated, a spear of ice sticking out of its core.

Within the blink of an eye, Savos was hyper-aware of his surroundings. Curling himself into a ball as tightly as possible, he once again tried to create a ward. 

This time, he succeeded.

The air around him shimmered, hardened, crystallised into a glassy bubble of Magicka before— 

With a bang, the cave went up in flames. 

The ground quaked beneath him. Stalactites dropped and shattered. The roaring blaze surrounded him, swallowed him like a crumb of bread. Savos cowered under his ward, putting his all into it, praying that it would hold and that the cave would not collapse on top of him. 

When the blaze died down, at last, it left behind dense curtains of steam and the smell of burnt hair and flesh. 

Was it over?

Slowly, Savos pushed himself onto his knees. His vision was spinning, his head heavy, and his mouth felt as if he had chewed on sandpaper. At least his clothes were merely damp now.

Although there was no way the vampire had survived that, he had to check whether his intuition proved correct. Salt crunched under his boots with every step as he followed the only direction he could pinpoint amidst the steam: his magelight hovering in the centre of the cavern.

The room was deathly silent except for Savos' laboured panting. He was clutching his chest. If there was a part of his body that did not hurt, he was unaware it existed. 

How was he supposed to manage the way back to the college? And he could not leave Verna's body behind either, could he? There was no way he could drag her home in his current state. He would have to ask the jarl for a retrieval troop or return once he had sufficiently recovered. Perhaps the guards could—

A sudden force knocked Savos off his feet. He winced and tried finding his balance, but before he could, it grabbed him by the throat and slammed him against a large, charred stalagmite. Savos clawed at invisible hands—scraping, scratching—but they remained locked tight. 

"You little shit." 

It was the vampire's voice, distorted to a threatening growl. Savos kicked and struggled against the chokehold, hitting her once, twice, thrice, causing her to lose focus of the spell hiding her.

She made for a gruesome image: the fire had eaten through her skin—exposing flesh, pulsing and swollen with black sludge—and even charred bone. Her eyes were burning with hatred, her fangs protruding, lusting for blood.

"Will you stop moving already?"

A biting cold pierced Savos, only to be replaced by searing pain and warm liquid soaking the fabric around his abdomen, and although the vampire's grip forced his head upwards, staring at the hole in the ceiling, Savos knew all too well what had happened. 

And that it was a death sentence if she did not strangle him first.

His vision was blurry, its edges blackening.

"Why?" He managed to squeeze out.

"Because now, that poor, dull-fanged friend of yours no longer has anyone to protect him. From the jarl, the Vigil, or me." 

With that, she let go of Savos' throat—and rammed her fangs into his neck.

Savos gasped. All warmth fled his body as if he had cast frost cloak on himself. His heart began to tumble over itself, pulsing frantically in his ears. Gulp after gulp left his body; severe tiredness overcame him. It was nothing like feeding Rashkan. No, nothing at all. Rashkan was gentle and never drained him past the point of mild dizziness.

He had failed. Rashkan, the college, Winterhold, even that orc Vigilant—Savos had failed them all, for if he could not stop that vampire, who could? 

His eyes fell shut. 

Failed, failed, failed—the word burrowed into Savos, nestling heavily in his stomach. Was this how he wanted to leave the world? Pitying himself while passively waiting for the vampire to finish draining him? 

Savos clenched his fists.

No!

He owed it to the dead and the living alike to fight until the very last drop of blood. Indeed, time had come for one final feat of magic before Savos Aren, archmage of the College of Winterhold, would close his eyes for good. 

The air around him began to shimmer, heating up rapidly until it ignited, spinning a whirlwind of flame.

The vampire lurched away from him, ripping her fangs from his neck. What remained of her flesh was burning, melting in the intense heat.

Savos fell to the ground and watched as she frantically tried to douse the fire, screeching and screaming in agony until, at last, she burst into a swarm of bats and vanished through the hole in the ceiling.

Moments turned into eternities as Savos lay dying. The flame cloak had melted the ice spike in his gut, leaving an indiscernible red mess, slowly spreading out over the ground around him. His arms felt like lead when he lifted them. Slowly. Bringing them closer to the wound, forming faint threads of gold. 

It was worth a try.

Chapter Text

Bloody snow squelched under every step as Savos erred through the dark, injured, freezing and burdened with the shame of failure. If he had learned one thing throughout his many years on Nirn, it was that life, like the seasons, was a never-ending cycle of returns. Still, right now, it felt more like an ever-turning wheel of torture. Blossoms of pain bloomed all over his body, most hot and searing, like the countless bruises and the hole in his stomach, but one, on his neck, bloomed cold as the grave, digging its roots deep into his veins and turning them to ice. How long had it been since he had stumbled out of that godsforsaken cave? Minutes? Hours? As far as Savos was concerned, it might have been years ago. 

He shivered. 

By day, Winterhold was already cold, but at night a chill from the Sea of Ghosts rolled over the mountaintops, flooded the valleys and froze all life within. With trembling, bloody hands, stiff and long robbed of feeling, he searched for the hem of his robe before trying to wrap himself into the thick overcoat as tightly as possible. Every breath sent jagged shards of ice through his lungs, yet he could not stop himself from yawning again and again. How could he feel tired in a situation as nerve-racking as this?

Any feeling had long fled his lower legs, and as if that were not bad enough, snowy shackles chained his soaked—through boots to the ground, pulling them back two steps for every one taken. 

Onwards.

Ever onwards.

Out into the endless darkness before him. 

His very marrow ached with what little Magicka scraped through him, drawn in by the enchantments on his robes and jewellery until it broke through his hands and joined the losing battle to close the wound in his stomach. His mind was a mess, a muddy maelstrom of undergraduate anatomy lessons: the placement of the liver, stomach, pancreas, gallbladder and intestines—The ice spike had not hit a kidney, had it?— along with the chemical makeup of gastric juice and the intricate system of veins, arteries and nerves connecting it all, mixed with a desperate longing for home, for that familiar blue beacon on the horizon, and the ever-repeating chant of 'failure failure' ringing in his ears.

Indeed, looking back, it was shocking how failure ran through his life like a thread of yarn; how it outweighed his accomplishments, how it tarnished even his happiest moments. 

The first time he had failed, was when he had refused to take over his parents' tailor shop and pursued an unfortunate career in magic—something they had always discouraged due to the abundance of charred robes brought in for patching every day. Many years later, Savos would fail them again when Winterhold began to crumble, but none of his words convinced them to evacuate. 

But before that, he failed his friends when he led them to their deaths in the depths of Bromjunaar, ever-optimistic that it would all be worth it, that, like archmage Shalidor, they would discover the secrets of eternal life. Savos wanted to slap himself for his youthful naivety.

Even as archmage, he was a failure. In the seventy—eight years of his tenure, he had achieved but one of the goals set when he had taken over from his deceased predecessor. Therefore, it came as no surprise that cries for a change in leadership grew louder by the day. Savos did not doubt things would have turned out better had Atmah become archmage. She had been the best and brightest of them all. But now, she was as dead as the rest. All her wit, all her ambition had been nothing but the path to an early grave. 

To this day, vile tongues still whispered of treachery—of something Savos had done to rid himself of the competition. They were right. In the cruellest, most unintentional way, they were. He had betrayed his friends, lied to them until the end, cursed them, even beyond.

"It was the only way...," he began mumbling between yawns and rattling teeth, over and over, until his voice was raw and his tongue frozen. 

And then there were Verna and Kvinna, Enthir, Kraldar's nephew and those Stormcloak soldiers whose faces nor names he knew but who were mourned by their loved ones all the same—it would be easier to list the people he had not failed. 

Savos wanted to both laugh and cry. The gods really had it out for him. Wobbly and sluggish, he limped onwards.

Ever onwards.

Chance was he had not even made it out of that narrow valley he had so forebodingly called 'a perfect hiding place' . His legs trembled under his weight. Golden light scorched his fingers, magic needle and thread weaving together broken flesh until—

Savos stumbled, his ankle twisted in the grasp of a root.

Threads torn.

Snow stained red.

Savos choked a scream, resulting in a raspy coughing fit. He had to get back up as soon as possible, that much was sure. If he did not, nobody but the wolves would find him, and the thought of being torn limb from limb, then eaten, disturbed him more than any other death he had ever envisioned for himself. Shivering uncontrollably, he shifted and tried to load the hurt ankle. The resulting pain knocked the air out of him harder than any punch. He hissed. Tears flowed freely now, searing his cheeks. 

It was futile.

With no other option left, Savos began to crawl through the dark, excruciating metre by excruciating metre. Was it the longing for home that drove him? Or the fear of dying? Alone? Perhaps it was simply a natural part of mortality to run from the unavoidable. 

For an eternity, he crawled, fighting to keep his eyes open until, at last, bloody fingers reached out and found solid rock. Savos frowned. If he had crawled the wrong way, would he not have long arrived at the valley's edge? Had he crawled in circles?

He glimpsed over his shoulder. The snow reflected barely bright enough to reveal a reddened, compressed trail behind him, straight as a ruler. It was definitely the correct way. Then why…?

The creases on his forehead deepened as he tried to fish the path to the cave out of the viscous mind-sludge underneath. They had gone south, then west into the mountains—Towards the shrine of Azura, was it?—before descending into the valley instead of continuing further up. 

Then why...?

Of course.

The rockslide. 

He had reached the remains of the large rockslide they had climbed earlier that day.

Whatever sliver of hope Savos had left got hit over the head, dragged into a back alley and stabbed to death. He wanted to scream, tear out his hair, and rage against this cruel twist of fate, yet all he could manage was a sad whimper. He had come so far, fought the vampire and survived, managed to partially patch himself up and drag his body to this cursed stone barricade. Clenching his teeth, Savos forced his abused fingers into fists—Too far for it to end just so, there, in that frozen wasteland. 

He had to try. 

A trembling hand followed the rock's ridges and crevices until it found its upper edge. The other hand followed suit, finding grip next to its sibling. 

Savos took a deep, feezing breath and hesitantly began climbing up the rock. His arms were quaking violently—Was he really that heavy?—, but eventually, he managed to pull himself up far enough to start pushing with his good foot.

And push he did. His upper body slid over the edge with relative ease. Savos huffed, drawing in quick, ragged breaths before finding the next spot to hold onto and hauling his lower body over the edge as well. 

The jagged rock dug into his abdomen, into the barely-mended flesh. 

A high-pitched scream tore through his throat.

Bloody fingers slipped.

Savos crashed to the ground, hitting his jaw on the rock and slamming his teeth together so hard he feared they might have cracked. A trace of copper laced his tongue. 

He had to get up and try again, but...

Savos lay at the foot of the rockslide, listening to the rasps escaping his lungs, his eyes fluttering shut. It seemed the cold had finally banished the last vestiges of strength from him. 

He had to get back up. 

Had to...

Had...

Tired.

So tired.

Perhaps it was better to rest for a little while? Just a couple of minutes until he was ready to climb again.

And if that moment never came, the college would at least be in capable hands. Savos considered himself a good mage, a great one even, but if history had shown one thing time and time again, it was that great mages did not always make for great leaders. And the college needed a great leader should the civil war escalate further, someone who would not falter in the face of hardship, someone who would inspire loyalty in their fellow mages. For a brief moment, Savos' mind travelled back to a young apprentice whose eyes beamed with tears and joy as she accepted her graduate diploma. His chest swelled with pride. If there could ever be a perfect archmage, it would be Mirabelle Ervine. 

He opened his eyes and followed the snowflakes as they sailed to the ground, forming a sheet of flawless white.

'Kyne's Blanket' , the Nords called it.

Savos had always liked that expression. The goddess of the heavens, the winds and the elements tucking him in as though he were her own child—at least one deity who did not hate him.

Savos smiled.

He no longer felt cold.

Chapter Text

If Rashkan had a Septim for every person who ever told him vampirism was a curse, he would be able to afford a mansion in Blacklight. Fools! Nothing but fools! He wanted to wallop every single one of them; was there anything more useful for a nighttime search and rescue than innate night vision? It had been over an hour since he and Muzgog had left Winterhold, following the half-covered footsteps of Savos, Kvin-Kvin, and that guard they had borrowed from the jarl. 

"Not so fast," wheezed Muzgog, puffs of mist escaping his wide-open mouth. He had fallen behind shortly after the first steep ascent; little wonder: strapped over his fur cloak, he was carrying a heavy leather backpack. In his right hand, he held a torch.

"An orc's no mountain goat."

Rashkan rolled his eyes but waited nevertheless.

Muzgog patted him on the shoulder as he passed, agonised snow screaming under every laboured step. "Perhaps growing a goatee like yours will help," he laughed.

"As long as you do not grow horns." Now that was a mental image to make even the most fearsome creatures of the night cower. Rashkan fought back a chuckle. And some people thought he was scary.

Their path was lined by dark peaks which pierced the clouded sky like speartips. At their feet, a forked delta of narrow gorges, pines, and firs bled into a sea of shadows. 

Whoever ended up there was truly lost. 

And on the lost, Valdis preyed. Savos' group was by no means incapable, but if taken by surprise…? 

At the thought, the hair on Rashkan's neck stood on edge. 

His fault.

It was all his fault. 

Why had he been so careless? 

Why had he not asked any of his fellow coven-loyalists to check whether Valdis was actually dead while he was recovering? 

Hubris. 

Nothing but hubris. His pride in his position as the coven leader's bodyguard and enforcer. A job that came with much respect and prestige—at the cost of an ice spike through the gut. 

Was it worth it? 

He had always avoided the question, dreaded it like a cat dreaded water. The coven had given him everything: a home, a purpose, even immortality.

He had failed them all, too. 

Perhaps that was the curse people were talking about: to repeat one's mistakes over and over, losing the people one held dear. It was exactly something the sadistic mind of Molag Bal would conjure up. In that case, the future was looking remarkably bleak for Savos and the rest.

"Rashkan? Rashkan, c'mere." Muzgog was squatting some twenty feet ahead, his brows furrowed as he waved the torch across the ground. Rashkan soon saw why: The footsteps were gone, hidden by a drift of powdery snow. 

"Must've been very windy earlier," Muzgog said grimly while his eyes continued to search the ground.

"Could they have taken a different route?" 

"Where to? Ain't any options besides up," Muzgog pointed further towards the shrine of Azura, "Or down," he waved the torch at a path snaking down the mountain until it vanished under pines. "And, of course, the way we came, but I haven't seen any tiny archmages, Kvin-Kvins and guards."

"So, what now? Your order tracks vampires, Daedra worshippers and werewolves. Do not tell me you are lost once traditional means fail."

"You have remarkably little faith in the vigil," Muzgog grumbled and rummaged through his backpack. Various scrolls were crammed between potions, soulgems, and talismans; the compartments had been ignored altogether. 

Still too much faith, judging by that chaos, Rashkan thought, not to mention the grand faux pas of spellcasting.

"Scrolls, seriously?"

He raised an eyebrow. Even the most slow-witted, untalented apprentice casting the most pitiful spell had more dignity than any paper mage, for those merely took advantage of the magic another had worked for them.

"Don't get your wizardly panties in a knot; I don't have time to learn every spell in the book." He skimmed through the scrolls before taking a crumpled, yellowed one. 

Rashkan was no expert on scrolls; deciphering how the forms translated into runes to retain a spell for later use was like trying to read ancient Nordic. Still, he at least managed to identify the terms ' unknown ', ' reveal ', and ' lead '.

"Clairvoyance."

"Indeed, smartass," Muzgog grumbled, "precisely in case traditional means fail." His free hand dove into the backpack and pulled out a small something, which, upon closer inspection, turned out to be a carved wooden chicken. It looked remarkably lost in Muzgog's large, ragged hands, with its worn edges and cracked paint, a small snack for a giant. 

"Made that for Kvin-Kvin when I took her in. Gave it back to me when I hunted down a dangerous vampire across the border to High Rock. A lucky charm, she said. It's been with me ever since." He wrapped the scroll around the figure. "Should lead us right to her."

The parchment lit up in a flash before crumbling into ash. 

Runes now glowed brightly on the little chicken, from which a trail of blue mist began crawling down the mountainside.

Rashkan searched his pockets. There had to be something he could use to track Savos too—some small pruning shears or one of the many quills Savos had gifted him over time, but, to his disappointment, his hands returned empty. "Shall we, then?"

Muzgog nodded.

Snow crunched under heavy boots as the two chased the blue, half—walking, half—running.

"Do you," Muzgog squeezed out between laboured breaths, "do you think they found her?"

Rashkan glanced over his shoulder. 

Muzgog was huffing and puffing like a Dwemer centurion, slowing them down. 

"Maybe. Although I would be more concerned if she found them ."

Between him and Savos, the archmage was clearly the better mage, but there was no telling what nasty tricks Valdis had developed throughout those many years. Rashkan paused. He had to hurry. Warn Savos. Protect him, if necessary. Surely, Muzgog could defend himself. 

Then again, Rashkan had never seen him fight, and if his wheezing was anything to go by, he was not in the best of shapes.

Dear old Beroth had been the same on those rare occasions he had left the coven's makeshift library. 

Now Beroth was dead.

Your fault, your fault, your fault, a voice chanted in Rashkan's ears, following the frantic rhythm of his footsteps. 

Some believed guilt was crushing, a massive boulder lying on one's chest. 

Rashkan scoffed. 

Rain and wind eroded any boulder until the gentlest breeze was enough to carry away what remained. 

No, guilt was putrid and muddy, a swamp that sucked in those unfortunate enough to tread it, every step deeper and deeper until it swallowed them whole. 

Rashkan balled his fists and, holding his head high, gaze ahead, picked up the pace towards a narrowing valley filled with needles of wood and bark.

He would not drown in it.

When they reached the foot of the mountain, they were greeted by a labyrinth of pines. Damn the shameful approach to the spell; it was a blessing. The snow was not as deep as up the pass, but the hidden roots made it far more treacherous. Every once in a while, Rashkan found himself stumbling, and Muzgog was not faring much better. It was not long until an uncomfortable amount of snow filled Rashkan's boots—not that he worried about losing his toes.

At last, the trees opened up into the setting of a vicious onslaught. Some pines had fallen, their bodies littering the ground; others had been snapped in half as though they were little more than matchsticks. Boulders lay scattered amidst their wooden victims.

Rashkan stopped dead in his tracks. 

No. Please no.  

He breathed in deep, hoping he was on the wrong track, hoping he was smelling a deer or the unfortunate result of this damn civil war or—

He knew that smell, knew it all too frighteningly well; it was breakfast, lunch, and dinner. 

Hunger woke from its restless slumber and yawned, baring its fangs. Rashkan muttered a curse. Now was not the right time, even if it had been almost a full day since he had last fed.

"Rashkan? Rashkan, hey, wait!"

Muzgog's scream hit deaf ears. 

Rashkan ran, ran until his feet were tripping over each other. 

The smell was nauseating. Not only because it stirred a part of him he did not want to see active, but also because it meant that Savos was nearby and seriously injured.

At last, he reached the heart of the wooden massacre: a massive rockslide—some boulders bigger than a house—blocking the path.

He turned around. Muzgog was but a dark dot in the distance, regularly vanishing behind tree trunks. 

If Rashkan hurried, he might avoid being seen. He balled his fists. Savos was somewhere beyond that rockslide; he would not lose precious time trying to find a way through.

Closing his eyes, Rashkan tried to forget about the outside world, but the smell and the fear it prompted kept calling him back. Stomach—turning images filled his mind the more he concentrated. He groaned. His temples were pounding. Any minute wasted meant a greater chance of Muzgog noticing him. And if a vigilant discovered his true nature, Rashkan would have no future at the college—if, any future at all. 

But if Savos… 

Gathering all his willpower, Rashkan managed to pull his stray thoughts together like a pack of runaway guar, only to split up again and flutter as his body burst into a swarm of bats. 

A thousand eyes combed through stone and snow.

Successfully.

Savos lay slumped over a small rock at the foot of the rockslide. His head was turned to the side, eyes closed as if he was sleeping. His arms were stretched out, indicating that he tried climbing but failed and fell. His abdomen was a deep dark red. If Rashkan's heart were still beating, it would have stopped right then. 

He made a vertical dive, pines and peaks blurring around him as the air rustled his wings and howled in his ears. Before his body had fully reconstructed, he was at Savos' side. 

The accursed, sweet scent of blood courted his nostrils; saliva coated his tongue. He had to help Savos, do something, anything, but instead, he sat there, paralysed, trying to extinguish the Hunger which raged inside him like a wildfire, putting his veins to the torch. 

A small sip could not hurt, right? Perhaps, it could assuage him enough to regain clarity. Rashkan licked his lips and bent forward. Yes...yes... 

It was a good plan...

Thud.

Thud.

"Huh?" Rashkan froze. Trembling with anticipation, he listened.

Thud.

Thud. 

"Savos…" 

What was he doing? 

Rashkan recoiled until his fingers were clawing at one of the rocks.

Bal curse him a thousandfold! A thousandfold and over! 

Savos was fighting for his life and he? He wanted to snack on him! 

Rashkan leaned against the rock and closed his eyes.

What now? Savos was alive. Alive! 

And dying because he failed to kill Valdis. 

Because he never bothered with restoration magic. 

Because he ran ahead. 

Because he never thought he needed help.

"Muzgog!" Rashkan called, his voice aquiver and small. "Muzgog! Here! Behind the rockslide! Quickly!"

Silence. Nothing but silence.

For all his faults, for the argument they had had before parting ways, Savos did not deserve this; to die in this frozen wasteland away from home and the people he loved. 

"Muzgog!" Rashkan screamed so loudly his voice broke. "Help," he whimpered, "help him." 

He was about to lose himself to despair when an avalanche of obviousness rolled over him. His sleeve was pulled up in no time; finding the vein took even less. Like a frenzied slaughterfish, Rashkan tore into his wrist. Thick, putrid blood, cold as ice, scorched his tongue and ate away at his taste buds. If there was anything viler, he hoped never to taste it. 

He sipped until his cheeks began to bulge. How exactly he would transfer the blood to Savos, he did not know. Dribbling it on the wound, clogged with dirt and fabric, was a gamble; if too little—and a mouthful was not much—entered his body, the effect would be too weak, whereas, if too much entered his bloodstream at once, the shock might kill him.

He shot a glance at Savos' lips. Maybe…? 

Stones clattered behind him. 

Rashkan flinched and swallowed. His throat rebelled as the thick, disgusting liquid writhed inside it. He turned around just in time to see a large, ragged hand emerging from the other side of the rockslide. 

"Fuck Winterhold, fuck the cold, and most of all, fuck these rocks," Muzgog grumbled as he climbed down, a healing spell already at his fingertips. He squatted beside Rashkan, handed him the torch, and turned Savos over before pushing aside the blood-soaked overcoat, revealing a gruelling tangle of torn fabric, blood, and flesh. 

Rashkan hissed and withdrew, wrinkling his nose, counting to ten, twenty, thirty. It was not fair that he was consumed by Hunger rather than pity at seeing his friend's mangled body. He got up and began pacing, further and further away from Savos when he should be beside him while Muzgog was trying to save his life. 

"Your little friend did a pretty good job for someone with a hole in his guts," Muzgog said, closely inspecting the wound. "Patched up the most important parts." After a bit of fiddling, he managed to remove the overcoat entirely, leaving Savos at the mercy of the cold.

That was when Rashkan saw them: Two scabby dots on Savos' neck, black lines spreading around them like cracks in ice.

He rejoiced, wanting to hug Valdis—right before sending her to Coldharbour.

"She bit him," Rashkan blurted out. "Don't cure it! We need to bring him to the college! Quick! Then let it take hold."

Muzgog scowled. "You would have him suffer like that Bosmer?" He looked down at Savos. The healing spell had done a good enough job to stop the blood loss.

Rashkan let his shoulders slump and turned his back to Muzgog. He did not want Savos to suffer—and to call it suffering was an understatement. They were hazy, the memories of the days leading up to his transformation, a blur of misshapen fiends and terrors ravaging him as the fever wreaked havoc on his body. He had been one of the milder cases too. 

However, how could death be a mercy compared to vampirism—curse or not—when he was alive and well? 

"I will," Rashkan said sternly and turned back around. "If it raises Savos' chance of survival by even a small amount, I will."

Muzgog sighed and beckoned Rashkan to return the torch. "Go, find Kvin-Kvin. I'll bring your archmage to the college save and sound."

Rashkan opened his mouth to say something, but Muzgog dismissively waved his hand.

"Yeah, yeah, three days. Won't cure him before that. Unless he gets better, that is. If not, well..."

If not... 

Rashkan swallowed the knot forming in his throat.

"I cannot leave him, Muzgog. He is my friend, one of the few I have. I cannot leave—"

Muzgog stood abruptly, grabbed Rashkan by the collar and pushed him against the rockslide.

"And Kvin-Kvin's my friend, you egocentric bat!" He screamed, showering Rashkan in spit. "Go, go! Fly, if you must! Bring her home, and I'll forget what you are!" 

Chapter Text

Like a mad dog, Rashkan chased the spell flashing through the narrowing valley, the wooden chicken tingling in his hand. Every pebble pressed through the soles of his boots, and his feet were sore, soaked and icy; his robes and knees chafed from stumbling too many times. 

He did not care.

He would kill her. Rip out that treacherous tongue of hers, tear off those crooked hands so they might never again cast a single spell, then burn her to a crisp. For Enthir. For Savos. For Beroth.

Grandpa Bat, as Beroth had been known throughout the coven, saw through her from the start, called her a fool with delusions of grandeur too blind to see how mortals outnumbered vampirekind. How bleak a future awaited them if the mortals organised. Mortals with their silver, their fire, and their aedric magic. 

"Vampires, though deadly," Beroth was wont to say, "are vulnerable creatures; best they stay in shadow where they thrive and strike when the night is darkest." Since he lived for almost eight hundred years, it had to be sound advice. 

Valdis did not take it. 

Of course not. 

Instead, she strove to take over the coven, a path which led right through Rashkan. Lead him, Valdis did, on a leash of magic, far from their home to a clearing in the forests of the Southern Pale, lulling him into a state of trust she never earned. 

To his death if Beroth had not intervened. 

Dear old Beroth… 

Sometimes, in the dead of night, when Rashkan lay awake in his chambers, Beroth died again, his eyes shriveling in their holes and his flesh withering, peeling off his bones as his screams scarred the serene starry night. Rashkan's fist balled around the little wooden chicken. The next step, his feet did not meet the ground. 

The ravine flashed by a thousand eyes in a blur of grey and white. All that mattered was that shining blue line that followed the narrowing chasm until it vanished against a dead end: A frozen waterfall at least as high as the archmage's tower. 

A steep dive, a shudder, and a thousand bodies reunited. Rashkan's head hurt as though he had repeatedly bashed it against a wall, his arms as though he had rowed from Solstheim to Windhelm, and his throat as if he had exed an entire bottle of Dagur's cheapest brandy. Two transformations in such short succession were more than enough for a while. Letting out a most undignified groan, he stretched and looked around. 

Before the frozen barrier lay an icy wasteland braved only by lone snowberry bushes and the hardiest of blue mountain flowers. The spell had burrowed under an iced overhang at the foot of the waterfall. Rashkan's back cried out when he followed it, but as he did, the waterfall revealed its secret: A pitch-black pit leading into the mountain. Out wafted the aroma of Savos' blood, making Rashkan ache with a torturous desire he could not quench. 

He licked his lips and swallowed. 

A miracle Savos managed to escape this nightmarish pit and crawl all the way to the rockslide. It spoke for his friend's resilience—or his stubbornness. Remarkable, yet hardly calming.

What if Muzgog's hatred for vampires outweighed his compassion? Bloodthirsty monsters, they were to him, nothing more. What could ensure he kept his word? Rashkan scratched his goatee. Dammit! He should have stayed. He should have—to oblivion with Muzgog, Kvin-Kvin and their entire order!

A cruel smirk crossed Rashkan's lips. If she could injure the Archmage of Winterhold so gravely, Valdis had not lost any of her prowess. What chance, then, stood a single vigilant and a guard? Their lives lay in his hands, and Muzgog knew. He had to know.

The pit was deep and dark and reeked of ambush. Why did Savos' group not get any backup when they still had the chance? Anything could be lurking in there-vampires, thralls, even death hounds. What unholy power possessed them to enter this catastrophe in the making? 

The same as him, probably. Oh, cruel irony, to be forced to commit the same error. Sighing, Rashkan got moving.

What started as little more than an icicle—overgrown hole in the mountain soon grew high enough for him to stand upright. Rusty lorry tracks marked the pathways; their occupants tossed aside, cadavers crumbling into rust. The inviting smell of Savos' blood soon decayed into a vile miasma that coated his tongue with each conscious breath. Rashkan fought hard to keep himself from retching. After the already appalling gulp he had taken when Muzgog startled him, he was sure regurgitated vampire blood was something he never wanted to taste. Ever. 

Through this silent iron-graveyard slithered the spell like a ghostly snake. 

Rashkan followed one step at a time, a precaution against rushing into a trap. Flames jumped out of his fingertips with each sound and each passing shade; he lamented his disregard towards the school of alteration and its protective spells. Valdis could be lurking anywhere, in every shadow, even in plain sight. 

Rashkan wanted to laugh at the irony.

To think she, of all people, had sunk low enough to hide in a place like this. She, whose speeches invoked a world where vampires did not hide like rats, where they conquered the sun and ruled an eternal night, and all mortals cowered before them. She, who had condemned their leader's decision to keep a low profile, was now hiding in a godsforsaken shithole at the world's ass, catching her victims at their most vulnerable using the most cowardly of magicks.

His guard, she would not tear down. 

Not again. Not this time. 

She had played her little tricks, and he survived every single one. The tables had turned. The flames that had spared her back then had grown into a raging blaze. It hungered for her flesh. 

At the thought, Rashkan's lips twitched upwards.

The mine ran deeper than he ever would have guessed. From the main shaft, smaller tunnels spread left and right like veins. He cast a glance at the wooden chicken glowing in his hand. How would the girl react upon seeing him? His nature, he could not hide this time, not when they confronted Valdis. Would she be scared? Would she attack him? 

Rashkan pursed his lips. Vigilant or not, there had been enough death already. He traced his thumb over the peeling paint and noticed a tiny faded eye staring at him. His chest gave a squeeze. If Muzgog put so much effort into a silly good luck charm... 

He hurried, dirt grinding under his boots. 

Deep in the bowels of the earth, the air was stiff with filth; if he reached out, Rashkan was sure his fingers would end up covered, yet he dared not stop breathing. Even the most minor clue was—

He sniffed. The mine was still rank like Namira's ass, but he could have sworn—he sniffed again. Yes, the stench had changed. Not by much; any nose less keen than his might not have noticed. He took another, deeper breath. Indeed, the ghastly blend of blood, mould, and bat droppings was laced with the putrid stench of rotting flesh. 

Rashkan tried to calm himself, telling himself nothing was certain until the spell found its target. 

Until there is a body , a treacherous voice whispered in his mind. Rashkan attempted to drown it out, counting to ten, over and over. It was futile. The spell followed the stench around a bend, growing stronger and stronger until the shadows revealed its origin: tucked into a corner and out of sight stood a lorry. Bright blue mist circled it like a hungry sabre cat its prey.

Staring in horror, Rashkan dropped the wooden chicken. It was as if Alduin had come to announce the end times, and despite no sign of wings and jet black scales, the end it was.

Muzgog would kill him.

Rashkan grimaced, picturing his head caught between the mighty hands of that troll-faced mountain of an orc, his skull cracking like a walnut. Endurance might not have been Muzgog's strength. But strength, he had. Muzgog would kill him twice over and scatter his ashes. And if he did not do it himself, once the news of a vampire reached Winterhold—out of the mouth of a Vigilant of Stendarr, no less—, not even Savos—if he survived—would be able to keep the torches and pitchforks at bay. Rashkan bit his lip, feeling his fangs dig into the soft tissue, his jaw locking into an expression of grim anticipation. Was there a chance the spell had malfunctioned? It was paper magic, after all. Who knew what puffed-up quack had cast the original spell?

No. 

Debatable as their methods were, the Vigilants of Stendarr would not allow such a blunder; otherwise, their order would have long died out. 

He crouched, laying his head in his hands, contemplating how to proceed. Valdis was piling corpses to the skies. Beroth, the Stormcloak patrol—must have been at least five people—, that Nord under the sleigh, Savos— if the gods were cruel—, the Kvin-Kvin girl and possibly many more. Rashkan was a young vampire, still within a mortal lifespan, but death, he had seen for several. What little blood remained in his knuckles fled, and his fingernails dug deep into his skin when he finally found the courage to approach the lorry.

The stench wafting from its innards forced him to stop breathing and squeeze his nose shut to be sure. The edge was close, taunting him the nearer he got. It was as if he were walking through water, each step a drag felt under his skin, an arduous shuffle towards an ending he had hoped to avoid. At last, he peeked over the lorry's edge and froze.

From amidst torn Stormcloak capes, grime and limbs—gods mercy—, the severed head of a girl, pale and freckled, stared at him with wide, empty eyes. Rashkan flinched and took a step back. Although human ages were tricky to gauge, she could not have been older than any first semester. A child—half-child, at most. A half-child whose luck had run out.

"Shit," Rashkan hissed, droplets of spit spluttering past his teeth.

What on Mundus had Muzgog been thinking, bringing her along against such a dangerous foe? What had Savos been thinking, not talking her out of it? Why had nobody talked her out of it? Stopped her by force, if necessary? 

Rashkan began to pace.

He would have Valdis' head. Cut it off along with her hands, then bring it to Muzgog. If there was one chance to assuage the soon-to-be heartbroken orc, thereby securing his secret, it had to be this. Then, there was also the matter of the Winterhold guard. One more corpse to locate.

So it was decided. 

Savos’ bloody trail followed the main shaft into a natural cave sloping upwards across a limestone shelf. With every step, Rashkan's admiration grew. The madman had really dragged himself all the way, from here through the mine and out to the rockslide. The thought filled Rashkan with hope. If Savos could endure that, he would survive. 

He had to survive. Had to.

Winterhold without him? Unthinkable! 

How would Rashkan survive Morndas if not by gardening with Savos? Who to trust with his spiciest ideas if not Savos? And, most importantly, who would feed him if not Savos?

He stomped up a steep limestone ledge.

Before him lay a cavern so massive the Hall of the Elements could fit inside. The Arcanaeum too. Rashkan stood mouth agape, trying to comprehend its sheer size. He might as well have glimpsed into the Shivering Isles. Stone fangs grew from the ceiling; their counterparts, some charred, some dismembered and decapitated, littered the ground. Some still stood firm, bodies petrified by a volcanic eruption.

Rashkan took a sniff and wrinkled his nose. A strange humidity hung over the cavern, and although air streaming in from a hole in the ceiling drove away some of the staleness, it failed to remove the stench of burnt hair and flesh, which bled from the very stone.

He smiled.

Valdis may have wounded Savos gravely, but no doubt he had given as much as he got. 

Rashkan stepped deeper into the cavern. 

Before its destruction, it must have been a marvel to behold. The surviving stalagmites and stalactites formed bizarre shapes, a garden of black-and-white sculptures. One looked like a curtain of ham, another like a Colovian fur hat, another—Rashkan snickered. At last, deep inside the crumbled limestone labyrinth, he spotted something near a massive pillar blackened with soot. 

He squinted.

It looked like a block of mud or molten stone, gleaming strangely. 

Rashkan raised his hands and summoned his Magicka, flames flickering around his fingers. As he got closer, realisation struck. 

Arms, thin and charred, spread out from the black slab that once was a body. What had to be the head was turned on its side, a dwindling flame flickering at its ear. 

Rashkan turned around and withdrew. He balled his fists, a flash of fire flaring up, searing his fingertips. 

The final victim. Her final victim.

His gaze wandered towards the hole in the ceiling. 

If Savos had escaped through the cave, there was only one way Valdis could have gone. 

Rashkan rubbed his temples, dreading what lay ahead. One transformation was tiring. Two were so dehydrating that he would have to be extra careful on his next feeding. Three in a single day? 

He groaned and closed his eyes. Letting himself fall, he soared towards the clouded sky.

Chapter Text

Savos woke with a shudder, turned over and groaned a duet with his back. Trembling fingers grasped at the rime-clad stone on which he lay. Frost filled his lungs, freezing him from the inside out. Contrary to popular belief, Skyrim's most vicious predator was neither sabre cat nor snow bear, but the cold. Relentless and cruel, it crept up on its victims, killing them slowly as it seeped into cloth and flesh, turned blood to ice and chilled the very bones. He wrapped his arms around himself but failed to stop the shivers rocking him. Even the thick layers of his robe did not help. Slowly, he sat up. Blinding pain struck him like a falling icicle, but when he combed through his hair and checked his forehead, he found only a tiny scar from decades ago. Fog clouded his vision; rapid blinking did little to bring it back.

Where was he? 

Trying to remember anything was like panning gold from a muddy river. Savos attempted to stand up, but a smack of dizziness knocked him over. When his body hit the ground, his hands did not but dangled limply in the air. He gulped. Fighting the pain, he dragged himself forward to where his fingers met endless shadows, twisting and writhing as if they were alive, frightening him to the core. 

A cliff! Savos scuttled away from the edge, sighing in relief once he was out of reach. Why on Nirn was he on a goddamn cliff? He pushed himself up until he was sitting straight. Unless...?

Slowly, not to tempt another wave of dizziness, Savos searched the sky for a darker shape. Soon, they found it: The pitch-black outline of the college loomed over him as if to swallow him whole. 

That answered one question but created many more. Why was he on the bridge? At that hour? In his state?

He swirled the pan through his mind. Once. Twice. Then, between all the incoherent sludge, a piece of gold flashed brightly.

Kraldar. A warm Hearth. Steaming rabbit stew. Cold snowberry schnapps. Savos' mouth watered. Even though he was sure he had eaten, he was hungry enough to raid the college's entire pantry. His throat was dry, too, undoubtedly the aftermath of the schnapps. He swallowed, tasting iron. Tracing the inside of his mouth with his tongue, he found that, in their rattling frenzy, his teeth had scraped at the sensitive skin, leaving it raw. 

A particularly violent shiver ripped through him—high time he got to his chambers. What good his memory if he caught his death out here? 

Even by day bridge was treacherous. By night, it was a death trap. Wobbly feet sought hold against the slippery stone; burning eyes strained against the dark, trying to focus on a single spot before them. What happened to the Magicka fountains? Should they not have been cleaned last Tirdas?

Savos would have to ask Drevis. Later. Tomorrow. Maybe. Right now, his heart yearned for his chambers, a hot cup of tea, and, most of all, the soft, cosy comforts of his bed. 

When he eventually reached the gate, his fingers were stiff and aching for warmth. Instead, a chill trickled over his back. The gate was wide open and torn halfway off its hinges. The bars were bent and broken as if some immeasurable force had run them through.

Savos grimaced. Only an explosion could have caused such severe damage. 

"Faralda?" He shouted, the walls of his throat grinding painfully against one another. Hands raised, he tried to summon a ward, but his Magicka forsook him. More, it was as if he never possessed any at all. He searched his pockets for anything to use as protection in case of out-of-control spells or magical anomalies, but his hands returned empty.

 "Faralda? Mirabelle? Anyone?" Gods, if there had been an accident—Savos rushed past the bent bars. The courtyard was swept clean by the ever-present wind, which the walls strangely did not hinder. 

There were no signs of an explosion—no molten snow, no smell of sulphur—yet Savos could not shake the feeling that something was off. He teetered farther towards the Hall of the Elements, his outstretched hands guiding him. When they met the door, he recoiled. The wood was jagged and rotten, and left a splinter in Savos' finger.

What the...?

It did not take much for it to give way. The Hall of the Elements was shrouded in darkness. Without the Magicka fountain at its core, its heart had been ripped out, leaving only that terrible darkness creeping out from behind the pillars and bleeding in from the ceiling.

Savos' steps were slow and quiet, his heartbeat the opposite. Cold sweat covered his furrowed brows. Squinting, he remained unseeing. It was not until a gust of wind tore the clouds and a beam of moonlight fractured in the high windows that Savos could make out his surroundings.

What he saw shocked him to the very marrow.

Against the Magicka fountain leaned body.

No.

Gods no.  

Savos squeezed his eyes shut, hoping that his schnapps-addled mind, fuelled by the unusual darkness, had conjured a nightmare, but when he opened them again, the scene remained the same. 

He swallowed. 

Tried. 

His mouth felt full of ash.

"Mirabelle!" His feet stumbled over themselves. "Mirabelle! Mira—!" His voice broke as he fell to his knees in front of her. Mirabelle's chin was resting against her chest, her face hidden behind sweaty streaks of brown.

"Mirabelle." Each letter stuck to his tongue. She did not react, did not even flinch. Anxiously, Savos reached past the veil of hair and withdrew, shaken. Her skin was as cold as the fountain's stone, and his fingers slick with blood. Was there a pulse? He was unsure, but something had throbbed under his fingertips—enough to give him hope. Gently, he tilted Mirabelle's head to inspect the wound. A red muddle was what remained of her throat. Savos inhaled sharply. No matter how closely he looked, it was impossible to tell where skin ended, and flesh began. His frown deepened so much it hurt. 

Think of something and fast , his mind urged. Without Magicka... 

Savos jumped to his feet. Sewing equipment and bandages! Now where—Colette's room, naturally. Just as he spun around, a tug on his pants stopped him. His gaze fell on Mirabelle. Her eyes were bloodshot and so wide they threatened to pop out of their sockets. Her lips formed words rough and muddled; Savos scantily heard them.

"Don't… leave…"

Savos' heart gave a squeeze. His confident second-in-command and friend; so crippled by fear. It hurt more than any of the physical pain tormenting his body. He crouched and reassuringly placed his hands on Mirabelle's shoulders.

"It's alright, Mira, you'll be fine," the words tumbled past his lips without a second thought. Did he believe them? It did not matter; Mirabelle had to. For her sake. "I need to get some first aid equipment, or Colette, or—or both, even better," he chuckled nervously, "I'll be back in no time, I promise."

Mirabelle's grip on his pants remained iron; her eyes fixed on him. 

Something in her gaze chilled Savos more than the cold outside, something he himself was feeling all too painfully: hunger. 

"Help… me…" she croaked, her face contorted in agony, teeth grit.

Savos froze. He wanted to run, but his legs did not obey, leaving him staring in terror at the pair of blooded fangs glistening in the fading moonlight.

It's Mirabelle , Savos told himself, still Mirabelle . 

His student. His right hand. His friend. If he were the one injured, cursed, and begging for help, would she run like a coward? Like he had so many years ago? Would she betray a friend in such a way? Like he had so many years ago? Savos straightened his back and clenched his fists. No. Mirabelle was brave and resourceful; she would find a way to help no matter the odds.

So would he. 

Maybe if he gave her time to acclimate to the presence of a mortal, or if he fed her indirectly-Rashkan could control himself even hungry or outright starved, so it had to be possible, right?

Against his better judgement, he turned to her. Fear clouded the hunger in her eyes. She averted her gaze and spoke, voice shaky, each letter a chore.

"Savos."

At the mention of his name, Savos' brows quirked upwards. 

"I'm here, Mirabelle. I'm here."

"Help me… Something… Something is crawling… crawling under my skin… It hurts… It hurts… Please, make it stop."

Her face distorted in suffering. Her fingers stiffened, then squirmed, freeing Savos of their grip. Mirabelle hunched over onto her hands and knees, which shook like ships' masts caught in a storm. 

"Help…" Crimson mist burst from the wound in her neck, surrounding her body. Her skin was pulsing like boiling water. Where it broke, more crimson burst forth.

Savos' breath caught in his throat, his mind racing against his heartbeat. 

What in tarnation...? What spell or affliction...? 

He stood still, trying to make sense of the scene before him, Mirabelle convulsing on the ground, her skin cracking like an eggshell. After staring in terror for far too long, his mind finally concluded:

Run! 

He spun around and dashed towards the door, steps unsteady, legs shaking, crying out every time his feet touched the ground. Never once did he think of stopping. 

He pulled the handle down and pushed. The door did not budge.

"Shit," he hissed. Why now? It had opened so effortlessly before. Why, oh why, did the gods have it out for him? He gave another shove. Nothing. Not a fingernail's width. By now, his heart was rampaging in his chest to the point he feared it would give out. He glanced over his shoulder. Crimson mist wholly enveloped Mirabelle. From it, a clawed hand, followed by an unnaturally long arm, jotted out into the dark. 

"Azura's mercy," Savos whispered.

In a last-ditch effort, he yanked the handle down and threw his all at the rotten wood. The door flew open, and Savos through it. Immediately, frost knocked the air out of him. He did not care.

As fast as his tired feet could carry, he ran. Across the courtyard. Towards the gate. The snow was squishy and slippery under his feet. For every step forward, he was taking one back. Was he progressing at all? He had to, for when he approached the gate, terror struck. It was whole again. 

Worse: it was locked. 

Savos glanced over his shoulder. The door to the Hall of the Elements was open, but there was no sign of that—that thing. Panicking, he grabbed the bars and shook. The gate did not budge. Defeated, Savos sank against it. His legs were shaking, whether from fear or exhaustion, he could not say; either way, they demanded a break. He took a deep breath.

It felt wrong. Everything felt wrong; the gate, the stone, even the air was foul as if Savos had stepped through a mirror into a nightmarish reflection of the college. Worst of all was the sky, which had miraculously shed its dark mask; Savos had never seen anything like it: A vortex of purple twilight twisting towards a black void, which hung over the college like a large pupil, watching all. 

A shiver crept up his back.

The sun was the hole Magnus left when he fled Mundus. So then, what monster was hiding in that black void?

From the murky depths of his mind emerged a picture and, with it, a name. Savos shuddered.

Coldharbour. Molag Bal. The Lord of Domination. The God of schemes. The King of Rape. The Father of Vampires. 

Again, Savos tried to conjure his Magicka. Again it failed. Worse, the attempt left his fingers feeling flayed. 

He turned to the not-college. Though the Hall of the Elements was left intact, the rest of the tower was crumbling, leaving bare the Arcanaeum and missing his quarters entirely. The arcades were in ruins, their remains piercing the purple sky like the mountains west of Winterhold. Savos squinted. Behind the wide-open door, something stirred. He needed to hide, yet his eyes refused to let go of the horror emerging from the door. 

It was unlike anything Savos had seen before: neither bat nor human, a grotesque caricature of both, drawn by an artist who knew the appearance of neither.

Its limbs were longer than they had any right to be, its skin dull and ashen as Savos' own. The wings were crippled, yet it floated on a cloud of crimson; the snowberry bushes caught in its embrace wilted and died. Savos pressed against the bars feeling incredibly small under the creature's impaling stare.

It would kill him. When it got close enough, the creature would kill him.

Savos' gaze fell upon a spot below the arcades. Another way out. Trembling hands grasped the bars of the gate. He breathed in deep, frozen air stabbing his lungs.

Three.

Two.

One.

Savos pushed himself off the bars and made a run for the trapdoor to the Midden. Something moved in the corner of his eye. Savos hurried, gritting his teeth and curving his back, chest out as if it helped him move faster. With a leap, he threw himself at his target. 

It, too, was shut tight.

"No!" Savos cried, tearing at the pull ring. "Come on you stupid door! Come on !"

The trapdoor did not move.

“Fuck!”

The Midden lay right underneath his feet. Survival lay right underneath his feet. 

It was not fair. 

A rusty old latch made ruler over life and death. 

It was not fair!

He tore. Tore. Tore. Panting; Panicking; Praying, knowing he would get no answer. 

"Aaa—"

Red mist caught him by the throat and squeezed. Savos let go of the pull ring and tried to flee, but the creature grabbed one of his arms and yanked hard. 

He choked a scream. 

Something snapped in his shoulder; torn sinews slithered through breaking flesh; hot blood spilt into the left sleeve of his robe, seeping through, staining the ground. The creature was on top of him, pinning him down with inhuman strength. His ribcage pressed against the stone. Savos gasped and gasped and gasped, drowning in crimson mist. A nauseating crack and his bones gave in. He whimpered, arm and legs desperately thrashing. Thick, heavy tears froze on his cheeks. Copper coated his tongue.

"Mira…," he rasped, "Mira…" 

Blood trickled down his chin and into his beard. He peeked over his shoulder; into hungering eyes. 

Mirabelle was gone.  

Filled with a strange sense of calm, Savos stilled. Tears blurred his vision; ragged breaths rattled through his throat. Mirabelle had to be gone. There was no way she would hurt him so.

Even cursed. 

Even as a monster. 

He closed his eyes. Perhaps it was for the better. That way, she did not have to suffer alongside him; she did not deserve it. Unlike—

A jolt of pain shot through his neck. 

One last time he attempted to scream.

But no sound ever left his lips.

Chapter Text

White, white, white. 

If there was one thing Rashkan did not want to see for the next couple of weeks, it was snow. Still, despite the terrible circumstances, it felt good to be on the prowl again. The thrill of the hunt, the sweet taste of vengeance at the tip of his tongue—morbidly intoxicating. 

He had to hurry. Above, cloudy castles stories high rose into the pitch-black sky: the vanguard of a blizzard. The coming days would be unpleasant, to say the least; for all the comfort it offered compared to the ancient Nord tomb of the coven, the college could be rather drafty.

A thousand bats dove down a steep face, their wings cutting the frozen air, breaking the nightly silence. Once, Rashkan hated his transformation. Each bat was a target that could leave him disfigured, limbless or dead if he was particularly unlucky. When some vampires could turn into mist and others into a single bat, what good were a thousand? 

Now, he knew. Never again would he want to trade this form for any other. A thousand eyes scoured the snow, a thousand noses sniffed for the stench of burnt flesh, and a thousand ears listened keenly for the sweet tune of Valdis' agony. 

The further down he flew, the more trees emerged before him. First, isolated giants bent under the weight of white cloaks. Then, dozens upon dozens huddled together beneath the sheets. Under their guarding branches, Valdis was the proverbial needle in the haystack. Rashkan reformed and leaned against a tree. The ground beneath his feet shook and quaked as though he were standing on a boat. All his saliva had evaporated, leaving raw the flesh of his mouth and throat. Fog blurred the outlines of his vision. The trees around him split, then unified again. His stomach convulsed; it took all his resolve not to vomit. Three transformations in a single night were definitely too many. When the ground became steady again, Rashkan managed to take a few wobbly steps forward, navigating around the snow-crushed branches of a large fir. Perhaps it would have been better to return with reinforcements, after all. If not to fight Valdis, then to find her at least.

But once they found her, could he have ensured she would not have revealed his nature to the vengeful citizens of Winterhold? Rashkan, Valdis—to them, it made no difference. One vampire was as good as any other: vermin for the Vigilants of Stendarr to exterminate. He shook his head. No help of theirs justified that risk.  

Aimlessly, he trudged through the forest, mourning the loss of his thousand eyes, his hopes waning with every step, a silent plea on his lips: A footprint, snapped twigs, anything, any clue, please !

But mercy was a concept foreign to the gods. Hours passed, and all they sent was more snow, which softly drifted through the ever-thickening forest. Step by step, it robbed him of his strength. Rashkan shot a pondering glance at the sky. Should the weather shift faster than estimated, he would have to give up and return to Winterhold. Undead or not, a blizzard was no joke. As he went on, more snow snuck past the sheltering needles. When the wind intensified as well, he heavy-heartedly decided it was futile.

Winterhold on his mind, he turned around when, out of the corner of his eye, he spotted something strange. In the lap of a monumental fir lay a black dot. Fire filled his hands and heart. Anything was a potential trap—it was Valdis he was searching for, after all. 

His worries proved unwarranted. The black dot was a bat—rather, what was left of it. The remainder of its fur was black as coal; its skin had melted, exposing the flesh. Rashkan smiled grimly at the gruesome sight; his zeal for the hunt renewed. It seemed Savos had been faster at turning Valdis into charcoal. Injured, she could not have gone much farther. Rashkan furrowed his brows. Again, his gaze darted up at the sky, then back to the bat. Snow be damned!

Searching the ground around the fir, Rashkan soon found another dead bat sticking halfway out of the snow. Then another. And another leading the way past pine after pine and up a slope. Valdis' injuries had to be grave. Definitely severe burns. Perhaps a missing limb. Maybe she was dead already. Rashkan's heart gave a squeeze. He was the reason Valdis murdered her way through Winterhold in the first place. If anyone should stop her it was him. Not the vigil. Not Savos. Him! 

Laboured steps turned into a driven march. The higher he ascended, the deeper the snow got, piled up by the wind. When he broke through the shield of snow and needles, Rashkan, too, felt its wrath whipping him with his own long black hair. His body was crying for rest and refreshment, but he could not care less. He was on the trail, and that trail led onwards, up and up, towards the tallest pine he had ever seen. Though battered, its branches curled and broken, it stood firm and proud. It would have taken three men his size—at least—to circle the trunk once.

Rashkan's hands flared up. 

Small. So small he nearly missed her, Valdis sat slumped between monstrous roots. Charred bats lay sprinkled around her like pepper.

As he approached, it became clear he had been right about the injuries: Exposed muscles and sinews made up the left side of her face, throbbing with a pulse of their own; what skin remained looked strangely waxen and had a mouldy tint to it, like cheese fondue left out in the open for way too long. Where her left arm should have been, empty tatters thrashed about in the wind, which failed to chase away the stench of burnt hair, though none remained on her head. On her clavicle, the tell-tale butterfly had lost a wing: A burnt trail led down her frail body laying bare the flesh underneath the charred cloth and molten skin. It, too, throbbed frantically. 

Rashkan grimaced and covered his mouth. Based on the trail of bats, he had expected it to be grim. But this? This was horrific. More cadaver than undead. Was it right to kill her in such a state? What honour was there in striking an opponent already on her last leg?

Hands still up in flames, he came to a halt in front of her. Bulging crimson eyes met his. A ghastly rasp rattled through her lips.

"Rashkan…," she croaked, every letter of his name dripping with contempt. "Come for vengeance?"

He wanted to snap at her, stuff those snide remarks from whence they came, but his lips refused to part. Fury welled inside him, rising higher and higher, a spring tide threatening to destroy everything in its path—only to be quelled suddenly, waves flattening into a gentle lull. His limbs felt as though stones were tied to each joint. Fog began clouding his mind and vision as though he were recovering from a fourth transformation.

Valdis leaned back, her eyes still locked with his, and gave a small smile, revealing fangs longer than any Rashkan had ever seen. 

She raised her remaining hand, her fingers aquiver. Traces of Magicka crystallised at their tips.

“You thought yourself so high and mighty when all you did was Licette's dirty work. Tell me, how many fledglings did you kill? How many mortals did you slay hunting for provisions?" 

Rashkan winced, feeling an itch on his back: a small scar below his shoulder blade. He remembered him well, the farmer; his cries for a chicken stolen, the flash of his knife and the flames that followed.

She was right, was she not? Blood stained his hands as much as hers. So, what right did he have to condemn her? Such arrogance he possessed to proclaim himself as better.

Somewhere, in the deep recesses of his mind, he knew: Those thoughts were not his own. 

Crimson eyes glimmering with cruelty, Valdis continued:

"Now, you would judge me? For a few lives? Or is different this time because you care?”

Rashkan grit his teeth. 

Those fledglings posed a danger, as did those mortals in case they tracked down the coven; though death they had not deserved, neither they nor any of the current victims. The guilt he felt was proof: There was nothing to compare. 

...So why could he not shake the doubt she planted? Why could he not free himself from its grasp?

Finally, what little Magicka she managed to summon took shape. An icy stake pointed right at his heart.

So this was it. Silver, ice—at that distance, Rashkan was doomed to be a pin cushion either way. Years ago, Beroth had been the one to free him of her spell. Now, there was no Beroth to save him. Beroth was dead. Dead. Killed for wanting to help a friend, to help him . And Savos? To die now meant Savos suffered for nothing-if he survived at all. If not...

Something snapped within him. Rage broke the calm, broke through the dams of doubt Valdis was building. 

Rashkan shot forward and gave her casting arm a sharp twist. 

Pop.

A scream. The ice spike burst into rime. Valdis wiggled her legs to kick him, but Rashkan pinned them down with all his weight. Long fangs razor-sharp snapped at the freezing air. He grasped her throat, slamming her head against the pine. Desperate eyes darted down to the dark fingers holding her in an iron chokehold.

"Why?" His fingernails dug into her paper-thin skin, breaking it. "Why?"

Valdis let out a choked whimper. A black mist began coating her. Rashkan reacted quickly. A burst of Magicka torched the skin beneath his fingertips like a piece of paper held over a flame. Valdis screeched. The black mist receded. A single bat crashed to the ground. Dead.

"Why?" Rashkan shouted, tightening his grip.

Valdis turned her head away from him, allowing a close look at the intact side of her face. Her cheek was gaunt, spiderwebs of black spread across it. 

It reminded Rashkan of Enthir, if much less severe.

"I—it's all your fault," she rasped. It spread again, that swamp beneath his feet. If Valdis had come for him, if she had sought him out for vengeance…? Did he make the college a target? Was he a danger?

Still, why the Stormcloak soldiers? Why that man under that sleigh? Why Enthir when he was already behind bars? None of it made a lick of sense. Unless… 

"You can no longer control it, can you?"

She glanced at the ground.

"Your fault... you should have killed me that... that—that cursed day."

Rashkan's eyes met hers, crimson and quivering with hate. A jolt of guilt shot through his chest. To deteriorate to a point where hunger consumed mind and body, to be barely more than an animal for all eternity. Was there a worse fate?

Beroth. The Stormcloaks. The man under the sleigh. Enthir. Kvin-Kvin. The guard. Savos. 

He clenched his jaw. His hands were trembling. From where his nails dug into Valdis' skin, black blood, thick and hissing, slithered down her neck.  

“Why?” He demanded. “Why did you come to Winterhold? How did you find me? Answer me!” 

“We met… at the sleigh…,” she gasped. Had it all figured out… but the hunger… If not you, then…”

Rashkan felt his stomach curl. She did not even have enough honour to confront him directly. Shaking now, he balled one fist.

Valdis laughed—if it could be called that, a sound haunting like wind blowing through the cracks of a ruin. 

His hand soared through the air, then struck with all his might, knocking her head to the side. A yelp squeezed past her bared fangs. Defiance locked eyes with Fury as her lips distorted into a devious grin.

“That last friend of yours…," she whispered, blood worming out of her burst lips. "Fight well, he did. Are you—are you sad he’s dead?”

It was tempting to strike her again, to wipe that disgusting grin off her face. Instead, Rashkan bared his fangs and stared her down, his eyes unblinking; his body so tense it might snap at even the slightest touch. Hate took on flesh that night.

"Savos survived." 

Valdis' eyes widened.

"And he will live," Rashkan said, shocked at the lack of emotion in his voice, considering what he was about to do. He bent over to whisper into her ear.

"Unlike you."

In a flash, Rashkan slammed her head against the pine and his fangs into her neck. Valdis flinched and squirmed in his grasp, but his stone grip kept her pinned to the tree. Her wide eyes filled with terror. Blood cold as the grave burned his tongue, slimy and slithering. He coughed. Thick black worms crept down pale skin. The first gulp was the worst; it clawed at the walls of his throat. Valdis' struggle turned into desperate thrashing. Again, she tried to kick him, but her legs stayed locked in place. Her head turned upwards as if to pray for help. 

Let her , Rashkan thought, Let her! As if Bal cares for her pathetic life.  

A deep gulp. A scream. It would not be the last. Rashkan smiled against her wretched, pale skin and forced down more blood. For all the suffering she caused. For Beroth. For Savos. He bit down harder, causing her screams to falter until thin wheezes were all that remained.

A nauseating crack. The wheezing stopped, as did Valdis' final attempts at bodily resistance. Bit by bit, her skin was breaking, snowing off her bones. The dead bats around her began to hiss and bubble as if doused in acid before they dissolved into black blood-sludge. Her dislocated arm drooped.

Crack .

It landed on the ground and crumbled into dust. Rashkan closed his eyes. Was this right? Perhaps he should burn her still? End it quickly? And yet…

Beroth. The Stormcloak patrol. The man under the sleigh. Enthir. Kvin-Kvin. That guard. Savos. 

Though not all of their names Rashkan knew, they still repeated relentlessly inside his head. Valdis had not shown Beroth any mercy when she turned him inside out, nor the Stormcloak soldiers whom she took from their families. The man under the sleigh never arrived at his destination, and Enthir spent days dancing on a razor's edge. Where was her mercy when she dumped Kvin-Kvin's lifeless body into that lorry to rot? Where her honour when she turned the guard's body into her puppet? Sinews snapped under the pressure of his bite. She left Savos to die! Piece by piece, her cheeks caved in and crumbled.

Rashkan drew a final, revolting sip, reeled backwards and toppled over. It was alive. Whatever remained of her assailed the walls of his stomach. Rashkan covered his mouth. He was heaving. Waves, hot and cold, washed over him in rapid succession. Rashkan took a deep, conscious breath. Icy air filled his lifeless lungs but failed to clear the nausea infesting his core. His vision was spinning, his focus fading, but enough remained for him to see the butterfly fall apart at the last.

Over.

Finally, it was over. So why did it not feel like a victory? Why did it taste so foul? Dark fingers dug into the thick snow, looking for something to hold on to. How could he return to the college like this? How could he ever look in the mirror after this? How could he continue living a normal unlife when she was there, gnawing at his conscience, eating him up from the inside? 

"It was necessary," he mumbled, making sure never to open his mouth past his teeth lest Valdis might crawl out of him. "It was necessary. It was necessary. It was…" 

Hours he spent cowering amidst snow and ashes, telling himself the words he was not sure he believed. Only when the shrouded sun began its ascent over the horizon, and black became grey did he finally find the strength to push himself onto his knees.

He had to bring home Kvin-Kvin's remains.

Chapter Text

Rashkan was trudging along the path to Winterhold. Kyne had fully unleashed her wrath upon the town and conjured a roaring whorl that erased what little remained of it, leaving him to struggle against a smooth wall of white only pierced by smoking chimneys once in a while. A black tangle smelling of smoke and corpses obscured his view. Snow crunched under and inside his boots, and—to his misfortune—a substantial amount had crept past the collar of his robe and was now rolling down his back like a miniature avalanche. His legs and spine creaked as his towering frame strained against the wind. 

He did not care.

His hands, which, had he been mortal, would have long been eaten by frostbite, clutched the little wooden chicken, shielding it from the storm behind stiff, rime-caked fingers; a pointless gesture, perhaps, but all he could do.

The chicken was all that remained.

Hours he had spent sulking in the dark, dreading the inevitable sorrow, the fury he was to face. How in oblivion was he supposed to bring Kvin-Kvin home when he could not even determine which limbs in that damn lorry were hers? It was as unsolvable as a puzzle whose pieces had been chewed up and spit out by a hungry Bristleback. Ultimately, he had resorted to setting the entire lorry aflame—a waste of time.

The chicken would suffice. 

Hopefully.

It was laughable—and, were it happening to another, Rashkan would indeed have laughed—to have one's fate rest upon a piece of wood shaped like a farm animal. Its eye bore into him, blaming him for Kvin-Kvin's tragic demise. Rashkan scoffed. It was just wood. Wood, wearing a painted illusion of life, but wood all the same. Was he really going to project human feelings on something so benign? Why did it bother him, anyway? What did he know of that girl—No, Vigilant? To her kind, vampires were nothing more than bloodthirsty beasts. Why would a Vigilant of Stendarr care for their lives, their friendships and the kin that mourned them upon their final death? Was it not easier to put down a rabid beast than end a life so similar to one's own? How high was the chance this Kvin-Kvin would have been any different?

Were he still with the coven, killing her would have been self-defence. At the thought, something inside him stirred, and for a moment, he thought he heard a wicked laugh. He was going insane.

When the Frozen Hearth finally emerged from the snow, his fists shook around the wooden chicken. Under different circumstances, he would have rejoiced at the thought of having a place to rest his feet and dry off. Now, the very idea of other people, let alone a tavern full of them, repelled yet enticed him like those red berries his mother used to warn him and his brother about when they were young, those that so resembled snowberries yet were ripe with poison.

Rashkan grasped at the handle and withdrew at the touch, the icy iron burning his skin as though it carried Stendarr's blessing. The rime-encrusted windows gleamed with the light of the tavern's namesake, and through the cracks and crevices in the peeling plaster, voices and the sweet scent of mortality—overwhelming, terrifying—seeped into the waning day.

Nausea clawed at his intestines. His stomach roared with a need he tried his best to suppress, but subconsciously, he licked his lips as thoughts of soft flesh breaking under his fangs and sweet—oh so sweet—blood coating his tongue flooded his mind. Maybe the Vigilants were right. Maybe, he was a beast after all; had he not killed Valdis in cold blood? Had he not gorged on her like a mindless bloodfiend? Maybe, he should have run far away. Or maybe, he should have stayed in that horrible cave, never to return. 

But return, he did.

Rashkan sighed, steeled himself, and finally opened the door. The Frozen Hearth was brimming with people drowning out the storm. Where once the air was full of onion and garlic, now blood drowned out every other scent. It was everywhere, pulsing through thick, juicy veins on unsuspecting mortal flesh: human-shaped webs of red. His eyes darted across the room, hoping to avoid Nelacar; friendly chit-chat was the last thing on his mind. Shuddering, he pushed through the crowd, each step bringing a new surge of nausea. Voices, one shriller than the other, tumbling over themselves; tankards and dice cups drumming against tables; cutlery clanking onto platters; it all bled together into headache-inducing pandemonium. Dagur stood behind the counter, washing a cutting board in a small, foam-covered basin. Rashkan marched towards him on tired legs, wishing for nothing more than blinders and something to plug his ears. 

"Ah, it's you. What can I—"

"Muzgog," Rashkan barked. "Where is Muzgog?"

"The orc vigilant? Why are you asking?" 

None of your business, Rashkan wanted to snap. But, if he did, Dagur would doubtlessly shut the conversation down entirely. Besides, he was too tired to argue.

"And here I thought the town blabbermouths had already done their due duty. Savos—" he cleared his throat, "— archmage Aren—was gravely injured helping Muzgog's companion."

"Companion?" Dagur frowned. "Oh, that little girl? Been wondering where she'd run off to." His face paled. He dropped the cutting board, dishwater flooding the counter. "Shor's Bones, she isn't…? Is she?" 

Rashkan swallowed. His gaze again darted to the small chicken in his hand, then back to Dagur, too tired to mask his discomfort. 

"Is he here?" He asked, keeping his voice down.

Dagur gave Rashkan a grave look, then nodded at a door to the left.

If entering the Frozen Hearth had been distressing, opening the door to Muzgog's room was impossible. Heavy hands shied away like two magnets of the same side. He must have looked a fool, motionlessly standing before a closed door, staring as though trying to tear it down with his mind alone. Then again, how many people in the room had ever delivered the gravest of news? If there was one solace—only one—it was that Savos was safe. Even if the confrontation should turn out disastrous, even if it resulted in a fight, even if they ran him out of Winterhold for being a vampire, Muzgog's honour as a Vigilant and his duty towards the town of Winterhold surely compelled him beyond personal grudges. Savos was safe. Now, all he had to do was live.

Rashkan gritted his teeth and gave the door a good shove; a blast of heat spewed out at him. The room was a sweltering furnace whose door must have been shut all day, for the air was thick and grimy and condensated on the only window, which the wind sought to tear out of its frame. In the room's small fireplace, oversized flames feasted on wood and kindling. The room looked remarkably lifeless: no carpet covered the step-scuffed floorboards; the furniture, a wooden dresser, two chairs, a table and a bed, lacked any decoration, and whatever animals had once adorned the spruce wood were now but misshapen fiends. Muzgog's robe lay folded on top of the dresser, and his massive fur coat was draped over it as if just flayed off the bear to whom it once belonged. Only a dust-greyed tapestry dangled limply above a backpack and two stowed bedrolls. If not for them, nothing would have indicated that a girl named Kvin-Kvin had ever stayed there. 

This room, too, was rank with blood. 

Muzgog was sat at the foot of the bed, his head resting on his arms. He was wearing only an off-white undershirt whose short sleeves strained around boulders of muscle, cracked with scars and pulsing red currents along the veins. Droplets of water clung to his short blond hair like dew to blades of grass before inadvertently falling and trickling down the rest of his head, a snowcap melting in the scalding heat of the fireplace. His face was dour, its crags having deepened considerably over his short stay in Winterhold. When he noticed Rashkan standing in the doorway, he tilted his head. 

The door fell shut with a thud. 

"It is over. Valdis—the vampire—is dead," Rashkan announced, shuffling around nervously. For something so small, it was amazing how heavy the little wooden chicken weighed on his hands and conscience. His lips pressed together tightly. His mind was scrambling, trying to piece together a meaningful sentence. How to tell someone of a loved one's death? Should he mention the state he found her in, or was it better to remain silent and spare Muzgog the mental image? And was it disrespectful to bring up the bargain right away?

Muzgog nodded in acknowledgement but did not say a word.

The silence was as wretched as the air, and while Rashkan could effortlessly abandon his sense of smell by refusing to breathe, he was doomed to hear every whispered sound: The tavern groaning in pain as the storm tore into it; snowflakes battering against the window like tiny arrows; muffled voices and tottering steps behind the door; the fire sinking its teeth into the remaining wood and spitting out sparks; Muzgog's heartbeat, if he strained to listen. 

It was too much. 

Too much.

He wanted to run. Where to did not matter; the college, Solstheim, even the cave—he even would have exiled himself to Coldharbour so long as he did not have to stay here. He closed his eyes and started mentally reciting the bibliography of Carlovac Townway, hoping it would take his mind off Muzgog and without drawing it towards his hunger and all the other troubles he was barely keeping contained.

"Kvin-Kvin won't be coming back, will she?" Muzgog said, at last, his voice heavy with a fatalism that must have been simmering inside him since they found Savos.

Rashkan flinched. His gaze fell to the floor. 'I am sorry,' he thought. He opened his mouth to speak, but no matter how many times he rolled them around on his tongue and chewed them tender, the words refused to come out.

Muzgog harrumphed, then leaned back, retreating into his mind, staring everywhere and nowhere. As if his soul had been sucked out by some nefarious spell, leaving only a husk. 

"I…I brought the little chicken. If you—"

A massive green paw reached towards Rashkan. 

"Please." 

Rashkan handed the chicken over to Muzgog. It seemed to drown in the vast expanse of green. For a moment, the mountain of an orc did not move or say a word. Then, with utmost tenderness, he took the little chicken, held it close to his heart and began to quake, then crumble until he collapsed in on himself with a choked whimper.

Not knowing how to react—let alone what to say—, Rashkan helplessly retreated towards the door; surely Muzgog did not want him there now, did not want to be seen in such a moment of weakness. With the weather getting worse by the minute, there was no way he would be leaving anytime soon. The bargain could wait.

Rashkan grasped for the handle.

"Stay," the rubble that once was a mountain grumbled. "Don't wanna be alone. Not now."

Rashkan swallowed and let go of the handle, taking a few steps back into the room before, at last, sitting down beside Muzgog. He raised a hand to pat him on the shoulder but stopped himself halfway through. Pushing through the crowd had been bad enough; who knew what touching a mortal would lead him to do, shielded from prying eyes?

They sat side by side. For minutes, for hours. Akatosh was barred from that suffocatingly hot room, leaving Rashkan at the mercy of his thoughts and growing needs. He clutched his stomach, feeling as though worms were slithering through his intestines, and yet, paradoxically, he was yearning for more, as if consuming Valdis had not sated him at all. He glanced at Muzgog, still a ruin, then the window and wished for the wind to rip it out so he might escape. In the fireplace, the flames finished up their meal and retired into embers.

"Dammit!" Muzgog roared suddenly. He dragged his hands across his face and huffed. Rashkan flinched. The walls had shaken at least a little bit; he was sure of it. "Why? Why must they always die young?"

Rashkan furrowed his brows. Inexperience, he wanted to say, thinking of all those apprentices felled by rogue spells; hubris, such as that of those fledgling vampires who thought themselves gods among men; bad luck, like those unfortunate souls whose turning was cut short by his hand. Thinking about it, he was not so different from those Vigilants, was he?

"I am sincerely sorry for your loss," Rashkan said abruptly, too forcefully and too stiffly.

Muzgog opened his reddened eyes.

"You ain't."

Rashkan shifted uncomfortably.

"Can't… Can't fault ya. Didn't know her, you did. Was a ray of sunshine, that girl. Always ready to help those in need and defend those unable to defend themselves. 'Til about a week ago, anyway. Brush it of as teenage troubles, I did. Never would've thought..." Muzgog sighed wearily. His eyes tethered to the wooden chicken, his forehead bent into a frown. 

"What happened to her body? Why didn't you bring it so I could take her to the Hall of the Vigilant for the proper rites 'n all."

Rashkan grimaced.

"Not much was left to receive those rites, I am afraid, so I tried to burn her, bring her ashes to you, but well... with hardly any kindling—" 

Muzgog raised his hand, and Rashkan fell silent once more. Another agonizing, long moment stretched out between them. What would happen if Muzgog decided he had failed his end of the bargain? Just as Winterhold was starting to feel like home, just when he had found friendship with Savos, Phinis and Nelacar. No way he could stay in Winterhold if Muzgog revealed he was a vampire. Rashkan crossed his arms in front of his chest, leaned forward and watched the gleaming logs. Thoughts of the lorry flashed past his mind's eye. He briefly closed his eyes and decided to focus on the window instead. Windhelm was out of the question; that freezing, stinking snake pit would never see him again, no matter how desperate he was. Maybe he should travel west, to the Pale—no, further west, to the heart of the Reach and farther across the Druadach Mountains. He shot a fleeting glance at Muzgog. The Vigil was active all over Skyrim; there was a good chance they would find him long before he crossed the border to High Rock. That left Solstheim as the only sensible option. At the thought, his heart gave a squeeze. How many years had passed since he left? He leaned back and counted. Forty, at least, almost fifty, actually. Would his parents even recognise him after all that time? Would they take him back? And his brother...—

"Dammit," Muzgog muttered again, quietly this time but still loud enough to bring Rashkan back to reality. "Should've never brought her to the Hall. Should've dropped her off with some farmer's wife and been done with it. A hard life, that, but still, a life." As he spoke the last few words, his lips quaked, and his voice lost the little bit of firmness it had regained and broke. 

Rashkan made a clucking noise with his tongue, scowling at Muzgog. The hulking orc glared at him through narrowed eyes, his temple pulsing red. Rashkan ignored him and sat up straight.

"And what a life it would have been: A life in fear. Of war, famine, illness, the creatures of the night and the daedra that spawned them. Until she died of some wolf or bandit or vampire—a life without any accomplishment," he spoke coolly, his eyes searching the wooden chicken and finding it still in Muzgog's massive hands. "When I arrived in this land, I was lost. Rejected. By my relatives, by the college. I was nothing; another dreg washed ashore in Windhelm, sobering up to the bleak reality of Skyrim. When I was at my darkest, had given up on life here, in this cold, cruel land, I met her. Licette Vantieve, the woman who made me what I am. She took me in with her band of hedge-mages and vampires. She gave me a home, people I called family, and a purpose," he looked Muzgog in the eye. "It was a bloody, hard life, but I would have rather died than give it up."

"And for that you took an ice spike to the gut."

"Mhm, exactly. What I am trying to say is: You gave that girl a gift greater than any other. You gave her a life with a purpose."

Muzgog sat still as a rock, staring at the fireplace, where, bit by bit, cinders became ash. Then, suddenly, he turned to Rashkan and laughed, a ragged sound like millstones grinding against each other.

"Spoken like a true stronghold orc; all that pompous talk of family and purpose. Pah, if I were of their stock, I'd be right with you." His expression shifted, and whatever fleeting mirth it contained vanished as quickly as it had appeared. "But I'm of Markarth. Never seen a stronghold from the inside."

Rashkan frowned, pondering the words, then stood, droplets of molten snow and a jolt of pain rippling down his spine. He cleared his throat but failed to rid himself of the awful dustiness that had accumulated throughout their conversation.

"Apologies, I originally intended not to bring up either subject considering your friend..." He stopped himself, not wanting to pour salt into a wound so fresh. "But how is Savos?"

Muzgog snorted. Rashkan answered by raising his eyebrows.

"Had barely entered the campus when that Breton harpy came flying, telling me to do this 'n that as if I didn't have my hands full of your tiny archmage, rattled down organs and spells and directions so quickly I could hardly follow. Seemed to know her stuff, though, so I'd say he's in good hands."

A soft smile flashed across Rashkan's lips. Savos was safe. He had been right to bank on Muzgog's sense of honour. Though monstrous in appearance and a Vvigilant to boot: the orc was a good man. Which left only one question: would he also be the better man?

"What's the second matter you wanted to talk about?" Muzgog's dark eyes narrowed curiously.

Rashkan grew stiff as a board, feeling nervousness take hold of him once more. 

"Well, since technically I did not bring Kvin-Kvin home—"

A massive green hand rose to silence him.

"Won't rat you out, not this time." With a melancholy smile on his lips, Muzgog held up the chicken. Its painted gaze crossed with Rashkan's. His mind had to be playing tricks on him, for there was no way a piece of wood could change its mood, but the chicken seemed at ease: as if it were happy to be reunited with Muzgog, as if it were glad to be home. "This. This is still more than enough."

As if a boulder got lifted off his shoulders, Rashkan's body fell slack. He could have hugged Muzgog then and there were it not for the thirst yet to quench. He grinned broadly, allowing a glimpse at his fangs, for once, without fearing the consequences.

"Thank you," he said, bowed and bid Muzgog farewell. It was a relief, if he was honest. Too long had he borne witness to grief, been reminded of the fragility of mortality. Enough was enough. He had opened the door by a bit, ready to weather another onslaught of company before locking himself in the midden until he happened upon Phinis—and through him, a desperately needed dinner—when he turned around and shot Muzgog a final glance. Muzgog had moved to revive the fire, stoking it vigorously and muttering at himself. Rashkan pricked up his ears. There was not much to make out amidst the cacophony slipping past the door; curses, assertions of guilt. At last, a complete sentence:

"It would have been a life."

Chapter Text

He was snow, a flurry driven past the college colonnades, floating until it joined the Sea of Ghosts, and he became water, a living wave in an endless ocean, far from the shores of tangibility, one of many thoughts caught in an eternal ebb and flow. From it, single ideas reached out like the hand of a dying man, only to fall limp and vanish back into the grand whole without so much as a ripple.

From fathoms deep below, voices whispered syllables without rhyme or reason, a myriad of sounds vaguely familiar, like the earliest memories of childhood. He listened keenly as the tide rocked him gently, calm and content, drifting, dispersing within streams of consciousness.

Where was he? Why was he there? Was he even? He tried to find the answers, but his mind was as grey as the oceans and the sky surrounding him, though where either ended was a mystery, for there was no horizon, only endlessness. Currents carried him everywhere and nowhere, past a young tailor counting coins, a lecturer at the arcane university, a battlemage in the Great War, a famed alchemist, and many more. Like ghostly acquaintances, they rose from the water, then dissolved like seafoam, leaving him with only more questions. Who were these people? Did they exist? Did he know them? 

As he skimmed his mind, something scuttled across his surface, tickling him. At first, he thought it a leaf or a seabird, but a flash of warmth and the forgotten sensation of touch made him realise: it was hair, which someone gently brushed behind his ear. Another touch, and he knew he was neither snow nor water nor thought but skin and flesh and bone. In an instant, liquid became solid and thought flesh again. The sea began to boil. Waves rose high and clashed like warring colossi. Savos thrashed his arms wildly, trying to escape their onslaught, but it was futile; he might as well have wanted to fly. Wounded, they went down and buried him in a liquid tomb.

He gasped, but no water filled his lungs. Nor did it soak his skin, yet it was water that now dragged him under; what else could it be? Deeper and deeper, he sank; past faces long gone; his grandparents, his parents, Hafnar, Atmah, and the rest of their ill-fated expedition, apprentices lost to stray fireballs, and old friends lost to time. In the undertow, the voices became louder, the syllables whole words, and eventually disembodied conversations. He pricked his ears.

He knew those voices. Where from was an enigma, but he knew them all the same. Were they classmates he had not thought about in years? Or the children with whom he had roamed the crafter's quarter in his youth?

"Savos?" From the chatter rose a voice so familiar it spawned a name. "Savos!"

Kraldar. There was no doubt about it; that voice belonged to Kraldar. Though nowadays they saw each other only a few times a year, fifty years were enough to commit anyone's voice to memory, let alone that of an old friend. 

"Kraldar!" Savos called out, the water muffling his voice without drowning him. There was a commotion, frantic shouting silenced by a second voice. "Colette! Kraldar!" Savos screamed and began to swim downwards. If Kraldar and Colette were here too—wherever here was—they might have answers. 

He swam and swam and swam, but the voices remained as distant as before, as if he were chasing a mirage in an endless watery waste. He did not know how much time he spent swimming—longer than possible for an elderly dunmer like him—, but eventually, he lost all sense of direction, and down became up—or had up become down? Instead of the darkness he was sure to find in the depths, the water turned from midnight blue to turquoise until isolated rays of light pierced the blue. Had he swum the wrong way? Savos took an impossible breath and kicked his feet. His legs ached as if he had run from Winterhold to Windhelm. His arms were quivering, threatening to give out, but Savos kept swimming until the water became bright as day, and shards of light glittered before his eyes. The surface. It had to be. He still did not know where he was or why he was there, but he was sure: there, on the other side, in the blinding white light, lay his salvation. Was his home. Using what little strength remained, he swam, the water thickening around him with each passing second. The voices shrieked and wailed. Savos looked down at himself: A multitude of disembodied tendrils was tugging at his legs like some apocryphal nightmare. He screamed and squirmed, for he knew: If that thing won, he would dissolve again to become someone else's vaguely familiar face. Each sinew, each muscle cried out as he struggled and kicked and screamed. The light was getting brighter. He closed his eyes and, in a last—ditch effort, struck the thing with his foot. 

Reality hit him like the waves which battered Winterhold during the Great Collapse. He groaned. It was like his nerves were exposed from skin and flesh, scraping against the blanket crushing him. His arms felt grown into the bed, and he had all the trouble lifting them. His fingers were stiff and swollen, and Savos feared they would break if he tried to bend them even a little. Despite a warm cloth on his forehead, the cold lingered inside his veins as if some winter spirit had taken hold of him. 

Slowly, he cracked open the heavy, crusty lids shielding his eyes. Acidic light trickled past his lashes. It burned and burned and burned until the pain wandered to his forehead, where it became solid and started hammering against his skull. Savos let out a soft groan and closed his eyes once more.

Parting his lips tore the sensitive skin; although they formed a word, all that escaped him was a dry breath. He would have traded his toes—perhaps even a finger—for a glass of water. Thankfully, his prayers were quickly answered: Colette or Kraldar poured a glass and brought it to his lips. It was lukewarm and tasted slightly rusty, but each drop filled him with more warmth than any hot tea he ever had. He gulped down the first glass, and when he finished, he eagerly emptied two more.

"Col…" he mumbled and tried to reach out, but his arms refused.

"I'm here, archmage." A hand gently touched his shoulder. Judging by the voice, it belonged to Colette Marence.

"Cold," Savos croaked, his voice almost failing at the last letter.

The hand disappeared. A moment later, another blanket pressed down on him. It did little to chase away the cold, but the additional weight was a comfort immeasurable. It told him that he existed, was alive, was here, away from that terrible place of suffering and torture, and had escaped the depths of the Sea of Thought.

"Better?" asked Colette.

"We ought to place a bedpan under him. Make it nice and cosy," Kraldar said.

Colette disapprovingly clicked her tongue. "It has to be slow, Kraldar, like with frozen meat you plan to cook."

Savos imagined himself in a pot full of broth, floating past potatoes and carrots. He gave a weak chuckle. It was an excellent idea, if he was honest. Though the lids were still leaden, he managed to open his eyes again. This time, the light burned still but less like acid and more like soap. He was not in his chambers, for the room lacked the characteristic blue glow cast by the magelights above his garden. It also lacked the pungent smell of lavender. And the drafts of cool air from the ceiling, a fact Savos was tremendously thankful for.

"Where…?"

"Faralda's room." Colette shrugged. "Was the closest; she's moved into yours in the meantime. It's been almost five days since your arrival. I gave you the antidote in time, but you just wouldn't wake. It was like something was holding you back—isn't that right, Kraldar?"

Kraldar nodded. It was then that Savos noticed how groggy he looked. There were deep circles under his eyes, and his hair was unkempt. He also wasn't wearing his beard in its usual tied-up fashion. The loss of his nephew must have been hard on him.

"The big orc brought you here—and in the nick of time. You see..." As Colette explained everything she fixed and all the things he did not even know needed fixing, the fog in Savos' head began to clear. Memories returned like snowflakes falling to the ground and covering it white.

The Vigilants.

The valley.

The mine.

The cart with the body parts.

Verna.

Savos' stomach turned. He had failed. Again.

"More water, please," he rasped and promptly got his wish. "The vampire… I didn't… She's…" No matter how hard he tried, the word 'alive' did not want to cross his lips. He had sworn to bring an end to her. He had failed. Like his entire life, the hunt for the vampire threatening his home and his friends was a complete failure.

"She's dead," Colette said, an uncharacteristically smug smile on her lips. 

"She'd better be, else I'll go and… and.." Kraldar balled his fists.

"Shush now. Or would you like to share our archmage's fate? Be roommates? Hole-in-the-gut mates?" Colette chided. "You're no warrior, Kraldar."

Kraldar pursed his lips like someone desperately holding back a cough. Colette was right. Although a true Winterhold Nord, an education at the heart of the Empire had moulded him into the feeble cliché of an aged politician rather than a hardy warrior. 

"Phinis told me she's dead. And he knows it from Rashkan. And Rashkan… Rashkan killed her, I believe? I haven't seen him in person since Enthir." 

Enthir... Savos had to give it to the tough old goat; his near-death had been much more graceful. He smiled, but his expression dulled quickly. Rashkan had not visited him at all? Even though this mess was his fault in the first place? Savos huffed. Some friend, Rashkan was. More importantly, however, who was feeding him? Could he...?

Savos shifted uncomfortably. His skin stretched over his flesh like a fitted sheet on which someone had placed a sizeable rock—restoration magic at work. His hand grazed his abdomen, combing through a forest of fine hair until it reached a bare patch the size of a saucer. The skin was raw, and his fingers set the newly restored nerves alight, yet he needed to touch it; needed to believe the wound was indeed closed. That he was going to live.

Colette noticed his movement. She turned to him fully.

"If I wore a hat, I'd tip it to you," she said. "Confronting that vampire, then surviving the trip here with a hole in your gut…" She smiled proudly.

"Restoration… is a… a valid school of magic," Savos wheezed, a shadow of a laugh. To his confusion, Colette did not join in. Instead, she looked around the room as if she wanted to say something but forgot what it was.

"There's… um… something we need to discuss …"

She pulled up a stool and sat down next to Kraldar. Her entire posture radiated tension.

"I have good and bad news. The good news is I was able to save your fingers." She took a deep breath. "The bad news, however..."

Having an inkling, Savos strained to move his toes. A ripple went through his body as though he were pulling marionette strings. The blankets around his feet hardly shifted, so to check on his movements, Colette threw them back, blocking Savos' view with a mountain of wool. He pulled once more and felt the big toes on each foot twitch.

Then the second biggest and the one after.

Then, on the right side, nothing.

On the left, nothing.

"I'm sorry, Savos, but the frostbite was too severe. You must have had wet feet for a while in order for it to progress faster than the infection could halt it."

Savos thought back to the underground lake. He looked at Colette in disbelief. It made sense after everything that had happened, but that did not make it any less surreal. They were just toes—hardly comparable to his fingers, ears, nose, or other sensitive body parts people had famously lost to frostbite. Still…

"Centuries out here—a miracle you still had them all," Kraldar quipped and laid a hand on Savos' shoulder. "Don't fret. My pa only had one toe left and lived well into his seventies."

Savos smiled weakly. Seventy was not nearly as old as Kraldar imagined. "I know. I knew your dad." 

He flexed his toes again. In his heart of hearts, he knew it was futile, but still, nestled in his mind was this belief that, if he only tried hard enough, his missing toes would manifest out of thin air.

Big toes. Second biggest. Middle ones. Nothing.

Big toes. Second biggest. Middle ones. No—

"I'll go tell the others that you're finally awake. The rest of the faculty has been needling me with questions since your arrival; I can't wait to tell them the good news."

Before Savos could reply, let alone thank her for her efforts—though he doubted he could ever repay her—Colette was out the door, leaving him and Kraldar each other's mercy. Kraldar turned to him. He wore a curious expression. Not quite pity, not quite relief, not quite remorse. As if the rest of his body were not heavy enough, Savos' heart sank. Their last meeting seemed a lifetime ago, their good terms even longer. Oh, how they had argued over the body of Kraldar's nephew. Savos grimaced. What did he want?

"Kraldar," Savos rasped. 

"Good to see you in one piece. When they said they'd found you half dead, I feared the worst. And Master Marence telling me the laundry list of things she had to fix didn't exactly help matters."

Savos gave a weak chuckle. "That's Colette alright…"

Kraldar's shoulders slumped. "I owe you an apology, old friend. I was grief-stricken and jumped to conclusions, and when you came up to me, after everything, and said you wanted to examine my nephew's dead body—Julianos knows what you meant by that—I…" He sighed, staring at his feet.

Lifting a hand was like trying to pick a leaf off the frozen ground, and Savos was scared his skin would tear the same way. But it did not, and trembling; swollen fingers took Kraldar's hand. Kraldar smiled gently and covered Savos' hand with his own. They were rough like worn leather but oh so wonderfully warm. How something so simple as human touch could delight him so, Savos never would have thought.

"Can we let bygones be bygones? After all, you nearly died."

Savos frowned. The monster, the pain… His limbs were all there—excluding the toes—and had never been absent. Had his feverish mind conjured it all up while the infection wreaked havoc on his body? Was it all just a bad dream? But it felt so real. Nightmares, even at their worst, did not come close to the terror when that monster chased him, nor to the pain he felt when it tore him apart. Nor had any nightmare ever brought him to a Sea of Thought.

"I… It was..."

"Try to relax. You've gone through so much in the last couple of days. If what Master Marence tells me is true, you were screaming your lungs out the whole time."

"I was…," Savos mumbled, closed his eyes, and snuggled into the blankets as though he needed the coarse wool to remind him again that he was home, that everything would be all right now. That he was alive. 

Alive! 

A laugh burst from his lungs, which convulsed in agony, as did the skin of his abdomen. It did not matter. 

"Savos? Sheogorath's beard, what's gotten into you all of a sudden?"

Savos laughed and laughed until exhaustion overwhelmed him.

"Savos?" Kraldar was looking at him with concern as if he wanted to call Colette to check for damage to his head.

"I'm alive."

Chapter Text

Winterhold was full of ghosts. 

Some whispers in the night when the college was fast asleep; some spectres in the fog when even the bravest fishermen dared not set sail; others more tangible, the blurry visions of drunk students or elusive scholars long forgotten, even by the gods. It had been seven days since Rashkan joined their ranks.

Seven days of haunting college grounds, hiding from his fellow mages, yet yearning for them evermore. How foolish to think he could ignore his hunger. To believe everything would return to normal. Feeding on Phinis had sustained him at first, but like Valdis preyed on Winterhold, hunger crept up on him one meal at a time. Then two, three and four per day until his fellow college members transformed into tempting red spectres that haunted him even through the thick stone walls, their beating hearts a luring call louder than a dragon’s roar; their scent sweeter than psijic ambrosia. A feast for the senses, torture for the mind.

Seven days in limbo between the midden and that tiny book—stuffed chamber he called home, though it had lost the warmth the term implied. Since his return, the entire college had become veiled in an unnatural cold, as if he had stepped into a twisted mirror image of Molag Bal’s making. Teeth rattling, he ran a quivering hand through his greasy black strands. No doubt he looked as wretched as he felt. Gaunt. Thin. Withering. His mind too clouded to care about trivialities like basic hygiene. Ink stains littered his robe and fingers, which clutched a crumpled letter. For all his writing prowess, it had taken the better part of the week to put it together, the quill sluggish and the ink tough like tar.

Seven days a ghost.

In that time, how often had he stared through the small gap between the door and the wall of the makeshift infirmary that once was Faralda’s room? How often had he reached for the handle only to withdraw as if the metal were white hot?

Could he face Savos after everything? Injured, sleeping, vulnerable. Could he guarantee hunger would not get the better of him? Would not drive him to finish what he had started in the snow? He had almost given in; how much harder would it be now that Valdis’ blood festered in his veins and poisoned his mind? He glanced at the letter. That accursed, wretched, heavy thing sealing his fate. Perhaps it was best to slide it under the door? It would be safer that way. 

It would spare Rashkan from difficult explanations and disappointed crimson eyes. The eyes of the man who had given him so much, and even fed him with his own blood. His friend.

Rashkan wanted to scream.

Savos was his friend, dammit! His friend, who now lay in that bed like a corpse. Because of him.

His eyes stung as he gazed into the dark. The room was distinctly Faralda’s; only the salves and potions on the bedside table, and an array of bandages halfway hanging off it hinted that the frail, faintly glowing body under heaps of blankets belonged to another. The stench of medicine and illness was all-consuming, and the patient’s blood... Rashkan clutched his stomach, stopping to breathe, convulsing as nausea slithered through his guts. He wished he would throw up and vomit out Valdis’ blood and guilt alike.

Running away again? A voice taunted deep inside his mind. His or hers? 

“It is necessary,” Rashkan whispered. To her or himself? “I am not running away.”

Running implied defeat. Cowardice. Fifty years ago, he ran—the action of a younger, far more selfish mer tired of his responsibilities. No, he was not running, not this time. He was protecting them. From her? From himself? Did it matter? Rashkan gritted his teeth. He had dug himself deeper than he could climb out of. And yet, he could not go without a last goodbye. He owed Savos that much.

Counting down slowly, he balled his fists and clenched his jaw, trying to silence the aching of his fangs before finally stepping into the small, dark room. He felt like an intruder, some nightmare come to claim its victim. What little of Savos peeked out from under a thick layer of mammoth wool blankets was swollen and covered in little blisters. It was a reminder of how fragile mortal life was, how easily taken away by injury, disease, or even just the cold. Absentmindedly, Rashkan grazed his abdomen, tracing the old scar underneath thick velvet. Savos did not deserve this. Did not deserve any of this. And he did not deserve Savos.

A bitter smile crossed his lips. He could almost hear Savos berating him for such a thought, telling him everything was going to be fine; that he was no threat. Stubborn old fool. No doubt Savos would try to stop him if he got the chance.

Good thing the old mer was sleeping.

He sat the letter down on the nightstand. By the time Savos read it, he would be long gone. 

“I am not running away,” Rashkan whispered to himself.

His gaze fell upon a pair of crutches leaning against the headboard. A bitter taste spread across his tongue as the image of a small, run-down house on the outskirts of Raven Rock flashed before his mind’s eye. Estranged yet familiar. His heart gave a squeeze. His brother’s crutches had been taller, always leaning against the wall by the wardrobe, casting haunting shadows across their shared bedroom. Rashkan sighed, staring at the floor. A fool he had been to think he had found a home. Now, he never would.

Your kind will not have you either, that voice in his head gloated. Rashkan grimaced, knowing it was right. A vampire who had fed on another; Valdis’ blood carried the mark of his actions; a brand seared deep into his veins. They would sense it, shun him, hunt him if it ever came down to it. No home among the living, no home among the undead. Nowhere. And still, nowhere was better than here. At least nowhere he could not harm his friends. At least, if he were nowhere, the college would be safe.

“Sorry, my friend…,“ Rashkan mumbled. A soft, choked noise escaped his lips. “I hope you will not hate me. Not for this, nor any of the whole… mess.” He stood still for a moment, allowing himself one last deep breath. It was a gamble, but he needed that comforting hint of lavender, parchment and fresh soil, of tea, and Savos’ sweet—oh so sweet—blood that had nourished him daily since he had come to Winterhold. Goosebumps broke out across his skin. His fangs throbbed painfully. He could almost taste it on his tongue—high time to leave.

“Farewell,” Rashkan whispered and spun towards the door when his foot caught, causing him to stagger, barely catching himself.

Clank!

Rashkan hissed. He glimpsed over his shoulder at the fallen crutch. Always the damn crutches! The blankets rustled. He dared not move.

Stay asleep. Please, stay asleep.

Savos’ blistered and bruised face emerged from under the covers while crimson eyes fluttered open with a groan.

“Huh?” Savos yawned. “Rashkan? What… What are you doing here?” He looked Rashkan up and down, skipping from ink stain to ink stain. “You… you’re a mess.”

Rashkan swallowed, unable to look Savos in the eyes. Those ever-sad crimson eyes would soon fill with disbelief. With disapproval. With disappointment. Necessary. Rashkan reminded himself. It was necessary.

Without a word, he pointed at the letter.

Savos furrowed his brows and Rashkan could see the gears shifting in his head. He slowly turned to Rashkan, his lips parted in a small ‘O’.

“Don’t tell me—?”

“I am leaving,” Rashkan said, spitting out the words like spoiled food. “I am leaving the college.” His gaze darted towards the door and he briefly wondered if it was better to leave then and there.

Coward, laughed that voice in his head. Rashkan straightened and finally met Savos’ eyes. “I am not running away.”

“But then why—?” Savos squinted and lifted his head off the pillow. “With that vampire dead, this nightmare is finally over. She can’t harm us anymore.”

“I know… but I can,” Rashkan said firmly, still staring at Savos. His skin felt as if ants were crawling under it. “I will.”

“Rashkan,” Savos said calmly, “We had this discussion when we were seeking ice wraith teeth. I can keep you in line if need be.”

Rashkan shook his head. “What if you are away? Or asleep?” Or unconscious, or injured. “Or dead—you almost would have been,” Rashkan continued, remembering Savos in the snow. Bleeding. Helpless. 

Tempting.  

You would have loved to feed on him, that voice whispered in his mind. Though he wanted to deny it, deem it only an intrusive thought; a little slip of control easily reined in, Rashkan knew better.

“Rashkan, these last few weeks have been hard on you, I know, but you’re overreacting.”

He would have fed on Savos. Eagerly. Rashkan’s stomach gave a triumphant howl. He shuddered and bit the inside of his cheek. Even now, he wanted it. Especially now. Savos was on the mend, his blood replenished, yet he remained so wonderfully weak. An easy target, alone in that dark room, confined to that foreign bed.

Rashkan straightened, steeling himself to speak. Each moment spent in that small room so full of Savos was torture. He had to shut the old mer up and leave. Fast.

“No Savos, I am being cautious. I should have known something like this would happen. You should have known. It was only a matter of time. Please stop trying to convince me to stay. I will leave. That is that.”

“Dammit Rashkan,” Savos grumbled. “Don’t be ridiculous.” He sat up, his blankets falling to the floor, exposing the old mer’s collarbone.

Rashkan felt his chest tighten. His fangs throbbed as his mouth filled with saliva. He swallowed, trying to calm himself, but his eyes kept straying, landing on Savos’ neck. Though his heart did not beat, something inside him pulsed just as strongly, if not stronger. A need so primordial and base it made his hair stand on edge.

“Rashkan,” Savos said gently, haphazardly fishing for his crutches. “You couldn’t have known she was alive, nor that she would track you down. You’re being too harsh on yourself.”

The longer Savos talked, the more his words turned into a distant buzz, barely more noticeable than the waves or the wind gnawing on Winterhold. Two red lines crossed the grey flesh of his neck, pulsing with each beat of his heart, bright like the fires of Red Mountain at night. No matter how hard he tried, Rashkan could not tear himself from the view. Never had he seen anything more beautiful, anything more mesmerising. And never had he wanted anything more than he wanted Savos’ blood.

All he had to do was take it.

“You’re not like her. You’re—Rashkan?” Savos’ voice faltered. His crimson eyes stared up at Rashkan, and for the first time, they were full of fear. “Rashkan?”

Rashkan tackled Savos against the headboard, pinning his hands above his head. Savos’ breath hitched in surprise. His heart was beating so frantically, the red pulse of his carotid arteries became a steady glow, drawing Rashkan in like a moth to a flame. Rashkan bared his aching fangs. Savos writhed and wiggled, but the old mer was weak and still recovering from his ordeal.

“Rashkan? Rashkan?!” Savos kicked weakly, yelping in anguish when his foot met Rashkan’s hip. Rashkan did not flinch, his grip tight like a vice. His fangs scraped across Savos’ neck, cutting and scarring, before burrowing deep into his flesh. The moment the first blood touched his tongue, Rashkan gave a purr. A wave of contentment broke over him. Savos let out a choked wail, thrashing and kicking, but Rashkan did not budge. He bit harder, caught in an undertow of liquid ecstasy. Distant whimpers, the pounding of Savos’ panicked heart—all bled into hot coppery bliss.

“Ra…n… st…p…”

He closed his eyes, lost to the world around him. It was like entering a hot bath after a long day in the snow. Bit by bit, the tension eased off his body, and his grip relaxed. No more worries, no more fear, no more hunger. 

Cold.

A shiver swept over him, gripped him and squeezed into his flesh. He felt watched, as though something was creeping up on him, that at any minute, some unspeakable horror worse than he would jump him from the shadows and turn him into prey. Coming closer… closer… 

Rashkan shuddered violently, his fangs ripping from Savos’ neck with a sickening sound, making him whimper. Blood trickled down his chin and into his goatee. Panicked, he opened his eyes and backed off the bed, allowing Savos to slip free.

It took a moment for him to reorient himself, but when he did, he found Savos lying on the bed, one hand casting a healing spell on his bleeding neck while the other was directed at him, a cold, bright light spreading out from it. 'Turn Undead', Rashkan noted. Savos once used it on him when he got too greedy. Back then, he ended up under a table.

“Savos…?”

“Are you mad?!” Savos cried. His outstretched hand trembled, but did not lower. He was panting, and his eyes seemed to pop out of their sockets. His grey skin had taken on a sickly pale tinge. “What’s gotten into you?”

Rashkan withdrew further until his back hit the wall, and sank to his knees.

“I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry,” he mumbled. His throat squeezed shut at the realisation of what he had done. This was it. The final straw. The one that broke the guar’s back. 

You’re not like her. Savos’ words echoed in his mind. What was she? An out-of-control beast desperate for blood. He scoffed. And what was he?

“I ate her,” Rashkan whispered into his knees.

Savos leaned forward, mustering him with wide-open eyes. “Sorry, I didn’t catch that. What did you just say?”

Before Rashkan could reply, the door burst open, and Colette rushed into the room.

“Archmage? I heard shouting. What’s...” Her voice trailed off as she froze, her eyes fixed on the bloody scene before her. Without hesitation, she prepared a healing spell in one hand and a ward in the other. “By the gods, what’s happened here?”

“I ate her!” Rashkan yelled, unable to restrain himself any longer as the ramifications of the act slowly sank in. He had broken the one taboo honoured by mortals and vampires alike. “Her blood! I drained her like a leech!”

The room was so quiet one could hear a pin drop, and his mind a chorus so loud it made his head pound until he feared it would burst and splatter his regrets across the wall behind him. If only he had not returned to the college. If only he had not entered this damn room. If only Savos had stayed asleep. If only… 

He screamed, running his hands through his hair again and again, scratching, tearing, until his scalp broke under his nails, and a trickle of blood ran down his forehead.

“Rashkan,” Savos said. It was rare to hear the archmage’s voice so full of concern. Then again, he had just been attacked by a friend turned fiend. He slipped off the bed, Colette steadying him. She had dropped her ward but kept a repellant spell at the ready—just in case.

“Stay away!” Rashkan cried, pressing against the wall as if he wanted to disappear inside it.

Savos, damn bloody stupid old fool he was, did not listen. His legs shook with each step, and his face distorted in pain every time he set his feet down.

Your fault

Rashkan grimaced.

Yes, it was his fault. Damn it all, it was!

He jumped to his feet. No way he could allow Savos to come any closer. Sated, he was, for now, but the clock was ticking; another attack not a matter of ‘if’ but ‘when’.

“I am sorry,” he breathed, his shoulders slumped in defeat. One last time, he took in the pitiful sight of Savos and Colette. They would recover. Winterhold would move on. Without him.

“So sorry.”

With heavy steps and a heavier heart, he ran for the door, leaving behind the little life he had built at the college, and for a brief moment, he thought he heard a laugh in the distance.