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Chapter Text

Summer, 4.E 181

It had been some years since Sheogorath had walked the earth, at least in the body that had once belonged to the Hero of Kvatch. How funny it was to shed the silver beard and pale face in exchange for wavy dark hair and blue-gray skin, to button up one’s waistcoat over the body of a strong young woman instead of a wiry old man.

Every year it grew easier and easier to forget that she had once been a mortal. That she’d had parents who died, and a sister who disappeared, and a best friend who had sacrificed himself to save the fabric of reality. It hadn’t been easy, being Sacha Llervu, but it had been real, and was worth remembering.

In this she had one advantage over her predecessor. Jyggalag had always been a solitary Daedra, but mortal-born Sacha had relatives–specifically, the descendants of her sister Falura, who had managed to marry and start a prolific family. These relatives, every so often, descended on an unremarkable village in southern High Rock.

She stepped through the veil between worlds into a copse of trees, quickly reassembling from a swarm of butterflies into her original form. Not that it wasn’t good fun, being a cloud of insects, but one couldn’t really enjoy one’s dinner like that. And there was so much to enjoy, here on the mortal plane. That sunlight that was so much warmer than the Isles’ artificial glow, the earthy smell of the air…even the inhabitants’ prissy insistence on sanity, or the appearance of it.

She wasn’t alone in the trees, Sacha realized, coming to a halt. A chubby girl of seven or eight stood at the foot of a slim birch with her hands on her hips, frowning at a shape in the branches above. Her starched white apron and pinned-up brown hair made her look like a shrunk-down thirty-year-old.

“If you’re going to climb up a tree, you should plan a way to get down,” she scolded. “I can’t think of everything, Bertie.”

The branches rustled and parted slightly, revealing a small fair-haired boy in a grubby smock. He was wedged in a precarious-looking spot against the trunk. “It’s too tall,” he whined. “Please, Soph, it’s scary.”

The girl sighed. “Fine, wait here and I’ll go get Mum.”

“No!” Bertie wailed. “She’s too far, I’ll fall down in a minute! Climb up!”

Sheogorath would have played on his fear, laughed at it, but Sacha had at least a mild sense of honor when it came to children. She took one long stride forward and briskly lifted him off the branch, depositing him next to his sister. Both children stared at her, wide-eyed, as she looked them over. Placed together, the two didn’t have much of a resemblance, but Sacha’s sharp eyes picked out some familiar features. The boy had Falura’s fine, unruly hair, the girl had the Llervu nose, and they both had the Nerevarine’s light gray eyes. 

“Who are you?” the boy asked cautiously. There was a faint aura of bright orange light around him–the sure sign of a charmer and a troublemaker, someone who might be either a knight-errant or a master thief.

“Who am I, duckling?” Sacha gave him a wolfish grin. “I am Sheogorath, the Madgod, the Skooma Cat. And,” she added, as the child looked ready to wet himself, “if you are who I think you are, I am also your Aunt Sacha.”

The girl had composed herself quickly, and held out one hand politely. “You must be here for Mum and Dad’s anniversary party. I’m Sophrine, and this is my brother Bertie–thank you for helping him down. How do you do?”

Amused, Sacha took her hand, and froze in surprise at the vision that burst to life in front of her. The facade of a prim miniature adult couldn’t hide the swirls of polychrome light that flashed through and around the girl’s body, fast as darting insects. Little Sophrine probably had her relatives fooled, and even herself, but it was Sacha’s business to recognize marks of destiny.

Poor child.

“You’re the ones who live in this village, aren’t you?” she asked suddenly. “Your parents are merchants, or something?”

“Yes, we are. My father runs the inn,” Sophrine informed her. “I’ll take it over from him when he’s too old to cook.”

“Sure of that, are you?”

The girl shrugged, with all the confidence of youth. “Why wouldn’t I? That’s how it usually happens.”

Because soon enough you’ll be swept away from your family on the tides of a fate you didn’t ask for and don’t want. You’ll be asked to fight forces older than time, confront things mortal minds were never meant to take in, and by the time you’re done you won’t recognize the innocent country girl you started out as. You’ll be some strange half-divine creature with as many shapes as there are leaves on a tree.

Some things just ran in families, like silver eyes or big feet.

“Well, best of luck to you,” Sacha said cheerfully–the god of madness was always cheerful, never anxious or sentimental. “But I’ll be keeping a very close eye on you, young lady, and your brother as well. Now, lead me to this party of yours. I’m expecting a grand array of cheese.”

Funny thing about that light, she reflected, as the children dutifully guided her back to the village…it looked almost familiar. She’d have to ask Marty about it next time she saw him, though goodness knew there was no getting a straight answer out of the Avatar of Akatosh these days. The things divinity did to a person.

Chapter Text

Hearthfire, 4.E 201

Amaal at-Zakana regarded herself in the mirror with satisfaction. She flattered herself that she’d put together the perfect first-impression ensemble: a cream-colored linen shirt with no traveling stains, a light blue waistcoat that contrasted stylishly with her warm brown complexion, trousers with a dozen pockets for notebooks, sketching materials, and snacks. There wasn’t much she could do about her boots, which were ten years old and caked in mud, but at least they proved she wasn’t afraid of a little mess.

“You can do this,” she told her reflection sternly. “You’re smart, you work hard, and you can get along with anyone. They’d be idiots not to take you.”

It helped, a little. She patted her dark curls into place, shot the mirror a wink, and made her way downstairs to the Bannered Mare’s common room.

“Morning, Hulda!” she said brightly, dropping onto a bar stool. “Could I trouble you for some apple dumplings and coffee?”

The innkeeper laughed. “Between you and that Breton wizard girl, I’ll be out of coffee beans in a month. Then again, it’s nice to have some customers order something other than mead or ale.”

The breakfast arrived a few minutes later, and Amaal tucked in with gusto. Hulda watched her approvingly. “I like to see a girl with a strong appetite,” she said. “Makes a cook feel appreciated. Judging from your fine clothes, I’m guessing today’s the big day?”

“Sure is.” Amaal took a rapturous bite of apple dumpling before continuing. “I hope they’re not too shocked, with me being a foreigner and all.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t worry about that. They’ve hired all sorts of folks…even elves.” Hulda gave her an encouraging smile. “Breakfast’s on the house, dear. Good luck.”

It was a perfect early-autumn morning as Amaal hopped up the steps leading to the Wind District. Whiterun was her kind of town, for sure: lively, friendly, lots of fresh air. She couldn’t wait to explore the plains and forests surrounding it. With any luck, she’d soon be getting paid to do just that, instead of surviving on hardtack to stretch her travel budget.

The giant upturned ship that constituted Jorrvaskr dominated the middle level of the town. Amaal briskly knocked at one of the giant doors, which was promptly opened by a tall dark-haired man. 

She remembered this one. Big, earnest, and a bit thick, just how she liked them. The burgundy paint around his eyes made him look like he’d missed a few nights of sleep, but it was a decent aesthetic for a warrior.

“Farkas, right?” she said. “Good to see you again.”

He looked up and nodded politely, eyes raking over her. “Morning…um, Amy?”

“Amaal, but you were close! Who here would I see about a job?”

“You’re looking to join up?” Farkas looked mildly surprised. “Well, I reckon we could be doing with some new blood around here. You should go downstairs and talk to old Kodlak, he’ll sort you out.”

“Will do. Any advice?”

Farkas paused, deeply considering this. “Hit the other fellow before he hits you,” he said at last. “And don’t touch my brother’s things. Vilkas…well, he’s got a temper on him.”

Amaal nodded and smiled. “But not you?”

He shrugged. “Eh, I leave that to the folks with stronger opinions than me. I do my work, I come back here and have a drink, life goes on. What’s there to fuss about?”

“That’s very wise,” Amaal remarked. “I can see you and I will have a lot to talk about later, but for now, I’m on a bit of a quest. Wish me luck!”

–

The housekeeper gruffly directed her to Jorrvaskr’s main office, which was located downstairs at the end of a shockingly messy hallway. In the room itself, two men sat at a worn, knife-marked table. On the left was a fellow in steel armor who bore a strong resemblance to Farkas–this, then, must be Vilkas, the one with the temper. On the right was a dignified, elderly white-haired man with a swirling red tattoo across one cheek.

“...I don’t know if the rest will go along so easily,” Vilkas was saying, his brow furrowed. “We’ll do our best, though.”

“Leave them to me,” the white-haired man replied. “I flatter myself that I still have a bit of influence around here.”

Amaal coughed lightly to get their attention. “Pardon me, gents. I hope I’m not interrupting anything, but Farkas said you’re the ones to speak to about work.”

“You’re the lass from Hammerfell, then?” the older man, who must have been Kodlak, asked. “Aela mentioned you might be dropping by. She said you lent a hand with that giant at Pelagia Farm.”

“That was you?” Vilkas frowned. “Aela said you smacked into her while you were catching butterflies, and you ended up beating the giant with your net.”

“He’s dead now, isn’t he?” Amaal retorted. “And it’s hardly my fault the local butterflies are so interesting.”

“If you’re hoping to join the Companions, I hope you’ve got more skills than chasing butterflies like a schoolgirl,” said Vilkas stonily. “We’re a guild of warriors, in case no one told you.”

“Now, then, I should think anyone who can defeat a giant with a butterfly net is a warrior indeed,” said Kodlak. He gave Amaal an encouraging smile. “Come have a seat, my girl. Vilkas, why don’t you go and prepare the sparring ring for her test?”

It couldn’t have sounded less like an order, but Vilkas nonetheless stood with a curt nod and departed, obedient as any soldier. At a gesture from Kodlak, Amaal sat in the vacated chair.

“He doesn’t seem to like me much,” she observed. “Did I do something wrong?”

“I wouldn’t worry about Vilkas,” said Kodlak. “The boy holds himself–and, indeed, everyone–to very high standards. Impossible, some might say. It makes him rather sharp. But for now, let us talk about you, Amaal. What brings you to Skyrim?”

“Well,” said Amaal. “Animals, mainly.”

“Ah!” Kodlak’s bushy eyebrows went up approvingly. “You’re a hunter?”

“When I need to be, though I prefer studying animals to killing them. My family runs the Stros M’Kai Zoological Garden, you see, and I came here to study the local wildlife,” Amaal explained. “I’ve got four siblings back home, so my being away won’t cause the family any hardship.”

“Well, you’ll certainly have plenty of chances to meet–and fight–the local creatures if you join us. What do you know of the Companions?”

“You’re mercenaries of a sort, aren’t you? Honorable ones, that is,” Amaal added. “Fighting off bandits, serving as bodyguards, that sort of thing. Keeping giants away from folks’ crops.”

“All that, and sometimes more. Ours is an old company with a noble–if sometimes messy–heritage,” said Kodlak reverently. “We can trace our lineage back to the original five hundred companions of Ysgramor, who came to this land from Atmora thousands of years ago.”

And were absolute bastards to the elves living here, though Amaal, though she decided not to mention this for the moment. “A long history indeed. And you’re the boss?”

“Not precisely, no. I am the Harbinger.”

Amaal raised an eyebrow. “Harbinger? That’s an interesting title. So you…foreshadow future events?”

Kodlak chuckled, not noticeably offended. “You could say that. It’s an old title, and has been interpreted many different ways, but I personally think of it like this: if the Companions are a family, I’m the wise old grandfather. I give advice, not orders. Guide, not control. If that means the young people around here make some foolish mistakes–well, that’s how they learn.”

She liked this old fellow, Amaal decided. And being a pest-hunting, swashbuckling Companion sounded like a more interesting source of income than being a farmhand or housekeeper.

“Well, let’s get to it, then,” she said brightly, and hopped up from her chair. “I might be a zookeeper’s daughter, but we know a thing or two about swordplay in Stros M’kai.”

Chapter Text

Sun's Dawn, 4.E 202

The old Braidwood Inn hadn’t changed much in the last few months, but then, why should it have? Things didn’t change in Kynesgrove. Maybe Roggi himself had changed, but even he would probably fade back to normal after a few weeks back in the mines. Or he’d end up as the town eccentric, a lonely old man constantly rambling about his heroic youth. 

Neither fate sounded like much of a good time.

It was early enough in the afternoon that most of the townsfolk were still down in the mine, leaving the inn practically deserted. Only two people were inside, both of whom looked flabbergasted to see their old friend walk through the door.

“You’re back!” Iddra cried. She threw down the rag in her hand and darted to the doorway, throwing her arms around his waist. “Kjeld didn’t think we would ever see you again, but I knew  you wouldn’t forget your old friends.”

Kjeld snorted good-naturedly from his chair. “Listen to her, putting words in my mouth. I figured you’d be back at some point, unless you got rich.” His gaze flicked to the empty doorway behind Roggi. “Where’s that mouthy Breton gal?”

Roggi winced. He’d been expecting the question, but that didn’t lessen the sting of it. “Sophrine,” he said, “is probably off on some world-saving adventure. She didn’t tell me her plans.”

Iddra and Kjeld exchanged a significant look. 

“I’ll bet you could use a drink,” said Iddra, her voice deliberately casual. “Come have a seat, get yourself warm. Then you can give us all the news.”

Roggi gratefully collapsed into the chair across from Kjeld, obediently taking the mug Iddra handed him as she joined them at the table. He was intentionally slow in drinking–it had been a long trip, and his friends could stand to wait for their gossip.

“So, fine,” he said at last, when the warmth from the mead had finally spread to his frozen toes. “First, I should probably explain that Soph and I…” He trailed off, not quite sure how to put it. Fell in love? Might have got hitched? Fucked in half the major cities of Skyrim?

Fortunately, he didn’t actually need to say anything. Iddra slapped the table triumphantly. “I knew it,” she declared. “Didn’t I, Kjeld? When those two first met I thought, ‘If they don’t fall in love, I’m a Thalmor officer.’”

Kjeld nodded. “Aye, I knew you’d bed her eventually. Just your sort of woman–annoyingly cheery, obsessed with food and drink. Pretty, though,” he added as an afterthought.

“Aye, that’s so.” An image flashed into Roggi’s head of lying on his cloak in Eldergleam Sanctuary, with chestnut hair tickling his nose and large, soft breasts pressed against his side. He pushed the memory down before it could start affecting him. “Doesn’t matter now, anyway.”

“But what happened?” Iddra asked. “Did you quarrel? Don’t tell me she ran off with some other fellow. She seemed like such a nice girl.”

“Nah, nothing like that.” Roggi rubbed his nose, trying to put together an explanation that wouldn’t sound like he’d been at the skooma. “It was at the hot springs near Windhelm, see. We were relaxing, having a laugh, the usual…and then a dragon showed up.”

Iddra and Kjeld burst into laughter, which faded awkwardly at the look on Roggi’s face. “You’re serious?” said Kjeld incredulously. “A damn dragon?”

“A damn dragon. Swooped down from Bonestrewn Crest like a hound chasing a bone. Nearly pissed myself, I’ll admit, and Soph–I’d never seen her that terrified. All set to run, which wasn’t usual for her. ‘Course, now I know why.” He took a bracing sip of mead and went on. “But she didn’t run, in the end. She got the beast’s attention, drew it away from the other folks there, and breathed fire at it.”

Iddra paled. “That’s impossible.”

“She did it, though. And when the dragon was finally dead, its skin sort of dissolved, and Soph, she…she absorbed its soul.”

The silence that followed was so thorough, Roggi could hear a goat bleating up the hill. Kjeld, at last, spoke up.

“Roggi,” he said, “what the fuck do you mean?”

“What I say. Look, I can’t put it in words very well myself, but the dragon’s soul left its body, and Sophrine just breathed it in.” If he’d been a better-educated man, maybe he could have explained the situation better. But even a College-trained bard would have struggled to describe what had happened that day at the hot springs.

There had been light, he could say that much. A vision-searing rainbow of light that had shot toward Sophrine like an arrow from a bow, pouring into her eyes and mouth and lifting her feet off the ground. For a moment she’d been unrecognizable, like a glass saint in some temple window.

She’d tearfully explained, afterwards, about being Dragonborn, but she’d barely needed to. Roggi had taken one look at that glowing figure and thought, with utter certainty, She’s not human.

“Gods, what a thing,” breathed Iddra, when Roggi had explained this the best he could. “You must have been terrified.”

“‘Spose I was, yeah.” Though, confusingly, the fear had been mixed with a sharp bite of lust. He’d originally fallen for a sweet, cultured girl with a gentle heart–there was no good reason for his nights to be filled with embarrassing dreams of that same girl with golden scales covering her smooth skin, and fire in her eyes.

“Well, it’s for the best you came back,” said Kjeld decisively. “I know you cared for the lass, but you’ve got no business messing around with dragons. Leave that nonsense to the Greybeards and their ilk, that’s what I say.”

I could have made it my business, Roggi thought rebelliously. I’m not such a dull rube that I couldn’t have stayed with her. If she hadn’t been so damn keen on protecting me…

“Would you two excuse me for a moment?” he asked, and abruptly pushed back his bench. The room suddenly seemed tight and oppressive, and if he didn’t get some air, he was liable to explode.

Outside, the sun was just beginning to set, streaking the sky with magenta and gold. Roggi rested one elbow on the fence around the pigsty, feeling rather like some sentimental poet fellow. Sophrine had always loved Skyrim sunsets; she’d said they made the whole place feel like paradise.

“Nice view, isn’t it?”

Roggi looked over his shoulder to see Iddra, arms folded and looking at him sympathetically. “Reckon it is,” he said with a sigh. “I’ve looked at that view nearly every day since I was born, and now it seems I’ll be seeing it every day until I die.” 

“You really don’t think she’ll be coming back, then?”

“Nah.” He shook his head. “Why would she? People like Soph have grand destinies, and belong with other important folk. I’m just lucky she let me follow her around for a while.”

“I think she was lucky to have you,” said Iddra softly. “And I’m sure she knows that.”

“You know the worst part?” Without waiting for an answer, he went on. “For a long time, I thought she was going to be my escape from this place. Not that I’m not fond of Kynesgrove–you and Kjeld and the kids are like family, and the mine’s decent work–but, well. Part of me hoped I’d be able to do something with my life other than digging up malachite.”

“Trust me, I know what you mean. You think I always dreamed of being a country innkeeper with about ten customers and a philandering husband?” She laughed bitterly. “Yes, I know all about his little trips up to Windhelm, but I stopped fighting with that man a long time ago. What’s the use? I’ve got my work, I’ve got the children, I’ve got good friends. Besides,” she added, with another wistful glance across the valley, “it really is a grand view.”

She patted his shoulder and strolled back to the inn, humming tunelessly as she did so. Roggi looked back over the valley below wistfully, reluctant to go back inside.

He slipped a hand in his pocket and was surprised when his fingers brushed against cool metal. Gods, he thought he’d gotten rid of those cheap rings days ago…yet here they were, like some kind of cruel joke.

Maybe four days earlier, when Sophrine had met with Jarl Ulfric, Roggi had feigned a cold and dashed off to the pawnbroker’s in the Grey Quarter as soon as she left. The shopkeep had seemed shocked to have a Nord customer–a polite one, at least–but he’d scrounged up the rings quickly enough, and even given Roggi a fair price for them. If that dragon hadn’t shown its face, he’d probably have proposed to Sophrine that very day. He’d had all sorts of dreams for the two of them: settling down somewhere cozy, maybe opening a meadery or tavern, with dogs and cats and a few kids running around.

It was a nice plan, and it was never going to happen now.

Roggi tossed the rings into the mud at his feet, grinding them down with his heel for good measure. Let the pigs eat the damn things; there would be much greater treasure awaiting a Dragonborn.

Chapter Text

Sun’s Height, 4.E 203

Lucia glanced around the dimly-lit tunnel, twisting her hands in the fabric of her skirt. “I really don’t think we’re allowed down here, Hroar.”

Her brother shrugged. “Why not? No one ever said we weren’t.”

There was some logic to this, Lucia had to admit. Mama and Papa were busy helping Uncle Olaf with some big meeting, and their orders had simply been “Go explore, but be careful!” No one had said a word about whether exploring the Midden was included in being careful.

“There’s all sorts of stuff down here,” Hroar said confidently, raising the lantern he’d swiped from the Hall of Attainment. “A machine that makes spells…a ghost who sees the future… maybe even buried treasure.”

“And monsters and daedra and spiders.” Lucia shuddered. “You know your wooden sword won’t work on them, right?”

“Maybe it will. I’ve been practicing, you know.” Hroar stopped suddenly with an eager gasp. “Take a look at that, Lucia!”

It was pretty obvious what he was referring to. In the tiny chamber in front of them, perched on a candlelit pedestal, sat a huge black glove, its fingers outstretched as though it was reaching for something. On the surrounding floor were a few scattered bones, which Lucia tried not to look at too closely.

“I wonder what it is,” said Hroar, tapping a finger on the glove’s smooth surface. “Something magic, for sure. If I put it on, do you think I’d be as strong as a troll?”

“I don’t think you can put on a glove that big. It’s the size of your head. Maybe Papa could, but he probably wouldn’t want to.” Lucia’s eyes alit on a small roll of paper at the base of the pedestal, and she gingerly reached forward to pick it up.

“What’s that?” asked Hroar.

“A report about what happened to this glove. It says some students were down here doing an experiment. They all died…peeled and bubbling skin on the arms and face… ew!” Lucia cried, dropping the paper. “I don’t want to be peeled and bubbling, Hroar!”

“Stop blubbering, we’re not going to be.” Hroar picked up the report and scanned it eagerly. “Hey, this says there were four rings involved. Stashed away in the Arcany…the Arcane…the library. If we go find them, we can figure out what those students were trying to summon.”

Lucia folded her arms. “I’m not going to help you summon anything. Peeled and bubbling, remember?”

“Suit yourself.” Hroar tossed her the report. “You can stand guard here, then.” Without waiting for a reply, he darted back down the tunnel the way they’d come.

It was several agonizing minutes before he returned, during which Lucia huddled in a corner trying not to jump at every tiny sound. She wasn’t a coward, she kept assuring herself; it was just that dark tunnels and mysteries were much less worrying in Mama’s stories than they were in real life. The sight of Hroar’s lantern bobbing down the tunnel made her almost faint with relief.

“Got ‘em!” he said brightly, extracting a small ivory box from his pocket. “Old Urag wasn’t even paying attention. Too busy talking to the grown-ups about literacy or something. Were you okay down here?”

The unexpected kindness made Lucia flush. “I was fine,” she said. “Not scared at all. Are we going to put the rings on the glove, then? How do we know which one goes on which finger?”

“You’re the detective, aren’t you? I’ll bet you can figure it out.”

Grudgingly, Lucia took the box and inspected its contents. The rings were almost identical, made of the same tarnished silver, but their stones were different colors, and she could make out some slight differences in size. She said a silent prayer to Sheogorath–the Prince of Madness was technically family, and would probably approve of such a crazy idea–and slipped the rings, one by one, onto the appropriate finger.

The giant hand snapped into a fist, from which an eerie red light began to glow. For a moment Lucia thought she could hear ghostly wails in the air. The red glow swelled and shot out from the glove, where it coalesced into a blobby, person-like shape–and from that shape, a man stepped out.

From the neck down he looked fairly ordinary, dressed in a worn linen shirt and leather waistcoat over baggy breeches, a curved sword hanging from his belt. It was his face that was terrifying. His dark greenish-gray skin was streaked with blood red markings, his eyes were black as night, and two sharp, curling horns grew out of the back of his head.

“Who summons me?” he roared, in a voice that sounded like gravel being smashed. “If you wish to parlay with Velehk Sain, then…” He broke off, taking in the sight of Lucia and Hroar nervously edging away from him. “Oh, for the love of flame, not again. Why is it always bleedin’ kids?”

Hroar, Lucia noticed, had gone pale and bug-eyed, like a fish. She sighed and stepped slightly in front of him. “We’ve summoned you, so you can’t kill us,” she said firmly. “I know the rules. Who are you, and why were you trapped in a glove?”

“Who am I, little worm?” The dremora grinned, revealing sharp gold teeth. “I am Velehk Sain, Pirate King of the Abecean–you’ve probably heard the song about me. As for what I am doing here…” He cast an irritated glance at the gauntlet. “The last group of drippy-nosed students who summoned me thought they were pretty clever, setting up that binding spell. But their souls are in Oblivion just the same.”

Lucia took a small step backward and surreptitiously took Hroar’s hand. “You can’t put our souls in Oblivion. Our mother is the Last Dragonborn.”

Velehk did not look very impressed. “Why should I care what your mother’s job is? If you’re going to play about with conjuration, you can’t go crying to mummy every time someone like me shows up. Never fear, though, I won’t stoop to destroying sniveling infants. Instead, I’d like to propose a deal.”

“What kind of deal?” Hroar asked shakily.

“Those wizard kids are dead and gone. Challenging me to a duel, or calling for your mum, won’t change that. So why not work something out that will benefit the three of us?” Velehk’s face split in a terrifying smile. “Here’s my proposal. You brave little worms set me free, and I’ll whoosh back to my adventures on the high seas, never to bother you again.”

“That’s not a very good deal,” Lucia pointed out. “What do we get from it? Other than being left alone, which we would still get if we killed you.”

Velehk gave a harsh, gravelly laugh. “You drive a hard bargain, girly. Very well, then, how about this? Before I was trapped here, I managed to stash away a tidy bit of treasure, not too far from here. It’s yours if you set me free.”

Lucia glanced uncertainly at her brother. “Hroar? What do you think?”

“I mean,” Hroar muttered, “I don’t really want to fight him, do you? And if we get treasure out of it, Ma and Pa won’t be so cross with us.”

There was a certain logic in that, Lucia had to admit. Not that she thought Mama and Papa would throw her out, like her horrible aunt and uncle had, but tracking down pirate gold couldn’t hurt.

“You’ve got a deal, Mr. Sain,” she said. “What do we have to do?”

–

The adults were gathered in the Hall of the Elements, which Lucia thought was the prettiest place in the world. It had tall stained-glass windows, like a temple, and torches with pale blue fire were set into the walls. Exactly the sort of place that would host a grand royal ball, involving mistaken identities and possibly a mysterious death. 

Mama and Uncle Olaf–who was really a cousin, but that wasn’t important–seemed to still be having their important meeting with the Jarl of Winterhold, while Papa stood slightly off to the side, half-listening and half-reading a book. Jarl Korir looked fine enough, but if one looked closely, his clothes were patched and his red hair badly needed cutting. Mama had explained that everyone in Winterhold had been poor since the Great Collapse all those years ago, and she and Uncle Olaf were trying to make things better.

“And I have your guarantee, Dragonborn?” the Jarl was saying to Mama, his bushy eyebrows drawn together. “I can’t stake my hold’s future on the word of some…college boy.” This last part was directed at Uncle Olaf, who looked as though he was trying not to laugh.

“Of course, Jarl Korir,” Mama replied smoothly. “Arch-Mage Olaf and I are both deeply committed to this initiative, and the students will welcome the chance to serve their community. I’ll personally stop by at least once a year to ensure things are running smoothly.”

“Mama!” Hroar cried, racing forward. Lucia trailed behind, irritated–surely her brother knew how rude it was to interrupt. “You won’t believe what we found in the Midden!”

“The Midden?” Papa snapped his book shut and frowned down at them. “Who gave you permission to go in there?”

Mama sighed. “Technically, we didn’t tell them they couldn’t. Thank Mara you’re all right. What did you get up to down there?”

“We, um…we accidentally conjured a dremora pirate,” Lucia admitted, shuffling her feet. “It was okay, though, he didn’t hurt us. He was trapped in a big black glove, and said if we let him go back to his boat, he’d give us some treasure.”

“Oh, gods,” Mama groaned. “You didn’t release him, did you?”

“He probably would have sliced us to bits if we hadn’t,” said Hroar. “But it all worked out! He just poofed back to sea, and left us this.” He pulled a crumpled, ash-stained map out of his pocket and handed it to Mama.

She looked at it, eyebrows raising sharply. “I see. Well, that was generous of him, wasn’t it? This shrine isn’t terribly far from here.”

“Can I come?” Uncle Olaf blurted out. His cheeks turned bright pink when the others looked at him. “I mean, I know the area quite well, that’s all.”

“Of course you can,” said Mama decisively. “We’ll make it a family excursion. And here’s an idea, Jarl Korir: I’ll donate half the value of anything we find towards rebuilding Winterhold. How does that sound?”

As the Jarl sputtered in grateful surprise, Papa bent down and squeezed Lucia and Hroar’s hands. “I’m proud of you kids,” he whispered. “Next time you summon a daedra, though, ask your ma for help.”

Chapter Text

Midyear, 4.E 202

Muireen was not a woman given to bragging. There had never been any need to, in her old life. People in the Reach knew and feared the Red Falcon by reputation, just as they had known and feared her parents.

But Donal and Aifa were dead now, executed by that usurper Jarl’s soldiers–and as far as anyone knew, the Red Falcon had died as well. Muireen had a new family now, and she would not brag to them about her skill in battle, impressive as it might have been. She would simply do as she was told.

The first contract Astrid had given her certainly seemed simple enough. Kill some Breton woman, do it discreetly, report back for payment. The target hadn’t seemed particularly intimidating, either: she was short, plump, and dressed like a schoolteacher.

Unfortunately, as the saying went, appearances were deceiving. Muireen barely had time to draw her dagger before a sharp pain hit her arm, and she was knocked out cold.

When she finally came to, she was tied to a chair in a damp cavern, her target standing in front of her. Muireen tried to conjure a flame to burn through her binds, but nothing happened.

“A spell won’t help you at this point, I’m afraid,” the woman said calmly. “My blade was poisoned. It won’t kill you, but it certainly does a number on your magical abilities. You won’t be going anywhere just yet.”

“What d’ye want from me, you madwoman?” Muireen snarled. 

“Let’s start with the basics, shall we? What’s your name?”

Had she been able to, Muireen would have stubbornly crossed her arms. She had avoided torture by Jarl Igmund’s soldiers, but had no doubt in her ability to withstand it. “I won’t be telling you a thing.”

The woman shrugged. “All right, then. Have fun living in this cave with no food and no chamber pot. I should be heading home to my children anyway. My magicka poison is very long-lasting, so I’ll see you in…a week, maybe?”

A week! Muireen shuddered involuntarily at the thought. She could survive alone in the wild for years, but to be stuck frozen in place for a week straight, starving and filthy… The woman turned as if to go, and Muireen let out a low growl of annoyance. “Oh, for the love of Sithis, fine. I’m Muireen. No surname. Happy?”

“It’s nice to meet you, Muireen,” said the woman. “I’m sure you know who I am, since you’ve been hired to kill me, but just to keep things civilized: I’m Sophrine Aulette. Most people know me as the Dragonborn.”

Muireen tried to keep the shock from showing on her face. “Nord nonsense, that is,” she said sharply. “Don’t tell me you’re a puppet for those dragon-obsessed barbarians.”

Sophrine tilted her head to the side and said, “ Fus.”

Had Muireen’s chair not been set against the cave wall, she would certainly have been knocked halfway across the chamber. As it was, that Word hit her like a blast of wind, making her teeth shake. 

“I’m no one’s puppet,” said Sophrine softly. “I’ve been traveling all over this land for a year trying to do as much good as I can–for the Nords, for the Reachfolk, for anyone who asks me. But I am, as you’ve probably guessed, very dangerous when I want to be.”

Muireen swallowed hard, mouth dry. “What happens to me now?”

“Well, that depends on you,” Sophrine replied. “I’ll be honest, Muireen, you’re not the first Dark Brotherhood agent sent after me. I think you’re the…fifth, maybe? And I probably don’t need to tell you what happened to the other four. I could kill you as well, but I’d really rather not. Especially since I’m pretty sure I owe you one.”

This was not, it had to be said, what Muireen had been expecting. “Owe…me?”

“You killed Grelod the Kind, didn’t you?” Sophrine smiled. “Gave all those poor kids a better home and a chance to get adopted. That was a noble thing to do.”

“How did you know about that?”

“Constance mentioned seeing someone who looked like you in Riften the day Grelod was killed. I didn’t think anything of it at the time, but seeing you in person I put two and two together,” said Sophrine. “So you see, I really do owe you one. If you hadn’t killed that old woman I never would have been able to adopt my son Hroar, and he’s the sweetest nine-year-old in Skyrim. I’m truly grateful.”

“Um,” said Muireen. “You’re welcome?”

“With all that in mind, I don’t think we need to resort to violence. However, I do have a question for you.” Sophrine crossed her arms, brow furrowed. “Who hired you to kill me? It won’t be the Thalmor, I know, they’ve already tried with their own people. Ulfric’s a stubborn bastard, but he’s honorable enough to fight me himself. And Alduin…well, he’s a dragon, and I doubt he knows what money is. Who was it?”

“I don’t know,” said Muireen. “Really, I don’t. The bosses don’t usually tell us–I guess folk pay to stay anonymous.”

Sophrine sighed. “I guess that makes sense. In that case, Muireen, maybe we can make a deal. When you get back to the sanctuary, tell Astrid…”

“Wait,” Muireen interrupted. “How do you know about Astrid?”

“Snooping in Maven Black-Briar’s cellar. Not important. I want you to tell her that I’m taking out a contract on whoever took one out on me, and whatever they’re paying, I will triple it. I know the Brotherhood is all about rules and traditions and honor, or so they claim, but I also know they’re as greedy as anyone else. Shouldn’t think your superiors would pass this up.”

“You sure?” asked Muireen. “Could be quite a bit of money.”

“You let me worry about that,” said Sophrine with a wry smile. “Managing the Thieves’ Guild does have some benefits. So, is everything clear to you?”

Muireen considered her options briefly. Once she was freed, she could still attempt to kill Sophrine, fulfilling her contract and tying everything up neatly. The odds of actually winning, though, seemed slim. Besides, the Dragonborn was sort of–nice.

“Aye, we’re clear,” she said. “I’ll relay your message to Astrid.”

–

“So, you’ve failed me,” Astrid said coldly. “This doesn’t bode well for your future in our organization, Muireen.”

“I wouldn’t say I failed, ma’am,” Muireen replied. “I’ve just reversed the contract and brought in triple the money. All in all I’d say we’ve come out ahead.”

Astrid shook her head. “Normally, I’d give you a good beating for insubordination. But you’re right, money is money, and you’re bringing us a tidy sum. I only hope the good people of the Bannered Mare won’t miss their bard too badly.”

Muireen smiled, and said nothing. She had no need to brag.

Chapter Text

She was young, even for a human. If she’d seen thirty winters then Paarthurnax was a frost giant. Once he had slaughtered thousands of mortal soldiers, no older than this woman, when he had been Alduin’s chief lieutenant. And when the tide had turned and he could no longer bow to his brother’s hunger, no mortals dared to approach him save for the elderly monks.

The person before him was no Greybeard. Nor was she a desperate Nord soldier, with her well-fed figure, unscarred face, and bright clothes.

Then again, she wasn’t exactly human, either.

The Greybeards had told Paarthurnax of the new Dovahkiin, but he had known long before they summoned her. He had felt it each time one of his siblings was slain, their soul vanishing forever into the bottomless well of power that stood at his feet. 

For a moment, he allowed himself to imagine the Dragonborn as she should have been, if Akatosh had granted her a dovah’s true form. A golden serpent with fire in her eyes and on her tongue. Shining scales and vast wings, not delicate flesh and stubby legs. 

Truth be told, he almost pitied the girl. She would never soar through the mountains with her kindred, as Paarthurnax had once done. Most Dovah would, rightfully, see her as a threat, as would her fellow humans. Feared by those who shared her soul and her body…what kind of life was that?

And yet.

Through the thick wool of her gloves, he could sense the glow of an enchanted ring on her left hand. Mara’s blessing, if his senses did not deceive him–mortals gave each other such things to symbolize affection. bonding. His sharp eyes could make out a necklace poking out from her fur collar, made of paper beads strung onto thick yarn, clearly the work of children. 

She was not alone, this strange not-quite-dragon. A blessing, because the life of a dovah could often be lonely. A curse, because she would undoubtedly do wild, irrational things to protect her loved ones.

Including seeking Dragonrend.

Paarthurnax sighed with resignation and lowered his head. “Drem Yol Lok.”

Chapter Text

The shoes Malborn had given her were fashionable ones, with sharply pointed toes and high, narrow heels. With every step she took, Sophrine prayed that she wouldn’t lose her balance and topple headfirst into the buffet. The towering beehive of hair and stiff plum-colored dress she’d been forced into certainly didn’t make things easier.

Inside, the Embassy was warm and well-lit, already echoing with the sounds of music and conversation. The queue of newcomers moved slowly down the hall, each one pausing at the end to greet their hostess. Elenwen, when Sophrine finally laid eyes on her, was an intimidating figure: tall and rail-thin, in a high-collared black robe and glittering diamond necklace, with narrow golden eyes and sleek pale-blonde hair. 

She looked remarkably familiar, and Sophrine almost stumbled as she realized why.

“Damn elves,” the young Stormcloak soldier had muttered, spitting over the side of the cart. “I’ll bet they had something to do with this.”

Elenwen had been one of the damn elves. 

Perhaps the emissary herself had some vague memory of this, because her delicately shaped eyebrows drew together. “Pardon me, miss. Have we…”

“Met? Yes, though you wouldn’t remember me, I was just a child,” Sophrine interrupted, in the sort of high, fluttery voice she associated with Wayrest aristocrats. She dropped into a shallow curtsy. “Lady Arabella Beauchamp, of Stormhaven. My grandfather made our fortune in silk weaving…”

It was plain that Elenwen had no idea what she was talking about–but, thank the gods, she was too polite to say so. “Lady Arabella, of course, such a treat. I hadn’t realized the Beauchamps were in Skyrim, of all places. What brings you here?”

Sophrine giggled as obnoxiously as possible, enjoying Elenwen’s wince. “The handsome Nord men, of course! What else?”

The emissary smiled thinly. “What else indeed? Well, don’t let me keep you, Lady Arabella. Please, enjoy the party.” As Sophrine minced past, she heard Elenwen mutter something under her breath about empty-headed provincials.

Excellent. An empty-headed provincial woman was far easier to forget than an undercover Dragonborn.

Teetering on her shoes while she threaded through the crowd, Sophrine murmured polite greetings and searched for her partner in infiltration. Malborn, just as he’d promised, was tending bar and looking as inconspicuous as always.

“Good evening, handsome,” she twittered when she reached him. “Can you help me wet my whistle?”

“You’d like a drink, madam?” Malborn’s eyes flicked warningly to the well-dressed Imperial man standing within earshot, and Sophrine gave a tiny nod. “But of course. Perhaps a brandy merethic?” He set about deftly tossing ingredients into a silver goblet, and leaned in close while handing it to her.

“You’re doing well,” he whispered. “Just lie low until you can cause a distraction. If you’ve got a trustworthy friend among the guests, you might consider enlisting them.” Louder, he said: “There you are, madam, enjoy yourself.”

“Thank you so much,” Sophrine replied brightly. She quickly turned her back on him and began weaving back through the crowd, considering which of her acquaintances might be of use. Balgruuf would ask too many questions. Elisif might be willing to help, but she was surrounded by acquaintances, which was no good. Maven Black-Briar was out of the question, of course, which left…

Sophrine grinned as she spotted a tall, thin young man leaning against a wall, a wineglass dangling from one elegant hand. If any jarl in Skyrim would help her do something ridiculous, no questions asked, it was Siddgeir.

He looked up when she approached him, though his eyes didn’t meet hers. Rather, he focused sharply on the expanse of cleavage her stiff embroidered bodice created. “Well, hello,” he said to her breasts. “Have we met?”

Sophrine rolled her eyes. When Malborn had produced the party dress, she’d asked him if this neckline was strictly necessary, to which he’d replied: “Would you rather Elenwen’s guards be looking at your face?”   Which was fair enough, but didn’t make things any less embarrassing.

She snapped her fingers. “Siddgeir, eyes front. It’s me.”

Siddgeir blinked and tore his eyes away from her bodice. “Soph…”

“Shhh!” she hissed. “For the purposes of this party, I’m Arabella Beauchamp. Now smile and say ‘Hello, Lady Arabella’ like we’re old friends.”

Siddgeir was a fool, but an obedient one. “Dear Lady Arabella!” he exclaimed. “How nice to see you. You’re looking as ravishing as always.” He lowered his voice. “I love this. What are we doing? Is there intrigue afoot?”

“Buckets of it. I’ll explain later, I promise. For now, I just need to get into the kitchen without being noticed. Can you cause a distraction?”

“I suppose I could, but as it’ll be a terrible blow to my reputation, I will need some sort of compensation.” Siddgeir stroked his goatee thoughtfully. “I’ll help with your little scheme if you invite me to dinner and make your famous crab cakes. And perhaps one of those Cyrodilic rum cakes for dessert.”

Sophrine sighed in relief. Thank Mara he hadn’t demanded a kiss. “Of course we’ll have you for dinner, and you can dictate the entire menu if you’d like. So you’ll help? Just…start a loud argument with someone over nothing. They’ll all think you’ve had too much mulled wine and forget about it in an hour or two.”

“Say no more.” Siddgeir gave her a cheeky wink. “You know, I can’t say I ever understand our conversations, Lady Arabella, but I do always enjoy them.”

He turned sharply on one heel and strode over to where Balgruuf, looking like he desperately wanted to go home, was standing. “Balgruuf, you old fool, this is beyond the pale!” he bellowed. 

“What?” Balgruuf frowned and glanced about. “Are you sure you mean me, young man?”

“There you are, you see, that’s just the problem,” Siddgeir flared back. Several onlookers had turned to watch and chuckle. “Always acting like I don’t know what I’m talking about, like I’m stirring up trouble for no reason. Well, I’ll have you know that Falkreath is twice the Hold Whiterun is, for the following reasons. One, Lake Ilinalta. Two, vampire sawmill. Three…”

Sophrine, trying hard not to laugh and trip at the same time, considered it a small miracle that she made it back to the bar unnoticed.

Chapter Text

Evening Star, 4.E 201

Farkas had referred to the small wooden hut as a bothy, and while it was hardly luxurious, it at least offered some shelter from the snowstorm howling outside. Some kind soul had left behind a steel lamp with some oil left in it, which made a passable source of warmth.

“Don’t suppose you could switch to wolf mode for a bit?” asked Amaal, shivering against Farkas’ shoulder. The pair of them were huddled together on a small cot that creaked under their combined weight. “Or should I? The fur might help us.”

“Best not to,” Farkas said. “Especially for new blood like you, if something sets one of us off in wolf form, we’ll destroy this place in five minutes flat. I’m afraid we’ll have to keep warm the old-fashioned way.”

“Figures,” Amaal grumbled. “Why couldn’t the Silver Hand set up shop somewhere nice? We’ve got werewolves in Hammerfell too, and beaches so beautiful you’d cry your eyes out.”

“I’d like to go to Hammerfell one of these days,” said Farkas wistfully. “Other than Bruma, I’ve never been out of Skyrim. You could show me around, help us track down all the oddest critters and the best pubs.”

“I’d like that.” If she closed her eyes, she could almost feel the warm, dry sea air of her hometown. Skyrim was good in its own way, but she still thought Stros M’kai was the most beautiful city in the world. “You’ll love where I grew up. I can take you to Reya’s food stall in the market, she makes the best maafe imaginable–that’s fish stew with tomatoes and peanuts. And we can go to the beach and play tossball, and walk through the aviary gardens…”

“Can’t wait. Have you got good hunting down in the sands?”

“Absolutely. There are dune racers all over the place out in the country. They’re vermin, really, but they’ve got useful hides. Oh, and you can finally meet my family! They’ll love your stories, and my sisters will tease me endlessly for finally bringing home a tall, handsome Nord man.”

Beside her, Farkas stiffened and pulled away slightly. “Stop,” he muttered. “Don’t say things like that if you don’t mean it.”

“What makes you think I don’t mean it?”

“I…don’t know.” He looked bewildered. “I just always figured you were joking around.”

“Well, then, let’s set the record straight. I joke about a lot of things, but I don’t jokingly pay people compliments. If I say you’re handsome, I mean you’re handsome. If I say I like you, then I like you.” She stopped, feeling her cheeks burn. She hadn’t meant to be quite so bold, and considering the weather, she couldn’t just flee to the pub if she’d made things unbearably awkward.

Farkas cleared his throat. “You… like me?”

“Well, yes,” said Amaal hesitantly. “I mean, I wouldn’t have become a werewolf just for fun. I joined the Circle because I didn’t want to let you down. All of the Companions, but especially you.”

“I’m glad you joined the Circle. We’re better off with you.” Farkas exhaled deeply. “So when you say you like me, you mean in the romantic sense. Right? I’m not brilliant at picking up on subtlety, you’ll need to be very clear.”

“Yes,” said Amaal. Bless him for making this so easy for her. “Yes, that’s exactly what I mean.”

“Good. Glad we’ve got that cleared up.” Farkas reached down with one giant hand and gently cupped her chin. “Mind if I kiss you now? I’ve been wanting to for a damn long time.”

“Yeah,” she whispered. “Me too.”

As his arms wrapped around her and his lips found hers, Amaal reflected happily that there was more than one way to stay warm in the winter.

Chapter Text

Summer, 4.E 202

The daedra could have passed for a human or elven woman, had it not been for her dark purple skin and unnaturally luminous green eyes. Her black armor covered little more than her breasts and hips, yet seemed to cast a shimmering greenish glow over her whole body.

Serana knew what she was. A Mazken, a servant of Sheogorath. And definitely not the being one wanted to see manifesting in one’s campsite.

Coolly, the Mazken looked to Sophrine and declared: “Sheogorath’s blessings. Miss Aulette, I bring a message from my lord, the Madgod.”

Sophrine neither screamed nor drew a weapon, both of which would have been reasonable. Instead, she smiled widely. “Oh, wonderful! How is Auntie Sacha?”

The Mazken’s mouth twitched slightly. “My lord is well, thank you for asking. If that is all…”

“Wait, wait, I remember you.” Sophrine snapped her fingers. “Nelrene, right? I think you visited my mother once, when I was a kid. It’s awfully nice to see you again.”

“...likewise,” Nelrene replied. “Though I cannot stay in your realm for long. Read this, if you please.” A slim roll of paper popped into existence in her right hand.

“Oh, reading it myself is no fun,” said Sophrine. “Can’t you do it? I always like hearing her voice.”

“As you wish.” Nelrene sighed deeply and opened her mouth. When she spoke again, it was another woman’s voice issuing from her throat: deeper, more nasal, with an accent Serana couldn’t place.

“Afternoon, duckie, or is it evening? Could be time for breakfast, for all I know. I’ll be honest, we’ve got a bit of a situation over here, and it’s driving me sane. There are a couple groups of bandits in your neck of the woods who’ve had the absolute gall to name themselves the Saints and Seducers, respectively, and have summoned my poor girls to help them with all kinds of boring petty crimes. Look into it for me, won’t you? One of the Khajiit caravaneers should have all the details. Ta-ta, love.”

Nelrene bowed stiffly and handed Sophrine the scroll. “Madgod’s blessings, Miss Aulette. We will be watching.”

This pronouncement made, she dissolved back into the ether.

“What,” gasped Serana, when she’d recovered the ability to speak, “was that?”

Sophrine glanced at her sympathetically. “Right, you weren’t at my wedding. I’m sorry, that must have been a shock. See, the latest incarnation of Sheogorath is my great-aunt Sacha, and Nelrene is her…mistress? Assistant? Bodyguard?” She shrugged. “I don’t think daedra fuss about labels very much. Anyway, she’s really quite nice once you get to know her. Unlike the Aureals, who are horribly snobbish. Come on, I’ll explain over dinner.”

She turned and set about making a campfire, humming cheerfully, seemingly unperturbed. Serana, meanwhile, was about as perturbed as she had ever been. Her new friend, who had seemed so sensible and predictable when they’d first met, seemed to get stranger with each passing day.

“She’s related to a daedra?” she muttered to no one in particular.

She flinched as a thick armor-clad arm flopped across her shoulders.”Oh, vampire girl,” Mjoll said fondly. “You have no idea what kind of society we’re keeping these days.”

Chapter Text

Ulfric Stormcloak doesn’t care for this new Dragonborn.

She’s irritatingly short, for one thing. It’s not healthy for a man’s neck, looking down that far all the time. And that shrill voice of hers pierces his eardrums even when she’s not Shouting. She’s bossy, nosy, self-righteous. Not to mention her wilful insistence on being a foreigner. Everyone knows Kyne gifted the Thu’um to the Nords–there’s no reason She should also be gifting it to one of those uppity half-elf Bretons.

(It should have been him, it should have been, what was the point of spending half his youth with the Greybeards otherwise?)

When the letter arrives–excessively wordy, written in a looping schoolgirl script that’s almost unreadable even with spectacles–Ulfric is tempted to throw it in the fireplace before he’s halfway done. He has frequently and loudly asserted that the only time he’d share a room with General Tullius is if the man was surrendering, which seems unlikely under the circumstances.

That’s not even considering the rest of the missive, every line of which is absurd. Alduin has returned to eat the world sounds like a pathetic ploy to force a compromise. The type of lie a little girl would tell her estranged parents to make them reunite. 

(He’s seen the dragon, though, on what should have been his last day alive, and hers as well. He’s certain the beast looked at her, just briefly, like she was a long-lost relative.)

In the end, of course, he goes to High Hrothgar, if only out of some morbid curiosity. Endures the disappointed looks from his former mentors, says good afternoon to Tullius like a proper diplomat, refrains from Shouting Elenwen’s skinny Thalmor arse off her chair. He’ll be good, if he must.

She’s there, of course, in a gaudy velvet cape and bright yellow dress. She looks at them like a queen looks at her subjects, or a teacher looks at bright but unruly students. A mongrel foreigner, a mistake the gods made, the only hope anyone has.

“Am I right in assuming,” she says, “that none of you would like to be eaten by a dragon?”

And Ulfric admits, silently and grudgingly, that one needn’t like the Dragonborn to respect her.

Chapter Text

The mages of Fellglow Keep weren’t College material, that much was obvious. Students at Winterhold could be reckless and self-centered and all the other traits usually associated with genius, but at least they weren’t actively murderous. 

Olaf Quick-Sweep wasn’t precisely College material himself, he knew. It was only through a minor miracle that he’d found work there, and an even greater one that he was leading this expedition. He would try to keep himself and his companions alive, as hard as he could, though it was a tall order.

“I’m done,” said Brelyna, collapsing into a seat by the scorched wooden door they’d just passed through. She’d stumbled into a fire rune in the previous chamber, and though mostly unscathed, she was clearly shaken. “I thought we were getting books, not fighting a war. Why are we in this horrible place? If we all die down here, they’ll never find our bodies, you know. I want to go home.”

“Pull yourself together,” Olaf snapped, more fiercely than he meant to. “We have work to do, and panicking won’t get it done.”

“Oh, please,” Brelyna shot back tearfully. “Who put you in charge? You’re a cleaner.”

“Savros Aren put me in charge, if you’ll recall. Maybe just because my cousin is the Dragonborn, but that’s not the point. The point is, this job was given to me, and if you don’t want to help you can head straight back to Winterhold…”

“All right, all right,” interrupted Onmund, holding up his hands placatingly. “We’re all exhausted, this fort is terrifying, none of us are warriors. Why don’t we all go…sit in different corners or something, until we’re ready to move on.”

“With pleasure.” Brelyna struggled to her feet and stalked off to the other side of the large chamber, where she slumped back down into a small, miserable ball. Onmund shrugged apologetically and ambled over to one of the uncomfortable-looking benches. Olaf strode sharply toward the stairs and leaned against the doorway, trying to project an air of authority and confidence. Not an easy thing to do when one was trying not to pass out.

“Pay Brelyna no mind,” said a smooth Elsweyr-accented voice at his shoulder. “This one believes she is too accustomed to ordering servants about.”

Olaf relaxed, just a little. There was something oddly comforting about J’zargo, despite how objectively dangerous a friend he was. Maybe it was his calm feline features, or the knowledge that no matter how disastrous a mage Olaf was, the Khajiit always had him beat.

“You seem distressed,” J’zargo observed placidly. “Care to discuss it?”

“Distressed? You bet your whiskers I’m distressed. Brelyna’s right, I don’t have any business leading expeditions or fighting battles. I’m a cleaner.” Olaf bent down and rested his hands on his knees, breathing heavily, trying to remember the Greybeard chant Sophrine had taught him. Sky above, voice within. Sky above, voice within.

“This is true,” said J’zargo. “You are no master wizard. Maybe Aren selected you for this mission because of your cousin, or because he considers you expendable.”

“Oh, thanks,” Olaf muttered. “That’s encouraging.”

“J’zargo is not finished. Aren may have chosen you for those reasons, or he may not have. It matters little. The true question is, do you intend to succeed? Or flee, and go back to scrubbing chamber pots?”

“Of course I intend to succeed. I have to,” said Olaf, a little offended. “One of us has to get to the bottom of this glowing-orb situation. I’m not letting my home go up in smoke because of some unstable star, or whatever that damn thing is. Even if I do go back to scrubbing chamber pots after this is all done.”

J’zargo gave a smug smile–though, to be fair, most of his facial expressions were smug. “There you are, then,” he said, and brushed his hands together briskly. “And so there is nothing more to be said. This one will be taking a rest until you are ready to lead us on.”

He strolled off, leaving Olaf looking after him in surprise, unable to stop the smile spreading across his face.

Chapter Text

It was the third time in ten minutes that Malarkh had circled around to the door, wondering why she couldn’t make herself knock. She was the daughter of an Orsimer chieftain, trained since birth to hunt and build and fight, yet she was afraid to go in a school.

Then again…well, it was the school. The one she’d been dreaming about attending ever since she and Auntie Shel had snuck out to see those traveling singers, and they’d told her about a place where every day was full of music and poetry and books.

Now she was here, and she couldn’t even knock.

Go home, just go home and apologize to Dad and tell Shel you couldn’t do it…

“No,” Malarkh growled to herself, and pulled a hand out of her pocket. Before she could stop herself, she’d pounded on the door.

It was answered in a matter of seconds by a slim middle-aged Cyrodilic woman, her silver-streaked blonde hair piled on top of her head. She wore a fur-trimmed green gown, and her long fingers were spotted with ink. Malarkh recognized her at once, from the books and papers she’d secretly bought from the Khajiit caravans. Pantea Ateia, the famous singer and flutist, rumored to have performed for half the royalty in Tamriel. She resisted the urge to squeal.

“Good afternoon, miss,” Pantea said briskly. “If you’re making a delivery, you want the back entrance, down the stairs.”

“Um, actually, I was hoping to…” Malarkh’s voice cracked embarrassingly, and she swallowed. “I was hoping to study here. At the College. If that’s all right by you.”

Pantea’s perfectly groomed eyebrows went up, though she composed herself quickly. “I see. You’d better come inside, then, hadn’t you?”

Malarkh breathed a sigh of relief. So far so good. “Thank you, ma’am.”

The main hall of the College was wide and airy, every wall lined with bookshelves and velvet-covered benches. Pantea guided her briskly up a flight of stairs to a door labeled Faculty Hall, and ushered her inside. Three people sat at a table strewn with papers, looking up in surprise.

“Dean Gemane,” said Pantea, gesturing to a wiry Breton man, “as well as Dean Inge, and Headmaster Viarmo. Colleagues, we seem to have a prospective student.”

The Headmaster–a towering Altmer with a pointed beard and twinkling eyes–rubbed his hands together. “What a treat. And does this new student happen to have a name?”

Malarkh quickly ran a hand through her short burgundy hair, with the nasty feeling she’d only made things worse. “Malarkh gra-Dushnikh, sir.”

“Gra-Dushnikh.” Dean Inge’s bushy white eyebrows drew together. “Not as in Dushnikh Yal?”

“Ah…yes,” Malarkh admitted. “I grew up there.”

“All the children in strongholds are the chief’s issue,” said Dean Gemane, looking slightly pale. “Young lady, I don’t mean to pry, but does your father know you are here?”

“Yes,” she retorted. It wasn’t a lie, not really; maybe Shel had told him by now. “And if he doesn’t like it, what can he do? I’m of age. He can’t force me to get married, the Code of Malacath says a woman needs to consent…” She trailed off, embarrassed. 

“Well, now, there’s a story!” said Viarmo. “This brave young student is fleeing an arranged marriage and years of rigid tradition to chase her dreams, hone her skills, become a famous…I’m sorry, my dear, what is it you do?”

Finally. Malarkh cleared her throat. “I sing,” she said. 

It would have been hard to miss the skeptical looks exchanged by several of the faculty. Malarkh’s fists clenched in embarrassment and anger, but she forced herself to relax. If they thought she was a barbarian, she wouldn’t prove them right.

“So you sing,” said Pantea at last. “Excellent. You must sing something for us, then.”

Malarkh quickly ran through her mental list of songs. She wanted to sing something Orcish, something authentic, but easy to follow. Serpent’s Bluff, she decided. An old stronghold tragedy, one even her father sometimes sung when he’d had a few.

“ Gods prosper long our noble chief,

“Our lives and safeties all!

“A woeful hunting once there did,

“In Serpent’s Bluff befall.”

The familiar melody briefly transported her home, to the longhouse women’s quarters, and it took a faint smattering of applause to snap her back to reality. She’d done it, then–and they hadn’t laughed, as far as she knew.

“A wonderful traditional melody,” said Dean Gemane. “Sung skillfully, I would say, though of course Madame Ateia has the right of judgment.”

The blonde woman frowned. “Far from perfect,” she said bluntly. “You use too much vibrato, and your vocal range leaves something to be desired.” Just as Malark’s stomach lurched, Pantea smiled. “But,” she said, “I can train you.”

“You can train me?” Malarkh inhaled sharply. “So… I’m in? You’ll let me study here?”

“Well, I certainly think so. Viarmo?”

“Oh, yes, quite. Quite so indeed. Before we formally admit you, though, I…wonder.” Viarmo cleared his throat delicately. “As you are from one of the strongholds, Miss gra-Dushnikh, am I right in assuming you have some level of martial skill?”

“Well, yes.” This conversation, Malarkh thought, was not heading in an encouraging direction. “Is that important here?”

“Generally no, but as part of your admission, there is a small matter you could assist with,” said Viarmo. “Perhaps you’ve heard the ancient tale of King Olaf One-Eye?”

Automatically, Malarkh straightened her back into the declaiming posture Auntie Shel had taught her. “Brave Olaf, Jarl of Whiterun, dragon-trapper, great uniter…”

“Very good diction,” remarked Dean Gemane, “though the rhythm was a bit choppy, and you could stand to inject more emotion into great uniter…”

“Let us discuss that later, Giraud,” Viarmo cut in. “You see, Miss gra-Dushnikh, King Olaf is something of a controversial figure here in Solitude, having sacked the city in the First Era. As a result, we celebrate an annual festival culminating in the Burning of King Olaf–in effigy, of course. It is all in good fun, and an important part of Solitude’s cultural life. That said, we have recently run into a few difficulties.”

“”Difficulties that require a sword?” asked Malarkh glumly. She’d thought that arriving in Solitude would be the end of battling and hunting. It was embarrassing, more than anything else, to realize she’d been wrong.

“Think of it like this, my dear,” said Pantea gently. “The greatest bards are not only gifted singers–they live lives that are worth singing about. Wouldn’t you like to be one of them?”

The honest answer was not really, though Malarkh knew it wasn’t really a question. She’d never been to an Imperial-style school, but she could still recognize a test when she heard one.

“Once,” she said. “I’ll fight for you once. And then I’m never picking up a weapon again.”

Chapter Text

Sophrine waved a hand and felt a flood of warmth through her bloodstream as a small jet of flame burst from her fingers. It sometimes felt like cheating, lighting the campfire with magic, but in damp weather like this it could take hours to get a flame going.

“Supper should be ready soon,” she informed her companion. “And yes, it’ll be fish again, unless there’s secretly a bakery around here.”

Roggi said nothing; he simply stared at the fire, frowning slightly.

“Do you think I could learn to do that?” he blurted out.

Sophrine’s eyebrows shot up. This wasn’t the sort of question she’d expected from her practical, old-fashioned Nord beau. Maybe tagging along with a Breton for months was a good influence on him.

“I don’t see why not,” she said. “Nana Elise always said that everyone has innate magical ability, it’s just a matter of faith and focus. Is it something you’d like to learn?”

Roggi shrugged helplessly. “Maybe? People here always say magic’s nothing but trouble, but it hasn’t seemed to do you any harm. And if I’m going on grand adventures, maybe it would be useful to know a spell or two.”

He was so adorably embarrassed that Sophrine almost wanted to laugh. She didn’t, though, for fear of hurting his feelings.

“Well, you’re in luck,” she said. “We Bretons start learning magic almost as soon as we can walk. Why don’t we start with a simple frost spell? That ought to be an easy start for a Nord.”

“As if it’s not cold enough in this damn place,” Roggi grumbled good-naturedly. “All right, then, what do I need to do? Stand in some kind of wizardly posture?” He stepped forward into a sort of half-lunge, his hands lifted up life a werewolf’s paws, making Sophrine snort with laughter.

“I’d suggest relaxing, love,” she said, putting a hand on his back and guiding him upright. “Otherwise you’ll fall over before you’ve cast anything. Stand in a stable position, and hold one arm in front of you like you’re shaking someone’s hand.”

Roggi obeyed, and Sophrine nodded approvingly. “Much better. Now, focus on the air around you, and think ice.”

He frowned and half-closed his eyes. Sophrine could almost see his mind straining, but his fingertips remained distinctly unfrosted. Roggi concentrated for a few seconds more before sighing, his wide shoulders slumping.

“I don’t think I can manage it,” he said ruefully. “I know other people go around casting spells all the time, but it still seems absurd to think of me shooting ice out of my fingers.”

“Magic does sound a bit ridiculous when you overthink it,” said Sophrine. “Which is why we don’t overthink it. Look at it like…” She paused, trying to remember what Nana Elise back in Left Bank had said, over twenty years ago. “Magic comes from Aetherius, but it’s still part of nature. You’re not exactly making ice out of nothing; you’re just encouraging the air and water around you to take a different form. Don’t tell me a big strong Nord like yourself is afraid to boss around some dewdrops and wind.”

“Well, when you put it like that, how can I argue?” Roggi grinned and settled back into his wizard’s pose. “All right, now… Ice, snow, cold, the part where your hands go all numb and you can’t feel your own…

He was cut off by a sharp crackling noise. Before Sophrine’s astonished eyes, a fingernail-thin sliver of ice shot from his hand and embedded itself in the closest tree trunk. 

Roggi blinked in amazement. “Did I do it?”

“You did it!” Sophrine gave a squeal of excitement. “I knew you could, never doubted you for a second. How do you feel?”

He looked down at his hands, wide-eyed. “Odd. And powerful, if that’s the right way to put it. I’m not sure if I should enjoy it.”

Sophrine nodded, understanding more than she could let on. Every time she’d killed a dragon and absorbed its spirit, she’d felt herself growing, like her body was too small to contain such divinity. 

She loved it.

She didn’t want to.

“Well, don’t get too excited, there’s plenty more to learn. Though I am proud of you.” She kissed his cheek. “Ready to learn a fire spell next?”

Roggi chuckled. “Nah, I think I’ve risked my soul enough today. Let’s cook up that salmon–and then, my beauty, I think I owe you some repayment for your kind teaching.”

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

Frostfall, 4.E 203

The Dovahk Inn was as bustling as always on a Loredas evening, especially as the colder weather forced folk indoors. Sophrine hadn’t been able to sit down in hours, hopping between the kitchen and the common room, and nearly tripped over her own feet when her husband pulled her aside.

“You may want to check on that table by the fire,” he whispered. “We’ve got a couple of strange customers over there.”

“Are they causing trouble?”

“Not yet,” Roggi said darkly. “But they look like the types who might.”

“Hmm.” Sophrine approached the table as casually as she could, eyes widening slightly at the sight of its occupants. A petite, black-haired girl with slashes of red paint below her eyes sat across from a short ginger man inexplicably clad in a jester’s costume.

The man was a stranger. The girl, Sophrine knew.

“Muireen! I wouldn’t have expected to see you here.” Sophrine paused. “You did see the sign next to the door, didn’t you? The one specifically forbidding assassinations?”

Muireen nodded. “Aye, don’t fret. I’m not here on business. We’re almost neighbors, y’ken, and I just wanted to see this place. No bloodshed tonight.”

“None at all?” pleaded her companion. “Not a tiny drop of blood, all evening? But Listener, poor Cicero’s knives will be so hungry.”

“Behave, lad,” Muireen ordered. “You’re meant to be learning a bit of subtlety. Cannae take you anywhere, I can’t.”

Sophrine looked the small man over, not sure if she should be amused or horrified. “Who’s your friend?”

The man bowed deeply, knocking his silverware to the floor with a clatter. “Cicero is a humble servant of the Night Mother, beautiful madam. And of the Listener, my dear sister Muireen.”

“Listener?” She turned back to Muireen, trying to hide her dismay. “It seems you’ve come up in the world since you last tried to kill me.”

Muireen looked mildly embarrassed. “Aye, well. I didn’t exactly apply for the position–no idea why the old lady chose me to talk to, really–but it’s got a few benefits. She taught me a spell to summon this ghost lad, named Lucien, who follows me around giving advice. Which is helpful, sometimes.”

“Wait, not Lucien LaChance? From the Third Era?” Sophrine exclaimed. “Good gods, I read about him. He was the Speaker back when my great-aunt Sacha was Listener…according to the rumors, anyway.”

Cicero’s mouth dropped open. “Madam Innkeeper, surely you jest and jape with Cicero. Sacha Llervu, Purger of Cheydinhal, the Traitor-Slayer, was your aunt?”

“Among other things, yes.”

The small man let out a borderline-hysterical laugh. “But this is extraordinary! Surely you must have inherited some of your famous aunt’s talent–yes, I can see from the glint in your eyes and the bones in your hands, you are no stranger to the sharp knife. Perhaps you will visit our humble home soon.”

Over my dead body, Sophrine thought, but decided this might not be the right thing to say. 

“Maybe,” she said noncommittally. “For now, enjoy your meal, and let me know if you need anything.”

“By the way,” Muireen said, “how attached are you to the current emperor?”

“Titus the Second?” Sophrine frowned. “I can’t say I think much about him, to be honest. There have been worse emperors, certainly, but plenty of better ones. Why do you ask?”

“No reason,” said Muireen, a bit too quickly. “Just gauging public opinion. I don’t suppose you’re considering making a wee bid for the throne? You being Dragonborn and all.”

“Absolutely not,” Sophrine said firmly. “Running an inn is bad enough, how would I manage an entire Empire?”

“Probably for the best,” Muireen agreed. “Those royal lads are always in danger. Better not to get involved.”

“I appreciate the advice.” Sophrine gave the pair an awkward half-bow. “Have a pleasant evening.”

Roggi looked at her with raised eyebrows upon her return. “Everything all right, love?”

“Oh, fine. They won’t be causing any mischief here. Although,” she said, “we may want to prepare ourselves for some changes in politics.”

Chapter Text

Sophrine paced back and forth restlessly in the parlor, the feather duster in her hand all but forgotten. There was so much to think about, including but not limited to:

• She was six months pregnant.
• Two of those months had been spent chasing down a rogue Dragonborn in Hermaeus Mora’s realm.
• The inn she and her husband had been putting together for nearly a year was opening in five days.
• Her family was due to arrive today.

Excitement warred with guilt and trepidation in her stomach. It had been two years since she’d last seen her parents and brother, and those two years had been more eventful than the previous twenty-seven put together. They had only ever known the dutiful eldest daughter, the Aulette heir apparent. Not this part-dragon creature that Sophrine herself barely recognized sometimes. 

“You look nervous,” remarked her friend Serana, not looking up from the book she was reading. “You shouldn’t be, you know. It’s me who should be worried, I’ve barely spent any time with parents who aren’t trying to imprison or kill me.”

“And what about me, eh?” demanded Roggi good-naturedly. “This is my first time meeting the in-laws, and they’ve only got Soph’s word that I’m a decent sort. Gods know if they’ll agree with her.”

“Enough. They’re going to love both of you, and the kids. I’m the only one who disappeared two years ago and took almost a year to tell them I’ve got the wrong kind of soul.” Sophrine sighed. “Most people would rather not have a dragon for a daughter.”

“That’s nonsense, and you know it,” said Serana. “You saved the world on at least three separate occasions. If they’re not bragging about you to everyone they know, I’ll shave my head.”

Sophrine opened her mouth to reply, but was stopped short by a loud knock on the front door. “Cripes, that’ll be them! Serana, go bring the kids down, would you?”

She didn’t even wait for a response before practically leaping to the door and flinging it open. Before her stood a tall, sturdy woman with ice-blonde hair in a long plait, wrapped in a heavy wool cloak. One arm was draped over the shoulder of a short, balding olive-skinned man. Behind the pair stood a young man with floppy pale hair, who bore a strong resemblance to the woman.

Sophrine felt her eyes mist up with joy at the sight. They’d started to feel like a long-ago dream, but here were Ilse, Gerard, and Bertie Aulette, in the flesh.

“Sophrine!” cried Ilse. She rushed into the kitchen and pulled Sophrine into a rib-cracking hug. “Merciful gods, just look at you! So grown up! Not that you weren’t before, just…ah, well, you know what I mean.”

“Oh, Mum, you look wonderful too.” It was the truth. Gerard and Ilse had both grown a few more gray hairs, some of which were probably Sophrine’s fault, but they looked as happy and healthy as ever. “And Bertie! I think you’ve gotten a bit of meat on your bones, it must be all that helping Dad in the kitchen.”

“You’re one to talk about having meat on your bones, Soph.” Bertie laughed and gestured to her pregnant belly. “Look at you, almost a mum! Well, again a mum,” he amended quickly. “You just haven’t produced any babies yet, is all.”

“Speaking of being a mum–ah, there they are!” Sophrine waved in the direction of Serana and the children, who had emerged at the bottom of the staircase and were hesitantly standing back. Hroar, as usual, stepped forward confidently.

“I’m Hroar,” he said to Ilse and Gerard. “Your new grandson. I’ve never actually had grandparents before, but I’ve heard you’re supposed to spoil us. And bring presents,” he added as an afterthought.

“Is that so?” Ilse crossed her arms. “And what if we’re the stern type of grandparents, eh? The ones who’ll make you recite your history lessons and have you chop wood to build character?” At Hroar’s terrified expression, she laughed. “Don’t worry, I am decidedly the fun type of granny.”

“Can’t tell you how glad we are to finally meet you,” said Gerard. His voice sounded slightly choked up. “Your mum has written us dozens of letters, but it’s not the same as seeing you kids in person.”

“Really?” Lucia edged nervously closer to her grandfather. “You’re not disappointed that we’re just adopted grandchildren, and not the usual kind?”

“You must be Lucia. And of course we’re not disappointed, lass,” Gerard said gently. “We’re just delighted that you’ve found a new family, and that we can be part of it.”

Ilse snapped her fingers. “Now, you look just like your Auntie Helene. Gerard, isn’t she the spitting image of your sister?”

“I don’t think I can be,” Lucia said politely. “I’m adopted.”

“No reason you can’t have a family resemblance,” said Gerard with a wink. “Speaking of, don’t we have a few more new relatives lurking around here? I’ve heard that I have at least three new daughters, not to mention a son-in-law.”

There followed a flurry of introductions–Ilse declared Roggi to be “just as handsome as Soph described, and obviously a gentleman,” Gerard said Serana was “a darned pretty girl, sophisticated, just like Aunt Falena,” and Bertie pulled Sophrine aside to ask if Lydia was single. It was several giddy minutes later before Ilse tapped Sophrine on the shoulder and quietly asked if she was available for a private parents-and-daughter chat.

Sophrine hadn’t been dreading any portion of her family’s visit. This conversation, though, wasn’t entirely one she’d been looking forward to.

–

At the kitchen table, Sophrine and her parents sat in silence, taking in each other’s presence. Gerard, in particular, kept looking Sophrine up and down with his brow furrowed.

“Dad,” she said. “You’re staring at me like I’ve grown an extra head.”

Gerard shook his head. “I’m sorry, my girl. I just keep looking at you and expecting to see something…draconic. Yet all I can see is my same sweet daughter.”

“Because I am, Dad,” Sophrine said gently. “This dragon soul has always been a part of me, even before we knew I had it. Certainly, I’ve changed, but I’m still myself at heart.”

“I should have known,” said Ilse, her voice cracking with anger and guilt. “There must have been signs, even when you were small, and if I’d only seen them, I would have been able to help. Instead you were thrown into all of this headfirst, completely alone.”

“Oh, Mum.” Sophrine squeezed her hand. “I haven’t been alone, trust me. There have been plenty of friends and family to support me along the way. Even Nana Sylvie and Auntie Sacha have lent me a hand, in their own odd ways.”

“I know Auntie Sacha is a god, and I love her dearly, but I don’t think I will ever forgive her for keeping me in the dark here,” said Ilse. “Surely she knew something about all this. See if I sacrifice a cheese wheel on her next summoning day.”

“Now, Mum, don’t be too hard on Auntie Sacha. You know she doesn’t really perceive time like we do. And what good would knowing in advance do, anyway? You couldn’t have trained me in the Thu’um, since the dragons hadn’t started to return yet and I couldn’t absorb their power.”

“I suppose you’re right.” Ilse sighed deeply. “I only wish I could have given you more support.”

“But you did, don’t you see? Our family prepared me perfectly for this, even if you didn’t realize you were doing so. The skills I learned from you and Dad helped me survive and earn a living. If you hadn’t taught me to fence and shoot, I’d have been killed by bandits ten times over, let alone the dragons. And thanks to our ridiculous, mixed-up family, I’ve been able to find common ground with practically everyone I’ve met. You couldn’t have made me into a better Dragonborn if you’d been trying to.”

Tears glimmered in Ilse’s eyes, and she gripped Sophrine’s hand tightly. “You wonderful girl,” she said hoarsely. “I can’t believe I get to go home and tell the neighbors ‘my daughter’s the Last Dragonborn.’ Not that I don’t do that already.”

“You’ve practically been singing about it in the market,” said Gerard with a fond smile. “I don’t think most of the citizens of Left Bank entirely understand the concept, but they’re still quite proud of you.”

“Well, that’s good,” Sophrine muttered. “Now Serana won’t have to shave her head.”

Ilse laughed. “I won’t ask. But we are proud of you, Soph. Not just for you accomplishments as Dragonborn, but for the home you’ve built here, and the people you’ve added to our family.”

“We won’t say it’s easy, having you live so far away,” Gerard added. “If nothing else, though, it gives us an excuse to travel. We’ll have to make regular reports to your Nana Elise on how this Dovahk Inn compares to the old family business.”

Sophrine swallowed hard and nodded. “I’ll try to make you proud.”

“You already have, my love,” Ilse said softly. “You already have.”