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Chapter Text

Solstheim, 1st Era

The sky above Solstheim was as black as the depths of the ocean. Thunder rumbled through the air as a storm of ash and snow whipped through the ruins of a long-forgotten ritual site. Columns rose toward the sky like broken bones, silent witnesses to a brotherhood that had crumbled to dust. In the distance, a dragon broke through the clouds, its roar lost in the howling wind.
    Amidst the temple ruins stood Miraak, clad in the robes of the dragon priests. With his head raised and arms outstretched, he radiated a power that seemed to command the storm itself. His eyes shimmered with pure gold, filled with a divine power that even dragons feared. In them rested the legacy of the One who had created time itself: Akatosh, father of all dragons.
    Miraak looked down, and triumph was in his gaze. Rising from the rubble was Vahlok, once his brother, now the sworn bearer of his doom.
    Vahlok's breath was calm, his gaze unyielding as the Sea of Ghosts, his steps firm as the earth he had sworn to protect. Time might pass, but his oath stood. And what is weighed will be judged.
    “Vahlok the Jailor...” Miraak's voice cut through the roar of the storm. “How fitting that you stand here, ready to serve your masters, even now as the world around us crumbles.”
“Miraak.” Vahlok looked up, his face marked with regret. “I had hoped you would see your folly before it was too late.”
    An almost melancholy smile flitted across Miraak's lips. “If freedom is folly, then I am glad to be a fool. But you, Vahlok... you are the true tragedy. A man who seeks honor in servitude and finds pride in his humility.”
    “Your freedom has made you lonely.” Vahlok's hand tightened around the hilt of his sword. “Once we stood as brothers, but now you speak like one who has forgotten what once bound him. We believed in you.”
Miraak's smile faded.
    “Believed in me?” Contempt colored his voice bitter. “You kept me on a leash like a dog, tamed to serve your power. But I have risen. Never again will I allow myself to be bound! Not to you, not to the dragons, and certainly not to fate!”
    Vahlok's grip on the sword hilt tightened, his breathing heavy. “Then the only path left is the blade.”
    No sooner had the words been spoken than he raised his voice. His Thu'um shook the world: “FUS RO DAH!”
    The ruins trembled and stones fell from the crumbling walls, plunging into the darkness like falling stars. Cracks spread across the ground like hungry snakes as the earth groaned and cracked beneath them.
    Miraak staggered. For a moment, disbelief glowed in his eyes as Vahlok's Thu'um struck him. Just a step away, a massive boulder broke loose from the ground and thundered into the depths. It was as if nature itself had conspired against him, as if the elements wanted to shatter his arrogance.
    But Miraak raised his arms and shouted, his voice vibrating with power: “VEN GAAR NOS!”
    A wind broke loose, whipping through the walls, tearing debris and rocks from their joints and hurling everything in its path aside.
    Everything except Vahlok.
    The Guardian braced himself against the raging force, his rune blade like an anchor in a world on the brink of destruction. Slowly, with determined steps, he fought his way forward.
    Miraak, however, remained standing.
    His arms dropped, his chest rising and falling heavily. A soft throbbing spread across his temples, clinging to his thoughts, persistent and close. He blinked, shook his head, trying to shake it off, but the whisper remained. It settled in his mind like the first harbingers of an approaching winter: silent, cold, inevitable.
    “You feel it, don't you?” Vahlok's voice was calm but final. “Your power is great, Miraak, greater than ever before. But it is corrupted. It has changed you.”
    Miraak's eyes narrowed, their golden glow flickering briefly like the flame of a candle.
    “You are mistaken, brother. My power is pure.”
    “A delusion,” Vahlok replied. “Your pride will not save you. It will extinguish you, like any flame that burns too brightly.”
    Miraak paused for a moment, the whispering in his mind intensifying, but he pushed it aside.
    “Pride...” He slowly raised his head. "I am Miraak, the First. Bearer of a legacy you will never comprehend. No shadow will break me, nothing will command me. I am the origin. I am free, and I will remind you what it means to fear my power."
    He raised his arms again and let his voice, filled with untamed power, be heard: “MUL QAH DIIV!”
    An aura of brilliant white enveloped him like the glow of a rising star. His gaze burned golden like the sun itself, a light that dispelled all shadows. And yet he was human, formed from the rough soil of Atmora, with a heart that felt and bore burdens. His body was flesh and blood, his spirit grounded and yet touched by the heavens. He was both, mortal and divine, fragile and unstoppable.
    With one leap, Miraak pounced on Vahlok. His blade tore a shimmering streak of light into the darkness. The clash of their weapons echoed like thunder through the ruins; stone splintered, sparks flew with every blow. Miraak pressed forward. His attacks were swift, merciless, driven by something greater than mere rage: a burning desire to prove that he was no longer bound. That he was right.
    But Vahlok did not retreat. Blood ran from a wound on his arm, staining the hilt of his blade red and dripping into the dust.
    The temple groaned under the weight of their powers. Columns tilted, walls cracked, deep fissures ran through the stone like open scars. The ground shook with every step, as if it could no longer bear their weight.
    Miraak pressed on. His gaze was fire, his movements a storm. For a moment, he was once again the priest with divine power who brought dragons down from the sky and robbed them of their immortality.
    And then... the world fell silent.

Miraak felt it. A whisper. Soft. Merciless. It pierced his mind like the first crack in the ice of a frozen lake, filling the void between the pounding beats of his heart. Dull. Hollow. Dull.
    Darkness crept up at the edges of his vision, like ink on dry parchment. And with it came the familiar murmur, a promise he had once reluctantly accepted.
    GOL.
    HAH.
    Words once taught with a gentle whisper now returned, directed against him: Bend Will.
    Vahlok hesitated. Before him stood Miraak, who had just been bursting with vitality and power, as if nothing could stop him. Now he was strangely silent.
    From afar came screams, the plaintive voices of those desperately fleeing the burning villages. Smoke rose in thick columns, disappearing into the ash storm that swept across the land. Flames blazed above the tree line, engulfing the shadows of the forest. The ground shook like a dying animal rearing up one last time.
    This had to end. Now.
    Resolutely, Vahlok raised his sword, ready to pass Miraak's judgment. But at that very moment, it happened.
Miraak raised his head, and in his eyes was a light that quickly faded.
    DOV.
    The last seal.
    He had lost. Hermaeus Mora had won.

"Now I see it. I, a master of words, ruler of power, and yet... just a slave. A prisoner of my own ambitions. I wanted to be free. Free from dragons, from gods, from everything that stood above me. Freedom... a promise that crumbles as soon as you name it.
    Every decision, every step... led me right here. How fitting, isn't it? Mora... no. He hasn't won. Not yet. I am not a tool in the hands of a capricious god. But I hear it. The whispering.
    Was it worth it? The power I coveted now lies cold and heavy in my hands, meaningless. A light that faded before it could pierce the darkness. And now I see what I have lost. No song will sing of me, no name will remember that I, Miraak, was once mightier than the dragons.
    Perhaps there is more truth in his mockery than I can bear. What remains of me? A shadow? An empty word? Nothing?
    No. No. That cannot be all. Not for me.
    I am Miraak. The First. Blessed by Akatosh. Master of my own fate.
    If this is my end, whose story does it tell?"

Miraak opened his mouth to say something, but his lips formed a word that never reached the world. There was something unspeakable in his eyes: anger, pain, and... realization. His gaze sought out his brother's, a last desperate attempt to find something to hold on to.
    Then reality shattered.
    The air became heavy, thicker than lava. At the edges of the temple, a black mass began to writhe. Tentacles, grotesque, from a logic far removed from the world, shot out, piercing the ground and grabbing Miraak. They tightened, chains closing relentlessly around their prize.
    Behind the tentacles, a rift opened, a glimpse into the realm of Oblivion, where endless rows of books guarded the darkness. Apocrypha reached for Nirn, its shadows seeping out of the portal, eating into the fabric of the world, blurring the boundaries of reality.
    The temple finally shattered under this immeasurable force. Fragments of its former glory rained down, glowing red-hot. Miraak's contours distorted, and with one last, all-consuming jolt, he disappeared into the rift.
    Vahlok staggered. For a moment, there was absolute silence, as if the universe had held its breath. But then the rumbling returned, more powerful and terrible than before. In the distance, he saw a huge chasm opening up, tearing the land apart and separating Solstheim from the mainland like a breaking ice field. Smoke and ash rose as the sea poured into the gaping cracks with raging waves.
    What lives within a mortal... that worlds are shattered by it?
Vahlok stood frozen, his hand clenched around the hilt of his sword. The emptiness Miraak had left behind burned like a wound that did not bleed but still hurt.
    The roar of the falling ruins, the rumbling of the earth, the distant howling of the wind, all faded away. The world as he knew it collapsed, while he himself remained in a silent eye of the storm.
    Miraak was gone. Not defeated. Snatched away. The Guardian remained, and yet everything had fallen.

On a rocky outcrop, away from the ruins, stood two figures. The wind tugged at their robes, but neither of them moved. They watched the events from afar; beings who knew more than they revealed.
    One was an old man, tall and cloaked in dark robes. His face seemed carved from stone: timeless and imbued with a dignity that had nothing left to prove.
    Next to him stood a dragon priest. His metallic mask, old and expressionless, concealed any human features. But what spoke from him was by no means dead.
    No voice had disturbed the course of events. They were not here to intervene. They had come to bear witness.
    For a long time, only the roar of the wind lay between them before the priest broke the silence: “He was never weak, only free. But freedom is what order cannot tolerate.”
    The old man did not answer. Instead, smoke began to curl around his form, as if he had grown tired of his shape. It grew, condensed, then the human form disappeared. And where a man had stood just moments before, a dragon rose, black as the end of time.

***

???, ???: Aimée

Aimée stood motionless in a hall whose walls disappeared into the darkness, as if time had swallowed them up. The glow of countless candles danced across the stone, casting shadows that rose like fleeting ghosts and dissolved into nothingness. A scent of burning wax, mingled with the bittersweet smell of blood, enveloped her senses. Her heart beat calmly, too calmly. She felt no fear, though she knew she should.
    They were gathered in the center of the hall: figures in heavy robes, their masks like remnants of an era that had forgotten itself. Each of their movements seemed like a prayer, and yet there was silence.
    A sound suddenly broke the silence, and Aimée knew: he was here.
    He stepped out of the shadows, gentle yet inevitable like a tide reaching the shore. His every movement made the candles flicker, as if even the light trembled in his presence.
    She couldn't take her eyes off him. The sound of his footsteps was soothing, almost like a heartbeat. One. Too slow. Two.
    The golden mask concealed his face, but not his power. Aimée's chest tightened, her lips grew dry. It was as if her own heartbeat was taking on his rhythm. Three. Too close.
    He raised his hand and the murmurs of the cultists fell silent.
    On the altar lay a woman, young and beautiful. Her breath was shallow, each gasp a faint tremor. Her wide-open eyes searched the shadows on the walls.
    What are you thinking, now, in this moment? Aimée's gaze wandered over the delicate curve of the woman's lips, over the slight fluttering of her eyelashes.
    Are you ready to take your last breath?
    The woman blinked slowly, as if she had heard the question. Her fingers curled, grasping at nothing.
    Aimée saw the tension in her shoulders, the slight trembling that ran through her body. Her flawless skin betrayed her fear, yes. But not only that.
    You feel it, don't you? How he touches you... deep inside. I feel it too.
    The blade rose — a ceremony that forgave no mistakes. The metal caught the candlelight, refracted it into splinters, and grazed Aimée's face. She couldn't look away. Every movement of the ritual captivated her, hypnotized her.
    A drop of blood fell. Then another. And then the young woman's life poured out in thin lines over the cold stone, filling the grooves and finding its way into the carved patterns of the altar.
    She should have been horrified. She knew that.
    The voices rose and their vibration hit Aimée right in the chest, like an ancient litany that asked no questions but demanded obedience. The chant called his name.
    Then it happened. He slowly turned his head, and the slits in the mask focused on her as if no other gaze were possible.
    Aimée felt it immediately. He had seen her.
    A shiver ran down her spine, but her cheeks burned like fire. For a moment, she was sure that her soul lay naked before him. Her heart was racing. She wanted to look away, but her eyes remained fixed. There was this uncontrollable hunger, an urge not to look away, because understanding was not enough. She had to comprehend him.
    The light broke in waves on the robes of the followers. Then, as if on an invisible signal, silence fell. One last drop of blood, loud as a heartbeat, and darkness descended upon her. Aimée sat up, her breathing heavy and uneven, but his echo remained.

***

Skyrim, 4th Era

She opened her eyes. Light. Air. And the echo of a song that lingered on. The freshness of the morning filled her lungs, causing the shadows of the dream to fade, but not his name: Miraak.
    Aimée sat up, the rough wool of the blanket scratching her skin. She tried to gather her thoughts when a familiar sound reached her ears. A clinking, followed by the rhythmic tapping of a wooden spoon against a bowl. The smell of fresh bread made the metallic clattering seem softer. Einarth. A smile stole across her lips, as if someone had awakened the sun.
    She swung her legs out of bed, the cold stone floor sending a brief shiver through her body. She quickly pulled on her cloak and stepped out of her chamber. The corridors of High Hrothgar were quiet as always, except for the sounds coming from the kitchen.
    “Morning,” Aimée murmured as she crossed the threshold. Her voice was still hoarse from sleep.
    Einarth looked up. He held up a rolling pin and silently pointed to a basket full of fresh bread. Aimée snorted.
    “What is it this time? Please tell me you didn't add mushrooms to the dough.”
    The Greybeard just grinned and gestured generously toward a chair at the table. Aimée sat down with a sigh as he placed a plate of fresh bread in front of her. She took a bite and her eyes widened.
    “Mmm... pfan-tashtic!” she mumbled, the bread still half between her teeth.
    Amused, Einarth looked at her and tapped his finger on his lips, a silent reminder of table manners. Aimée snorted, but still grinned as she put the next bite in her mouth.
    “Is that... sweet?”
    Solemnly, almost sacramentally, Einarth handed her the bowl: melted chocolate.
    “In bread!?” Aimée laughed and shook her head.
    Einarth just shrugged. Why not? he seemed to say.
    Full and satisfied, Aimée finally pushed her plate aside and reached for a damp cloth to wipe the crumbs off the table. 
    “Chocolate...” she murmured, still smiling. “And you didn't just do that to annoy Arngeir, did you?”
    Einarth's eyes sparkled in amusement. With a smooth hand gesture, he pointed first to the oven, then proudly to himself, and finally to the bread.
    “Sure,” said Aimée with a smile as she helped him move a large flour bowl aside. “Be careful, or Arngeir will really start to—”
    The kitchen door swung open and Aimée spun around. The bowl slipped from her fingers and landed with a dull thud on the floor, the flour swirling around her like a little snowstorm.
    Arngeir stood in the doorway, his brows furrowed.
    “Aimée.” His voice was calm, but the sternness in it was unmistakable. “It seems time is slipping away from you today.”
    She felt the heat rush to her cheeks. “I... Morning? I mean, good morning, Arngeir!”
    Einarth stepped forward, bent down to pick up the bowl, and gently patted Aimée on the head.
    Arngeir let out a disapproving grunt and looked at her reproachfully. "Every hesitation weakens the spirit. The way of the voice requires dedication."
    “I just wanted to...” Aimée glanced at Einarth for help, who nodded with a silent you can do it.
    “Get ready and then come to the hall,” Arngeir said curtly. He gave Einarth a meaningful look that Aimée knew all too well.
    She lowered her head and hurried past Arngeir. No sooner had she reached her chamber than she heard Arngeir in the kitchen. “You're spoiling her, Einarth. She'll never find the peace she needs this way.”

***

Aimée closed the door behind her and leaned against the rough wood. Peace... she thought. How long had it taken her to find this peace up here?
    She remembered her first night in High Hrothgar vividly. She was eight years old. The icy cold had penetrated the walls of the monastery, and the silence had overwhelmed her. A silence that was too loud compared to... before.
    The smell of smoke and blood still lingered somewhere inside her. The shadows on the walls — she couldn't remember if she had seen them or imagined them. Her heart had been pounding, too loudly. The screams? Perhaps they had been forgotten. Or pushed aside. But the images... she couldn't get rid of them.
    Wulfgar had found her curled up in one of the barren corners of the monastery that night. He hadn't said a word; he never spoke anyway, but he had placed a small wooden figure in her hand: a fox, rough yet finely carved, like everything that came from Wulfgar's hands.
    “He watches over you,” Arngeir had explained to her later, when she had found the courage to ask.
    Aimée closed her eyes and reached for the little fox that still hung from her belt. She had never fully absorbed the peace and quiet up here, but she was close. Close enough to carry on.
    She carefully removed the figure and placed it on the table. Then she poured cold water from a jug into the bowl and washed her face and neck. The coolness made her shiver briefly.
    She ran a comb through her long, dark brown hair. Knots that had formed during her sleep slowly gave way, and finally she tied the heavy strands into a practical braid. A few stubborn strands still fell into her face.
    For a moment, her blue eyes met her reflection, and her fingers thoughtfully tugged at the hem of her robe. With practiced movements, she pulled on her boots, slipped on fingerless gloves whose edges were slightly frayed from years of use, and finally fastened the fox back to her belt.
    Aimée exhaled deeply, straightened her shoulders with determination, and pulled her cloak tighter around herself.
    Ready.

The door to the great hall creaked open. Cold air touched her forehead and her footsteps echoed lonely between the high walls. Arngeir was already standing in the middle of the room, hands folded behind his back, his gaze as watchful as ever.
    “Ready?” he asked without turning around.
    “Yes, Master Arngeir.” Aimée stood before him, her posture upright, her hands resting calmly at her sides.
    The Greybeard nodded. “Today you will practice Feim. You know the meaning: fade. A word of escape, but also of realization.”
    Aimée breathed in, the word forming in her mind. As she opened her lips, she felt the sound brush against her chest.
    “Feim...!”
    The shout ran across the stones, but found no hold. The candles flickered only slightly, and the feeling of power slipped away from her again, like sand between her fingers.
    “Aimée.” The sharpness in Arngeir's voice made her pause. “Your thoughts are wandering. The words of power demand clarity, not doubt.”
    She bit her lower lip, frustration rising within her. Su'um ahrk morah. Breathe. Focus. Aimée closed her eyes, gathered herself again, and cleared her mind.
    “Feim!”
    This time, the power of the Thu'um filled the hall completely. Aimée felt the change immediately: a shimmering veil settled over her skin, lifting her out of the here and now for a heartbeat. And then, for a fraction of a second, her eyes shimmered golden.
    Arngeir saw it, his expression remained impassive, but his gaze lingered. “So it shall be.”
    He turned away from her briefly, allowing silence to fill the hall before turning back to Aimée. “Will you seek out Paarthurnax today?”
    The dream returned; the blood on the altar, the masked figures, the gaze from the darkness. Not just seen, but recognized. A tingling sensation ran through her, a slight pulling in her chest.
    Her fingers instinctively slid over the small fox figurine on her belt. Perhaps Paarthurnax had answers. Answers she secretly longed for.
    Aimée slowly raised her gaze. “Yes... I was planning to.”
    Arngeir nodded. “Perhaps you will find the clarity there that you lacked today.”

***

She had long since left the hall, but Arngeir's words continued to accompany her. Clarity. Perhaps it did not lie in tranquility, but up here, where the world breathed more deeply than her heart ever dared.
    The wind tugged at Aimée's cloak as the clouds above her swallowed every trace of sunlight. She paused, took a deep breath of the icy air, and let it out with a shout:
    “Lok Vah Koor!”
    Her words rolled like thunder across the ridges, making the rocks tremble. There was a crack, then a tentative breaking, and the clouds parted as if invisible hands were pulling them apart. Sunbeams burst forth, feeling their way through the gaps and casting golden streaks across the snow.
    Aimée blinked, feeling the wind dance loose strands of her hair around her face. It grew stronger, urgent, as if trying to push her off her path. But she remained, unyielding like the mountains in whose shadow she stood.
    She let her gaze wander over the endless white. The tip of her boot absentmindedly drew a line in the snow as a song crept onto her lips. She gently rocked her head, letting the winter breeze carry the melody away.
    Up here, everything belonged to her: the vastness, the sky, the wind. Here, she was no longer just Aimée. Here, she was a fleeting breath, a part of the mountains themselves.

Aimée stopped.
    In front of her was a rock niche, half hidden under snow and ferns that trembled in the wind. When her fingers touched the rough stone, she felt warmth rising inside her, carried by memories.
    It had been her first climb, on her ninth birthday. Wulfgar had taken her with him, silent as the snow, but reliable as the earth beneath her boots. A rock in a world of wind and abysses.
    By now, she knew every path up here. But that one moment, that brief rest back then, had stayed with her.
    Wulfgar had lit a small fire and she had run restlessly around the flames, drawing patterns in the snow with a stick. 
    “When will we finally be up there?” She had asked again and again, pausing only briefly to take a bite of the ham sandwich Einarth had packed for her.
    The Greybeard had watched her silently, a hint of a smile on his lips. Then he had pulled a piece of wood and a knife out of his bag.
    “What are you doing, Wulfgar?” Her voice had been bright with anticipation. She had sat down next to him, curiously following his hands.
    Instead of answering, he had silently pointed to the sky: an eagle was circling above the peaks.
    “A bird?”
    He nodded and continued carving. Aimée could hardly sit still as wood became feathers and feathers became flight. When he was finished, he had handed her the small figure with a gentle look that promised without words that the summit was near.

The wind grew rougher, more biting. It tugged at Aimée's hair, screeched around the rocks, and whipped her cloak like a fluttering flag. But it wasn't just the cold that suddenly weighed on her. Something else, something indefinable, hung in the air, heavier than the wind.
    She paused again, looking around alertly. A roar reached her ears: the flapping of enormous wings. Her heart began to beat faster.
    When she had climbed the last ledge, the view of the Throat of the World opened up. Paarthurnax sat there as always, majestic and motionless in the middle of the ancient arena of stone and ice. The gray of his scales glistened in the sunlight, his eyes already resting warmly and knowingly on her.
    “Drem yol lok, dii mal joor,” his deep voice droned friendly. Greetings, my little human.
    Aimée smiled, the oppressive feeling in her chest immediately giving way to a familiar warmth. “I'm here, Paarthurnax.”
    She stepped closer. The dragon slowly raised his head, his wings resting quietly at his sides.
    “You called the wind and the clouds have cleared,” he said. “Your voice is growing, as it should.”
    “It feels... natural,” Aimée replied as she sat down on a nearby boulder. “But sometimes I wonder if I'll ever master it like you do.”
    Paarthurnax grumbled amused. “Patience, dii mal joor. Even the mightiest tree grows slowly but steadily.”
    Aimée smiled, her gaze wandering thoughtfully into the distance. “Have you... noticed, Paarthurnax? Something is different. The wind feels heavier.”
    The old dragon looked serious as he gazed toward the horizon.
    “Look closely, Aimée.” With a nod, he pointed to something far away.
    Aimée narrowed her eyes. Black clouds of smoke rose into the air, tearing through the clear sky like fingers reaching for freedom.
    “What is that?”
    “Alduin.” Paarthurnax's voice sounded heavy. “My brother has returned. Helgen... is burning.”

Chapter Text

Skyrim, Throat of the World: Aimée

“Alduin…” she repeated.
    Paarthurnax looked down into the valley for a long time. Thick fog rested deep in the hollows.
    “He was the balance of the world,” the dragon finally said. “But even balance can be shaken. People once honored and worshiped him… and in their worship, his hunger grew.”
    Aimée raised her eyes in thought. “What happened then?”
    “Perhaps it was pride. Maybe it was the knowledge of an end that no one can love, not even the one who brings it about. Or…” Paarthurnax looked into the distance, as if reflecting on things long past, “…perhaps it was something that changed the course of events forever.”
    Aimée frowned. “What do you mean?”
    “The will of Akatosh. He gave a mortal what was reserved for us dragons alone: the blood, the voice, the knowledge.”
    “Dragonborn…” she realized.
    Paarthurnax bowed his head. “He was the first. A mage of great talent and equally great ambition. But he turned his back on Akatosh, and followed the ways of a Daedric prince. Many of Alduin's faithful fell at his hands.”
    “And now?”
    “The world is being tested again.”
    Aimée wanted to say something, but every word felt inadequate.
    “Alduin was more than a mere destroyer,” Paarthurnax continued. “He was the end that nourishes the beginning. But his pride blinded him.”
    She felt the weight of his words. “He is your brother.”
    The old dragon paused, gazing at the last wisps of smoke slowly fading on the horizon. “The sun is tilting,” he finally said.
    Aimée only then realized how cold it had become. “I forgot the time,” she mumbled guiltily.
    “It's easy up here,” Paarthurnax replied in a gentle voice. “But you should leave now. The mountain is no place for mortals when night falls.”
    Aimée stood up, brushed the snow off her cloak and took one last look over the peaks. “I'll be back.”
    Paarthurnax tilted his head and growled. “The wind will carry your steps, dii mal joor.”

She turned to leave, but after taking a few steps, she stopped again. “Paarthurnax,” she began hesitantly. “Who is Miraak?”
    The dragon raised his head, and for a moment, he seemed infinitely old.
    “Miraak,” he repeated. “A name long dormant, but I have not forgotten it.”
    Aimée's heart seemed to stumble for a moment. He knows him…!
    “He was the first,” Paarthurnax continued. “Like you, he was a mortal, blessed with Akatosh's light. But he never stopped searching for more. His voice grew louder than his heart.”
    “The First…” She frowned. “The mage you spoke of… Miraak was that?”
    Paarthurnax's gaze rested on the horizon, where the last light of day was fading. “Yes. His power was great, but it did not bring him peace.”
    Aimée hesitated. Her fingers played nervously with a strand of hair. “So… you mentioned that Daedra. Which one was it?”
    “A name not to be spoken lightly.” There was a quiet warning in his words.
    She opened her mouth to reply, but the urgency in his eyes held her back.
    “That's enough for today,” Paarthurnax finally said. “The night brings a chill that even your flame cannot dispel.”
    Aimée bit her lip and nodded. He would give her no more answers. Not today.
    As she descended the path, a thought accompanied her, deeper than words: Miraak. A name that always caught up with her and yet found no peace. Was he possibly still alive somewhere? Was that even possible?

***

Apocrypha, 4th Era: Miraak

The eternal whispers of the library kept coming and going, coming and going, like the breaths of a sleeping god. The voices rose and fell, a sound without beginning, without end. After more than four thousand years, Miraak had long since stopped listening.
    Lost in thought, his fingers stroked the parchment of a book. No reading, just movement. A ritual without meaning. Each page was like the last. And the… next?
    Miraak paused. Something touched him, a resonance that did not come from Apocrypha. A name. His name. Not spoken. Sensed.
    He raised his eyes, his brow furrowed. For a fraction of a moment, it was as if someone had lit a light in the deepest ocean. A light that warmed him.
    Miraak closed his eyes, tried to capture it, to hold on to it, but there was nothing left. Only the old weight on his skin, the lines that bore Mora's touch like scars.
    A bitter smile.
    “Akatosh…” Hope melted into the shadows. The Heavenly Father remained silent. As always. And the warmth was gone, perhaps it had never been there.

***

Skyrim, High Hrothgar: Aimée

The fire crackled in the open hearth, its light flickering over stone and wood. The smell of rosehip tea and Einarth's dark sourdough bread filled the room. Aimée leaned back and relaxed, her legs stretched out loosely under the table as she sipped a steaming cup.
    Klimmek was hefting a basket of supplies onto the table, panting, his face reddened from the climb.
    “I'm telling you, that's all they talk about in Ivarstead,” he reported, out of breath. “A dragon, black as night, with flames in his eyes! Helgen is nothing but ashes.”
    Aimée looked up. “That's Alduin.”
    “Alduin? The end-” Klimmek coughed, gasping for breath, “…the endtime bringer? You say that like chickens are laying fewer eggs today!”
    Wulfgar mumbled something incomprehensible that was drowned out by his beard. Arngeir remained silent, but his gaze was fixed seriously on Aimée.
    She shrugged her shoulders, her fingers playing with the rim of her cup. “Paarthurnax told me.”
    “And that doesn't scare you?” Klimmek asked in disbelief.
    Aimée looked out of the window, where the first rays of the morning sun were touching the snow. “What am I supposed to do? Panicking doesn't help anyone.”
    Einarth, who was just taking the last loaves of bread out of the basket, put a hand on Aimée's shoulder, his eyes full of silent approval. Arngeir, on the other hand, shook his head.
    “It may be that you carry the peace of the mountain within you, Aimée. But the return of Alduin is no ordinary event.”
    Klimmek rubbed the back of his neck wearily and let out a long sigh. “Endtime bringers, dragons, ancient doom… yet the snow is not diminishing, and work awaits in the valley.”
    He straightened up with difficulty, patted his hands and gave Aimée a friendly look. “What do you think, Aimée? Are you helping an old man down the slope?”

***

The path into the valley was steep, but Aimée and Klimmek hardly seemed to mind. Snow-covered fir trees stood silently along the path, and the snow crunched softly under their boots.
    “Tell me, Aimée,” Klimmek began after a while, “how long are you going to stay up there with the old men? Doesn't it get boring?”
    Aimée gave him an amused smile. “Boring? You must mean peaceful. And besides…” She closed her eyes briefly, breathing in the clear air. “Where else could I be so close to heaven?”
    Klimmek grumbled. “Maybe, but the sky up there is also cold and lonely. At least there's company down in the valley.”
    Aimée stopped for a moment and looked at the horizon, where the mountain ranges faded into the deep blue.
    “Maybe the sky is lonely, maybe it is silent,” she murmured, half to herself. “But within its vastness, there are songs that only those who have learned to be quiet can hear.”
    “Bah! You and your poetry. One day you'll rival the Greybeards with your riddles!”
    Aimée grinned. “Maybe I'll come to the village soon and inspire you with my poems while you're fishing.”
    “Then I probably won't catch anything from thinking about your words!” he countered with a laugh.

The first snow-covered roofs of Ivarstatt appeared between the fir trees. The scent of wood smoke mingled with the crackling of a nearby fire. From afar, the rhythmic beat of an axe could be heard.
    “Home,” Klimmek sighed in relief and adjusted the basket on his shoulder. “Bet Temba's swearing about the bears again?”
    Aimée shook her head. “Wouldn't be much of a surprise.”
    When they reached the village square, Temba was indeed standing in front of her hut, her forehead furrowed in annoyance, grumbling to herself.
    “Klimmek! Aimée!” Wilhelm shouted from the door of the inn. “I suppose you made it through the storm up there all right?”
    “No storm, just snow and more snow,” Klimmek called back as he put down the basket. “And down here?”
    “Same as always,” Wilhelm replied with a shrug. “Pilgrims who are determined to climb the sacred path, and Narfi… he's still looking for his sister.”
    Klimmek's face became serious. “Poor guy. Lost the world when Reyda disappeared.”
    Aimée's gaze wandered to the half-ruined hut on the edge of the village. “They say hope dies last, but sometimes it only keeps the pain alive.”
    Wilhelm ran a hand over his face. “It's hard to watch him. But what can we do? The gods alone know what happened to Reyda.”
    Klimmek stood up resolutely. “I'll unload then. It'll be dark soon.”
    Wilhelm nodded, his hand still on the door frame. “I'll leave you something warm. For you too, Aimée. As always.”
    “You're a hero, Wilhelm.” Aimée smiled. “Thanks, I'll come by later.”
    She followed Klimmek to the shed behind the inn, where several baskets and barrels were already stored for the next climb. The soft cracking of the wood under her boots and the whistling of the wind accompanied her work.
    “Tell me, Aimée,” Klimmek began as he safely stowed away a bag of flour, “what made you decide to stay with the Greybeards? Not many people can stand this loneliness for so long.”
    Aimée paused, her gaze lost for a moment in the shadows of the beams. “Sometimes you're not looking for peace and quiet, but a place where you can understand the noise within yourself.”
    Klimmek looked at her intently before nodding. “Wisdom, eh?”
    She snorted and pushed the next basket towards him. “Or maybe I just have too much time to think.”
    Klimmek laughed warmly. “Come on, Aimée, let's get this over with.”

The two of them made their way back through the village. Sparse plumes of smoke rose from the chimneys and dissipated into the evening air.
    “I'm going to see Temba for a moment,” Klimmek said as they walked along the riverbank. “If I'm lucky, she'll still have some dry wood left.”
    Aimée nodded and looked out at the water, where pieces of ice floated slowly and lazily. “I'll stay here and enjoy the view,” she called after him.
    Klimmek raised his hand without turning around and disappeared between the huts.
    Aimée took a deep breath, letting the frosty air fill her lungs as she felt like she was being watched. Her gaze flitted over the bridge and the huts on the other bank. Everything seemed quiet.
    A branch cracked.
    Aimée spun around instinctively, her heart pounding wildly. Two figures emerged from the grove, almost silently. The fading daylight drew pale outlines on their strangely patterned robes, but it was the masks that made Aimée's heart beat faster: grotesque grimaces with tentacle-like extensions curling from their edges.
    She knew these masks. She had seen them in her dream.
    Aimée felt her hands trembling, but she did not flinch. Instead, a wry smile formed on her lips, more defiance than courage. “Well, I've seen you before.”
    The cultists paused, and for a moment they looked… irritated. The man tilted his head, turned to his companion. No sound was made, but their posture, the barely perceptible movements, told of a silent conversation from which Aimée remained excluded. Finally, the man turned his attention back to her.
    “You there. Are you the one they call Dragonborn?”
    Aimée's hand instinctively reached for her dagger. “What if?” The words came before she had thought about it. Her heart was racing.
    The cultists exchanged another glance, their masks unmoving. The man stepped closer. “Miraak's heritage is pure and untouchable. Unworthy imitators like you have no place in his divine plan.”
    An unexpected warmth flooded through her at the mention of the name. Miraak. The priest from her dream. The images were pale, but they left a bittersweet echo, almost like a memory of something lost. She forced herself not to move, even though the longing for answers was stronger than ever.
    “Interesting,” she remarked. “Are you his henchmen? Have you seen him recently?”
    The woman took a half-step to the side. “You speak as if you could hold your own before his glory.”
    Aimée clenched her fists. She didn't know what shook her more: the fact that the figures from her dream were actually standing in front of her, or the fanatical, cold certainty with which they spoke.
    “Worthy or not,” she replied, “I'm here. So?”
    The cultist bowed his head in silence, then made his decision. Without another word, he charged forward, his dagger flashing silver in the dying daylight.
    Aimée quickly dodged to the side and drew her own blade. She gasped, her senses sharpening. The words of her master, Arngeir, echoed in her mind. The breath leads, the voice follows. She had practiced countless times, absorbing the flow of the words, but now it felt different. More urgent. More vivid.
    A shadow moved at the edge of her field of vision. The female cultist raised her weapon, ready to attack. Aimée felt the adrenaline driving her heart forward. It was now or never. She took a deep breath.
    “FEIM!”
    The word exploded from her throat and a silver glow covered her skin. The cultist's blade slid through her as if she were a mirage.
    Aimée seized the moment. She rolled to the side in a flash, feeling the cool pressure of the earth on her palms, and plunged her dagger into the side of the first cultist.
    A hoarse gasp escaped him, and he sank to the ground, his hand pressed against the gaping wound. But his eyes, full of unwavering devotion, did not let her go.
    The fight was not over yet. The second cultist approached, her sword firmly in her hand.
    Aimée hurried back to her feet, fighting the panic rising inside her. Stay calm. Use what you've learned. They circled each other until Aimée spotted a brief gap. She leapt forward and knocked the weapon out of the woman's hand, sending it clattering to the ground.
    Before the cultist could react, Aimée put the dagger to her throat.
    “You won't do anything,” she growled softly, gripping the blade tighter. “Stay where you are.”
    The cultist remained motionless, her lips pressed into a thin line.
    Aimée dared a quick glance to the side, then carefully detached herself from the woman and crouched down next to the injured cultist. His breathing was shallow and blood trickled from under his mask.
    “Where can I find him?” she demanded.
    The cultist let out a wheezing laugh, which turned into a painful cough. “You… are not worthy.”
    Aimée gritted her teeth. “Just say it!”
    He coughed again, seemed as he would speak once more. Suddenly, however, his hands grabbed the dagger in Aimée's grip and rammed the blade into his own chest with the last of his strength.
    Aimée jerked back in shock as the man tensed, then went limp. The bloody blade slipped from her fingers and she stared at him, stunned.
    “Idiot,” the second cultist muttered in disgust.
    Aimée straightened up, her gaze fixed on her. “You may as well follow if you have nothing to say.” The adrenaline was still burning in her veins.
    “You do not know who you seek. Miraak's ways are unfathomable, his will beyond your mortal mind.”
    “I see him every night!” Aimée burst out. “He haunts me!”
    “Ridiculous.” The woman's voice sounded patronizing, as if she were speaking to an ignorant child. “His power crosses worlds, shapes thoughts, and breaks the will of those who aren't strong enough to follow him.”
    “Oh yes?” Aimée took a step closer. “If he is so powerful, why does he remain hidden? Why isn't he here?”
    A barely visible wince passed through the cultist, but when she spoke, her voice was ironclad. “Miraak alone decides when and how he reveals himself.”
    “And yet you hesitated when you saw my thu'um.”
    Another crack in the facade. “You carry a trace of him within you, yes. But that doesn't make you worthy.”
    “And who decides that, you?” Aimée's voice became rougher, more pleading. “Tell me where I can find him!”
    “All right!” The cultist literally spat out the words, as if she was tired of talking at all. “Solstheim.”
    Aimée wanted to say something else, but before she could, the wind suddenly rose, stirring up dust, leaves, and shadows. Within a breath, the cultist was gone.

***

Solstheim, 4th Era

Masser cast his pale light upon the beach of Raven Rock, while the sea sluggishly beat against the black shore. The monotonous hammering of tools echoed around the earth stone, an unyielding sound that never broke.
    Hammering. Hammering.
    The inhabitants of Solstheim worked in silence, their movements mechanical, like the cogs of a Dwemer machine. They dragged stones while quiet hymns formed on their lips. Their eyes, empty and dull, saw nothing.
    Far from ourselves…
 The air smelled of the sea. Of ashes. Of decay. Every breath weighed heavily on the lungs, and not even the wind brought relief, only the sense that something old and dark lingered.
    A man stumbled and fell forward, his tools clattering to the ground. He lay motionless, his face half-buried in the sand.
    A woman stepped over him. Sweat poured down her forehead, burning in an open wound. She bent down, picked up the tool and brought it down on a stone. The hammering continued, a rhythm that was not her own.
    And when the world shall listen…
    Bodies lay in the sand on the shore, lined up like memories that no one missed anymore. The tide reached out for them and retreated, only to reach out again in an eternal ritual without redemption. Shadows glided over everything, groping and searching for something incomprehensible.
    And when the world shall see…
 The earth stone pulsed with a greenish glow. Throbbing. Beating. Throbbing. Beating. A heart that found no rest. The stone breathed, and all fell silent in obedience.
    Hammering. Hammering.
    Hammering… Hammering.

***

Skyrim, High Hrothgar: Aimée

It was night and the library was completely silent. Aimée sat with her legs crossed at one of the long wooden tables with the open book ‘The Story of Aevar Stone-Singer’ in front of her.
    She read quietly to herself: “When the Skaal were new, there was peace in the land… The Greedy Man… perhaps he was once just a man…”
    She turned the pages.
    “Earth stone… Sun stone… Tree stone…” Her voice was sleepy and she sighed wearily. Not a word about Miraak. Nothing at all.
    One more page.
“…so Aevar walked to the edge of the ocean…” Aimée rubbed her forehead, her eyelids growing heavy. “The oceans again will bear fruit…”
    The lines began to blur before her eyes. Her head slowly sank onto her arm, which was resting on the table, while her fingers remained on the open book.
    Gradually, the silence of the library faded into a soft crackling sound. Warmth enveloped her, accompanied by the familiar scent of smoke and herbs. The outlines of her old home began to take shape: The alchemist's hut.

***

Little Aimée sat on a stool with her legs dangling, humming as she ground thyme and lavender in a mortar. Her forehead was marked by deep wrinkles, but her eyes kept wandering to the glasses on the table, which sparkled like little gems in the firelight.
    “Not so firm, Aimée,” her mother admonished without looking up, while her experienced hands tied dried sage into a bundle. “We want to grind the herbs, not turn them into powder. Or do you want to suffocate Klimmek instead of curing his cold?”
    Aimée blinked, paused and then giggled. “Maybe powder heals much faster!”
    “If that were the case, you'd certainly be the first to find out,” her mother replied dryly, but a smile played around her lips. She put the bundle aside and came closer. “Let me see.”
    She carefully examined the herbs between her fingers and raised an eyebrow in approval. “Not bad for a start.” She put the mortar back. “But more gently, Aimée. You don't want to crush rocks.”
    “You always say that,” Aimée sighed with exaggerated suffering and propped her chin in her hand as if she were the only eight-year-old in the world with such a burden.
    “And you never listen,” her mother replied. “Healing requires patience. If you're impatient, you'll make mistakes, and those mistakes could cost lives.”
    Aimée nodded, but her curiosity quickly got the better of her. “Can I label the bottles later?” she asked eagerly. “And can I fill them myself this time?”
    “Only if you don't try to name the bottles again,” her mother replied with a wry smile. “A cold potion called ‘Balthazar’ doesn't sell very well, you know.”
    Aimée grimaced. “But ‘Balthazar’ sounds much more exciting than ‘cough syrup’.”
    “Maybe,” her mother said, brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear, “but I don't think anyone would trust a ‘Balthazar’ for their cough.”
    Aimée grinned and jumped up from the stool. “Can I feed the rabbits? I haven't brought them dinner yet.”
    “Then go, but I don't want to see a rabbit in your bed tonight.”
    Aimée raised her hand solemnly. “I promise! Not a single bunny in my bed!”
    Her mother straightened up, took a glass from the table and held it up to the light. “And don't forget the carrots. Rabbits don't like empty promises.”

Aimée crouched in the snow with a bundle of carrots in her hands. The rabbits sniffed cautiously before beginning to nibble. Aimée giggled and held out a carrot to the largest one. “Slow down, you glutton! Otherwise, there won't be anything left for the others.”
    The wind rustled through the trees, accompanied by the creaking of branches. Aimée raised her head and listened, but she didn't hear anything unusual.
    She stood up straight, brushed the snow off her apron and called back to the hut: “Mom! I promised I wouldn't take a rabbit with me, but he won't leave!”
    “Aimée, come in!”
    The sudden sharpness of her voice made Aimée flinch. A frown creased her forehead. She hesitated only briefly before jumping up and hurrying to the hut.
    As soon as she had crossed the threshold, her mother hastily locked the window, drew the curtains and pulled Aimée close.
    “Listen to me carefully,” she insisted, her eyes wandering anxiously around the hut. “You go behind the pantry. Hide there. Stay completely quiet. Not a sound, do you understand?”
    “What's going on?” Aimée asked, startled.
    But her mother didn't answer. She pushed Aimée resolutely into the room and closed the door.
    Aimée cowered in the darkness, pressing both hands tightly over her mouth. Her heart beat wildly, and she could hear her blood rushing in her ears. Suddenly, there was a loud crash, and the walls shook.
    “Open up, blood traitor!”
    The door burst from its hinges with a sharp splintering sound. Wooden pieces flew to the floor, and Aimée flinched, squeezing herself deeper into the corner. Heavy footsteps made the floorboards tremble.
    “The whore's heart for Namira!” shrieked a shrill female voice.
    “And her liver!” screamed a second voice.
    “Fools!” It was her mother, her voice full of anger. “You think blood would soothe the earth?”
    A deep laughter echoed through the hut. “Your words are filth, unclean one. Die!”
    “Blood for blood! For the Reach!”
    Aimée pulled her knees tight under her chin, squeezed her eyes shut and desperately pressed her fingers against her ears, but the noise still reached her. She began to tremble, feeling as if every second passed like an eternity, until suddenly, there was absolute, unbearable silence. A silence worse than anything before.

Aimée opened her eyes hesitantly, her breath coming in gasps. With trembling fingers, she felt her way to the door and pushed it open a crack. A faint creak made her flinch.
    She crawled out of her hiding place and pushed herself past an overturned shelf. The hut was barely recognizable, with smashed furniture, broken glass, and liquids smearing the floor.
    Then she saw the blood.
    It ran in dark streaks across the floor, collecting in cracks, staining the broken pieces red. In the middle of it all… lay her mother.
    Aimée froze, her legs gave way. She sank to her knees, leaned weakly against the wall. “Mom?”
    Her hand sought out her mother's.
    Sticky warmth. Blood clung to Aimée's fingers, to her clothes. The world lost its color. Only red remained. Red. Dark. Black. Her mother's hand lay still.
    “Mommy…”
    No breath. Just the throbbing in her head.
    Throb.
    No.
    Throb.
    Throb.
    Aimée shifted closer, her hands groping over her face. Still warm. She gently shook her shoulder.
    “Wake up…?”
    Nothing. No answer.
    The world began to spin. Everything was droning, every sound too loud, every movement too strong.
    “Mama…” Her voice broke, she leaned forward.
    Blood.
    Aimée gasped for air. Blood.
    Too much.
    Far too much.
    “Mommy!” Her cry turned into a weeping scream. Aimée's hands grabbed the fabric and pulled at it as if she could bring her mother back. Back to life. Back to her.
    Pain. A gust of wind tore open the door, sending dishes tumbling off the shelves. Too much pain. Glass shattered with a loud clink, and the wooden beams groaned in agony.
    Aimée barely noticed. Her shoulders shook; crying had robbed her of all her strength. She struggled desperately for air. She could not breathe. She could not breathe. She could not…
    “Mamaaaa!”
    The wind howled louder and whipped through the open door frame. The candles almost went out, just to flare up again. Aimée lifted her face, tears blurred her vision. And when she opened her eyes, they shone bright gold.
    A crack ran through the stonework. Wood exploded. Chips clattered against the walls. The beams groaned, bowed, bent under an invisible force. Fire roared high from the chimney, but Aimée was unaware of it. She screamed without ceasing until strong hands grabbed her and pulled her up.
    The wind raged relentlessly as she was carried out of the collapsing hut. Her wails echoed from the valleys of the Rift up to the peaks, where the Throat of the World stood silently among the stars. A deafening explosion followed as her home sank into ruins.
    Then nothing.

***

Aimée opened her eyes with a jerk. The cold floor was the first thing she felt, the sharp pain in her neck the second. She blinked, her cheeks wet with tears. It took her a moment to realize that she had fallen off the chair. The book that had been in her hands lay open beside her.
    Borri sat quietly at her side, his hands on his knees, his gaze calm and watchful. His presence made the world seem less cold for a moment, even without words.
    She drew her legs close to her. Her fingers trembled as she picked up the book from the floor and gently smoothed out the crumpled pages.
    Borri pulled a cloth from his robe and handed it to her. She took it and wiped her cheeks. Then she turned it thoughtfully in her hands.
    Without saying anything, Borri put an arm around her shoulders and pulled her closer. His hand stroked her hair, his thumb following a gentle rhythm that slowly calmed her breathing. This familiar gesture was deeply ingrained in her. Ever since her childhood, he had always been there whenever nightmares haunted her.
    Outside, the wind pressed against the window, a constant whistling. Exhausted, Aimée closed her eyes, her breathing following the calm strokes of his hand. Gradually, the tension receded until sleep took her.
    

Chapter Text

Skyrim, High Hrothgar: Aimée

Aimée leaned her head on her hand and ran her fingers through her tousled hair. In front of her lay another tattered book covered in notes she could barely decipher. Sighing, she closed it.
    Borri, meanwhile, was leafing unperturbed through the yellowed pages of another tome.
    “How do you do that?” Aimée rubbed her tired eyes and looked over at him. “You've been digging through these books for days and you seem like you could go on forever.”
    A smile flitted across Borri's face. He tapped the cover twice - tap, tap - an answer without words: Because knowledge is worth it.
    Aimée snorted and shook her head in resignation. “Maybe we should take a break and ... eat cake.” She paused for a moment and her eyes began to shine. “Do you think Einarth would bake us a sweet roll?”
    Borri raised his hand and pointed to the window where the night lay on the monastery. Then he lowered it again.
    “I know, I know,” Aimée grumbled and rolled her eyes. "It's nighttime. Sleeping Greybeards, no sweet rolls." She dramatically lowered her forehead to the tabletop. “I'm going mad here.”
    Borri stood up, walked to the shelf, and let his fingers glide thoughtfully over the spines of the books. Finally he paused, pulled out a particularly old volume and returned to Aimée. Silently, he placed it on the table in front of her.
    Aimée raised her head, rubbed her reddened forehead and looked skeptically at the faded title. "Dahmaan Rok Bormahu ... Remember the word of the Heavenly Father. Sounds ... old."
    She leaned back and stared at the book as if it would open by itself and answer all her questions.
    “What does this have to do with Solstheim?” she finally muttered, frustration and fatigue coloring her voice.
    Borri sat down across from her, patiently folded his hands, and looked at her with that unyielding gaze that could drive Aimée to despair.
    “I know,” she sighed. “Read first, then judge.” She reluctantly reached for the book. “But if this is just another collection of old hymns, then I'll...”
    A gentle tap from Borri interrupted her. Read.
    Aimée opened the first page. Immediately, she was enveloped by the familiar scent of old parchment, and after just a few lines, her thoughts were no longer in the monastery. The world around her faded, making room for another.

***

From the void sprang fire, and from the fire were born the first beings: the dragons. Their wings stretched across the heavens, and their wrath broke forth as flames that shaped the land. Their breath raised mountains, sundered valleys, and sent rivers flowing where before there had been only dust.

And behold: their Word was power, and their voices shook the world. They spoke, and stones shattered. They cried out, and storms obeyed. Heaven and earth bent to their will, and no mortal dared gainsay them.

Yet in their pride, ruin grew, for the dragons took what pleased them, and the people groaned beneath the weight of their dominion. But who would dare to speak against the heaven?

"Forever," cried the dragons, "shall our realm endure. No judgment shall break our rule."

But nothing endures forever, not even the reign of the undying. And the wind that bore their breath began to turn.

Thus it came to pass that a mortal arose, blessed by Akatosh, God of Time. In his veins burned the fire of the Eternal, and yet his heart beat to the measure of mortality.

This was the gift of dragon blood: the power of the Voice, born of the breath of the First, yet bound to finite time. A blessing, said some. A curse, said others. For with this gift came the burden of balance, one that had already begun to falter.

"A mortal shall not judge us," the dragons thundered. "His blood is unclean, his will is weak."

But behold: the mortal turned their power against them. His Thu'um shook the heavens, and the earth trembled beneath his call. His word broke the dragons' rule and revealed to them the truth of their mortality.

And so it was written that Alduin, the World-Eater, must fall. And Akatosh, God of Time, laid this burden upon the shoulders of the First.

But where there is light, the shadows grow long. And in the heart of the Chosen One, doubt began to grow.

"Why was this power given to me?" he asked. "Should I not rule instead of serve? Why fight for the fate of the gods when I can shape my own?"

And behold: the flame he bore began to flicker. The path before him lay in darkness, and each step took him further away from his divine mission. Not the dragons, not the gods, but he himself lost the light that should have guided him.

And when order broke, the rivers turned against their banks and stars left their orbits. Rifts opened in the depths, and a being beyond time and mortality rose: Hermaeus Mora, a collector whom even the gods avoid.

His eyes, numberless and unfathomable, pierced the bounds of creation. No secret escaped him, no lie could stand before him. Wherever a mind yearned for forbidden knowledge, there he took what was his due.

"All that is hidden is mine," spoke Mora.

And behold: The First strayed from the path of light, and Mora saw him. The Dragonborn held a power yet unbound, a knowledge yet unspoken.

"Come to me," rang Mora’s call. "Come, and I will reveal to you what is hidden. Come, and the secrets of the worlds shall be yours."

The First, mighty as he was, bore a longing for answers to questions neither Man nor Mer dared to ask. He sought the unsaid; knowledge the gods withheld from mortals. And Mora heard him.

But knowledge always demands a price, and Mora’s price was high. The First, seduced by the promise, took what was offered him, and the Keeper’s chains weighed heavier than any burden he had borne before.

Thus he fell from the light into darkness.

Yet the world never rests, and the river of time ever returns to its source. Where one will is broken, another is born. Akatosh beheld the darkness that closed around his First.

But behold, the God of Time…

***

Aimée blinked, her fingers drumming impatiently on the edge of the page.
    “That's it? Just... gone?” Disbelief mingled with frustration. She leaned forward, as if she could make the faded words visible again through sheer willpower. “There must be more!”
    Borri's shadow fell on the parchment. Calmly, he ran his fingers over the faded writing, paused, and tapped the page thoughtfully twice.
    Aimée looked at him impatiently. “Well?” Borri raised his hand, slowly circling his fingers like the hands of a clock, then pointed upward. “Time?” Aimée dropped her hands onto the table. “ This is just old?”
    Borri shrugged. His fingers stroked the fragile cover, the faded ink; witnesses to a work that had survived centuries.
    “Wonderful. Just wonderful,” Aimée muttered in resignation, folding her arms. Her voice sounded irritated, but exhaustion took the edge off it.
    Borri silently opened the book again and turned back page by page until he paused. He looked up, concern in his eyes. He turned the book toward Aimée, his finger resting on ‘Hermaeus Mora’.
Aimée felt a tug in her chest, a warning. “Paarthurnax didn't even want to speak his name.”
    Borri drew another spiral in the air with his hand, slowly curling inward until a sudden jolt broke the pattern: a shattering.
    Aimée snorted. “How dangerous can knowledge be? If this Daedra is so threatening, why did Miraak turn to him in the first place?”
    Borri's fingers formed the sign for temptation before quickly shifting to deception.
    “So he got everything... and still lost everything.” Aimée closed her eyes briefly, took a deep breath, and leaned her arms on the table. “But I'm not Miraak.”
    Borri made a soft but unyielding gesture, reminiscent of water tirelessly beating against a rock. Slowly. Relentlessly.
    Aimée's shoulders slumped.
“I know.” Her voice was quieter now, with a vulnerable undertone. “But how am I supposed to find answers when everyone is trying to stop me?”
Borri placed a hand on her arm. His fingers were warm, his gaze full of quiet concern.
    “I have to go to Solstheim.” Aimée sighed and ran her fingers through her hair. “If Miraak is there... then I want to know why he keeps appearing in my dreams. I mean, what's that all about?”
Borri looked to the side, as if he could find an answer in the shadows of the library. His hand lingered on her arm for a moment longer before he slowly withdrew it.
    Aimée tried to interpret his expression, but Borri remained silent. Only after a while did he look up, a decision seemingly made. His fingers formed the sign of the way in the air, then he pointed to himself.
Her eyes widened. “You're coming with me?”
    Borri nodded briefly but decisively.
“Why?”
He lifted the book and pointed with two fingers to the faded spot. There is more to discover, more to understand.
“Curiosity?”
Borri responded with a second gesture that looked like the movement of a boat on waves.
    Aimée laughed softly, almost in disbelief. “You've never been to Solstheim?”
He nodded again. Then he placed his hand flat over his heart and moved it toward her in a calm motion. No words were necessary. The gesture spoke of care, connection, a promise. They were family, and he would not let her go on this journey alone.

***

Two days later

Aimée trudged through the snow, the wind whipping at her as she climbed the steep path to the Throat of the World. Her cloak fluttered around her legs, and she pulled it tighter, as if it could protect her from the doubt gnawing within her.
    She paused briefly, looking back down into the valley where High Hrothgar crouched against the mountains. Behind her lay what she had never wanted to lose: her home. The Greybeards had listened to her, accepting her decision without approving of it. Their voices still echoed in her mind, as if the conversation had taken place barely an hour ago.
    Arngeir had been silent for a long time before finally raising his head.
    “Have you learned nothing, Aimée? The world outside is deceptive. It promises answers, but gives you only lies. It plays on your ignorance and your pride.”
    Aimée had met his gaze, forcing herself to remain calm. “I have learned. I know what I am doing.”
    “Really?” Arngeir had replied sharply. “Your wisdom is young, Aimée. Do you even know what you're risking?”
    Wulfgar had taken a step closer, his gaze shifting between the two; a silent plea for moderation. Harmony.
    Then Borri had intervened. He had pointed at Aimée, formed the sign of the way, and gestured into the distance. His eyes were fixed on Arngeir. She must go. This is her path.
    Einarth had hesitated, attempting a gentle smile that faded into quiet sadness before it could fully emerge.
    Now, on her way to Paarthurnax, the burden of her decision weighed heavier than ever. The Greybeards would let her go. But what would he say?
    Paarthurnax had raised and guided her. His essence was deeply embedded in every bit of wisdom she had learned. Facing him and telling him that she was leaving him... that was the hardest test of all.

When Aimée arrived at the summit, she found Paarthurnax on the Word Wall. His gray scales shimmered in the light of the low sun, and his mere presence seemed to calm the wind around him.
    “Dii mal joor,” he greeted her. “The cold carries your thoughts to me, heavy as the ice that sleeps in the rocks and never melts.”
    Aimée paused, her fingers clenching the fabric of her cloak. She knew that he already suspected why she was here.
    “I'm going to Solstheim.”
    Paarthurnax slowly lowered his head. His gaze seemed to pass through her, far away, into a time that was long gone. “You seek Miraak,” he said, and there was quiet certainty in his voice.
    Aimée's hands clenched into fists. “I need to know why it feels like he's so... close.”
    A thoughtful rumble escaped from the dragon's chest. “Solstheim holds answers, but answers always come at a price. And where the paths end, Mora waits.”
    Aimée turned her gaze to the horizon, where the peaks rose like shadows into the clouds. “It's as if I've been caught in a current that's pulling me deeper and deeper.”
    “A current only pulls you if you let yourself drift. You have a choice. Always.”
    There was silence for a moment.
    “Miraak was strong,” Paarthurnax finally continued. “But darkness changes, as does time. Whatever you find... he may not be the man you are looking for.”
    Aimée stepped closer, the wind tugging at her cloak. “Then I will remind him of who he was and who he can be again.”
    Paarthurnax let out a deep, almost amused hum.
    “You are stubborn, dii mal joor.” His eyes sparkled warmly for a moment before his gaze became serious again. “Your will is as alive as a flame, but even the brightest fire can extinguish in the darkness.”
    Aimée was silent, the weight of his words heavy in her chest.
    The dragon stood up. “If you must go, then take this with you.” His voice rose, thundered through the air: “PAAR. THUR. NAX.”
    The syllables boomed over the peaks, but they were more than that. Waves of pure power flowed through them, and Aimée felt the force deep in her soul. Her breath caught, her whole body trembled. And then: clarity. The words lived, whispered, sang within her and became a part of her, a legacy.
    “Call my name when darkness finds you,” Paarthurnax said more gently, almost like a father to his child. “I will hear you.”

***

The morning sun crept over the peaks, gently illuminating the ancient walls of High Hrothgar. Aimée stood on the threshold of the gate, her heart heavy yet filled with determination. The wind swirled snow around her boots, as if reluctant to let her go.
    Behind her lay all the years in which this place had been her shelter, refuge, and home. The murmur of the old halls still echoed, a gentle reminder: This is where you were shaped. This is where you were loved.
    Before her waited the Greybeards: Arngeir, standing upright, his hands hidden in the folds of his robe. Einarth gazed silently into the distance, while Wulfgar offered her warmth with a barely perceptible nod.
    Klimmek stood a little apart, restless, his tentative smile a reminder of the worldliness of the valley. And finally, Borri waited, his hands clasped behind his back.
    Arngeir looked at her sternly, but there was something rare in his gaze: concern.
    “Your journey will take you down uncertain paths.” He hesitated briefly, his voice softening. “May the wind always blow in your favor, and may the way of the voice never leave you.”
    “I will not forget your teachings,” Aimée replied.
    Einarth stepped closer and handed her a carefully tied bundle. The cloth smelled of fresh bread and honey. Einarth placed his hand on hers and a nod accompanied his message: Stay strong. And never forget, you have a place you can always return to.
    Wulfgar approached. He gently touched the little fox on her belt, the figure he had once carved for her. His fingers lingered there for a moment before he placed it on his heart and then pointed to the sky. A simple gesture: protection and trust.
    Aimée felt her throat tighten.
    Then Klimmek stepped forward.
    “Oh, Aimée,” he began, shaking his head, “I should have kept you with me back then. Who's going to do my work now?”
    His laughter sounded fragile, and he quickly wiped his eyes.
    “But seriously,” he added in a hoarse voice. “Take good care of yourself, okay?” He suddenly pulled her into a strong embrace, patted her on the back two or three times, and finally held her a little longer than usual. “Don't forget where you belong.”
    Aimée fought back tears. She closed her eyes for a moment, letting the warmth of his embrace sink in deeply before gently pulling away.
    “I won't forget, Klimmek,” she said with a smile. “And I'll be back.”
    Her gaze wandered one last time to the Greybeards, a silent farewell to everything she was now leaving behind. Then she stepped up beside Boris. Together they began the descent, their footsteps echoing a future that was yet to be written.

***

The afternoon sun bathed the forest in soft gold, shimmering through the treetops and painting dancing patterns on the ground. Aimée jumped over a gnarled root, her steps as light as her thoughts.
    “Solstheim,” she began, “this is how I imagine it: dark forests, but instead of trees, there are giant mushrooms. Maybe there are hot springs that glow in the moonlight.” She grinned. “And the people there? They must be a little strange, right? I mean, who would voluntarily live on an island full of ash deserts?”
    Borri gave her a patient look. His eyebrow rose almost imperceptibly, but Aimée was already giggling and continued cheerfully.
    “And dragons! Imagine, there are dragons there. Not like Alduin, no, but maybe other, unknown ones...”
The Greybeard held her gaze, then shrugged slightly. Tap, tap. His fingers drummed casually on his staff. Fascinating. Keep going.
    Aimée turned halfway toward him as she walked, the wind blowing her hair into her face.
    “I bet Solstheim is a place for stories you write yourself,” she said dreamily as she pushed aside a low-hanging branch. “And who knows, maybe those mushrooms really do glow there. Just imagine: no more torches, just... mushrooms that—”
    Her laughter trailed off. Borri had stopped, a finger to his lips.
Aimée's gaze followed his. A figure was moving between the trees. It was tall, broad, and shuffled heavily over roots and stones.

"Heyyy!" shouted the stranger, a Nord whose slurred speech caused some birds to flutter out of the trees in fright. "What… what are you doing out here? Lost, huh?" His laugh was hoarse, almost a cough.
    He lurched closer, a half-empty bottle in his hand. "Well now… who do we have here?" His cloudy eyes slowly scanned her. "A pretty girl and… your father? Or… your grandfather?"
    Aimée lowered her gaze. "You have mud on your boots," she said. "Quite a lot, in fact."
    Borri shot her a sharp look, which she didn’t notice.
    "Mud?" The Nord gave a rasping laugh and took an unsteady step toward her. "What’s a little mud… when you look like that?"
    Aimée frowned in confusion. "What?"
    But the man had already seized her arm. His fingers were sweaty, his grip unpleasantly tight.
    "You… really are… something special," he mumbled sluggishly, grinning wide.
    Aimée’s eyes widened, her heart suddenly pounded wild, yet her limbs stayed frozen in place.
    Before she could react, Borri was at her side. His hand closed around the Nord’s wrist with a force that seemed almost uncanny, betraying nothing of his otherwise calm nature. The grip was iron, his stance unmovable. He tilted his head, his eyes fixing the man with unmistakable coldness.
    "Eh…?" stammered the Nord in surprise, his grin fading into a nervous twitch. "Let… let go, old man!"
    Borri’s hold remained with a silent authority, stronger than any threat.
    Aimée finally drew breath, feeling the pressure on her chest ease. "You should go," she said, her voice trembling at first, then firmer. "Go."
    Slowly, Borri released his grip, but his gaze stayed on the Nord in warning.
    The stranger backed away, rubbing his wrist. "You lot are…"
    His words cut off as Borri stepped forward. The man stumbled backward, spun around, and vanished, cursing, among the trees. "Bunch of lunatics…"

Aimée's hands trembled, but she clenched them into fists to hide it. “That was... strange,” she muttered, averting her gaze from Borri.
    Borri stopped and turned to her. He pointed first to her mouth, then to the surrounding shadows of the forest. His warning was clear: you talk too much.
    Aimée's cheeks flushed with embarrassment, and she defiantly crossed her arms over her chest. “What? Am I not supposed to say anything at all now?”
    Borri raised an eyebrow. Slowly, he pointed to her heart, then circled his hand in front of her chest in a flowing motion: protection, caution, moderation.
    She snorted and kicked a loose stone in embarrassment. “Yeah, yeah, I get it. The world is full of people who will steal from me, kidnap me, or...” Her voice trailed off, she understood.
    Borri turned back to the path without a word, his posture calm but alert. Aimée followed him with her arms crossed, but her footsteps became noticeably quieter.

Darkness swallowed the last rays of sunlight until the shadows of the forest merged into a single blackness. The wind carried the cool rustling of leaves and occasionally caused branches to crack. The path ahead of them became less distinct with every step, disappearing into the night.
    Aimée pulled her cloak tighter, her thoughts far away. Suddenly, she stopped, her eyes fixed on a point in the distance. “Look!” She pointed ahead.
    The Greybeard followed her gaze. Thin smoke rose into the darkness between the branches, little more than a shadow against the starry sky. The familiar smell of burning wood reached their senses: the fireplace at Kynesgrove's tavern.
    Aimée smiled, and for the first time in hours, some of the tension fell off from her. “I hope they still have room by the fire. And... maybe some stew, too.”
    Borri glanced at her, his lips curving into a smile. He gently placed his hand on her back. Move on.

***

They left Kynesgrove behind in the first light of day. The morning took them through the vast snowfields of Eastmarch, where the frost swallowed every sound and their breath rose visibly before them. Finally, it loomed before them: a fortress of stone and ice, its walls marked by the cold of countless winters. Windhelm.
    Towers pierced the leaden gray sky, their battlements covered in snow like old wounds that had never healed. Aimée shivered, pulled her cloak tighter, and yet could not deny that this city radiated something unmistakable: power, history, perhaps even suffering.
    Chaos reigned at the harbor. Voices echoed hoarsely through the icy winter air, accompanied by the rumbling of heavy barrels and the crunching of sleds on icy planks. Aimée stopped and let the place sink in.
    A pungent smell of salt, seaweed, and fish hung in the air, underscored by the heavy note of soot. An Argonian sat silently at the edge of the pier, mending a net. Not far from him, another Argonian and a Nord were arguing loudly about the last catch.
    Aimée's gaze wandered further and lingered on a Stormcloak soldier who was shouting across the square in a rough voice: “Aye! A new day is dawning! The sun is rising over Whiterun! The Jarl has spoken! Spread the word, brothers!”
    Borri's eyes rested on the man for a moment, as if analyzing his words or something in them that Aimée missed.

Aimée approached the ships. Ropes creaked in the wind and the wood of the pier groaned under the weight of heavy crates.
    “What do you think, Borri?” She pointed to a larger vessel whose rolled-up sails and weather-beaten planks bore witness to long years at sea. “Looks... sturdy, doesn't it?”
    Borri ran his fingers briefly over the handle of his staff and nodded. 
    Slowly, Aimée exhaled the breath she had been holding unconsciously and hesitantly approached a broad-shouldered man who was just heaving a crate across the deck.
    “Hey, are you the captain?”
    The man paused, dropped the crate onto the planks with a dull thud, and wiped his hands on his worn vest. “Aye, I am.”
    “I need a passage to Solstheim.”
    He raised his head, his eyes narrowing. “Solstheim?” he snorted. “Forget it, girl. I'm not going to that godforsaken place.”
    “What? Why not?”
    “Because the people who go there sometimes don't come back,” he growled. “And when they do, they're... different. Messed up in their head.”
    He reached for the next crate as if the conversation was over for him. “Ask Gjalund Salt-Sage. He's got a screw loose and makes those kinds of trips.”
    Aimée bit her lip in frustration and watched him go. “Gjalund, then.”
    The captain grumbled something incomprehensible and stomped away.

Gjalund stood at the end of the pier. The wind tugged at his clothes, but he remained motionless, his hands clinging tightly to the railing of his ship. Aimée's footsteps creaked on the wood, Borri close behind her.
    “Gjalund Salt-Sage?”
    The man slowly turned around. His tired eyes had a hardness that only the sea could impart. “Right in front of you,” he replied curtly in suspicion. “What do you want?”
    “A passage to Solstheim.”
    The words made him recoil as if she had uttered a curse.
    “No.” Short. Instinctive. “I don't go there anymore.”
    Aimée blinked, surprised by the sudden harshness. “But you're the captain, aren't you?”
    A bitter laugh escaped him. “Captain, yes. But not a fool.” His gaze drifted into the distance, out to sea, and he added quietly, “Not anymore.”
    “What do you mean?”
    Gjalund ran his rough hand over his face, his fingers trembling. “The island... something's not right. The air there is heavy, like a net that slowly hauls you in. And the people there...” He broke off.
    “What about them?”
    “Well...” He swallowed and lowered his voice further. “They stare. For hours. And sometimes... they mumble, but... it doesn't make sense.”
    Aimée frowned. “Maybe they're sick?”
    “No!” The outburst was so fierce that even Borri flinched slightly. “Not sickness. It's the island. They...”
    He paused again, searching for words. Only the sound of the water and the clattering of the ropes filled the silence before he continued quietly: “I've lost days. Whole days... just gone.”
    He looked up. The hardness was gone, replaced by raw, unmasked fear. “Tell me, girl, does that sound normal to you?”
    Aimée suddenly wasn't sure if it was right to keep pushing him. She looked uncertainly at Borri.
    He stepped forward. His hands drew a circle in the air: the symbol of the eternal wheel, of the familiar, of the known. Then he pointed to the ship and let his hand sink onto the pier. The circle closed.
    Gjalund looked confused.
    Aimée took a deep breath. “He means... you know all this. The sea. The dangers. You're the only one who can do it. No one else sails to Solstheim anymore.”
    Gjalund crossed his arms, looked back and forth between them. Then he rubbed his forehead. “You don't understand what you're asking.”
    Aimée's hands clenched the hem of her cloak. “Maybe we don't understand everything... but we need your help.” She quickly pulled out a small bag. “And we'll pay well.”
    Gjalund looked at the bag. He raised his arm, almost reaching for it, but then shook his head. “Gold is useless if I don't come back.” His words sounded almost like a reproach.
    “But you've always come back,” Aimée insisted. She took a step closer, seeking his gaze.
    Gjalund stared at her for a long time, the wrinkles on his forehead deep, as if he were turning every thought over again. Then, finally, he let out a sigh.
    “All right.” His words carried the weight of a decision that was not easy for him to make. “But on one condition: I'll take you there and sail right back. No delays. No arguments.”
    Aimée nodded hastily, too relieved to comprehend the consequences of his words. “Agreed!”
    Gjalund turned away with his head bowed, his shoulders seeming heavier than before. He stepped onto the deck and raised his voice, which echoed across the harbor: “Get the ropes ready! Bring the supplies on board!”
    Aimée watched him go, the gold bag still in her hand.
Gjalund glanced back at her over his shoulder with a final, serious look. “We're leaving tomorrow morning!”

Chapter Text

???, ???: Aimée

The darkness was a bottomless sea: silent, yet of infinite weight. There were no borders, only void.
    Then came the warmth.
    It awoke in her chest, at first barely noticeable, a heartbeat, a spark, and suddenly there was a flame. It spread, sending waves through her body, singing of something that had always been there. Strange, yes, yet somehow familiar.
    Out of the void came the voice, soft, tender, almost hungry. Closer…
    Aimée turned, searching for its source. The surrounding darkness surged like water, fog receded, something pushed it away. And from it emerged a presence that forgot the light.
    It was him.
    His presence made her sway. The warmth in her chest exploded, consuming all clarity and leaving behind only raw desire. Fear. Longing. Miraak.
    Though space still lay between them, his presence was overwhelming. Aimée pressed a hand against her chest, trying to ease the pressure, but it was as though he had touched something within her that had always belonged to him. A faint gasp escaped her.
    His mask tilted, and the slits glimmered like the last rays of a dying day, a light that was both comforting and painful.
    She held her breath. The impulse to flee was there, but died immediately. Her heart was racing. But was it still her heart? Or did it already belong to him?
    Slowly, he raised his hand, like a creator drawing the first line of a new world. The mist recoiled before him in reverence, and Aimée saw her own hand rising, though she had not willed it. Her fingers reached out toward him.
    The space between them pulled at her like the current of a river. Like a home she had never known, yet always missed. Like a promise never spoken, yet always desired.
    But suddenly, the warmth was torn away, and the dream shattered. Aimée drew a sharp breath…  and found nothing to hold on to. Loneliness constricted her chest. Cold. Colder. So cold that even the pain died away.

With a sudden jolt, she sat upright.
    The world around her swayed – no, it was the ship. Above her stretched a leaden-gray sky, and beneath, the sea was restless. Salty air filled her lungs, stinging faintly, while the steady creaking of the planks slowly drew her back into reality.
    Borri sat not far away, gazing calmly out at the horizon.
    Aimée reached for her blanket and pulled it tighter around her shoulders. Her fingers were still trembling. The warmth… was gone.
    She closed her eyes and placed a hand on her chest, where his presence still lingered. A promise she neither fully understood nor could easily forget.

***

Apocrypha, 4th Era: Miraak

The warmth had found him again, but this time it was no fleeting sensation that eluded him the moment he felt it. This time, it lingered. It had taken up space inside him, around him, as if it belonged there. This time it was… real.
    And now it was gone.
    Miraak slowly closed his eyes. What remained was her resonance, sweet and painful, like the lingering sound of a string that refuses to fall silent. Alive. This touch had gone deeper, reaching him in a place where even Mora could not tread.
    And it was no longer enough.
    She had shown him something he had been certain was long-lost. Now that he knew it, he would not let it go.
    His gaze wandered to the endless rows of books, where he had searched knowledge, truth, and meaning for eons. But all the answers he had found had remained empty. Nothing could explain what he was feeling now.
    A will formed: She belongs to you.
    When Miraak opened his eyes, they reflected not mere greed or lust for power, but a profound longing. Yet the old claim, his dominion, still lingered there.

“Miraaaak… you sawww it, didn’t you…? The illuuuuusion…” 
    The words crept slowly through the room, thick as oil. They dripped into the silence, vanished, and then reappeared.
    “Illusion?” Miraak repeated, his voice controlled. Every movement he made was measured, a shield he never lowered in Mora’s presence. “How unusual that you’d trouble yourself to explain to me what I feel.”
    “Illuuuuusion… truuuuuth… who can… tell themmm apart? How… does the mortal… distinguish?”
    Miraak turned his head just enough to meet the enormous eye watching him from the darkness.
    “By not allowing himself to be deceived by you,” he replied coldly. “I have been here long enough to understand what you are attempting.”
    Mora's tentacles slowly drew closer.
    “Caaareful… my chaaampion. Don't you know… that I only have your best interests at heart?”
    “The best interests that keep me here?” Miraak raised his head, a hint of mockery in his eyes. “Of course. I see your dedication to my freedom every day.”
    The eye blinked, closing slowly and deliberately. 
    “You feeeel… bound. But isn't it… fate itself… that keeps you here?”
    A deep hum filled the atmosphere, vibrating in the mind.
    “What youuuu feel… do you truly… believe it belongs to you? Are they… your memories? Or do they belong to another time… another… fate?”
    Miraak was silent. For a single, tiny moment, the facade of his composure threatened to crumble, but he forced himself to remain calm. He would never show Mora that these words affected him. That they touched something deep inside him that he did not want to name. Could not name.
    “Nooo, Miraaaak…” Mora whispered slowly. “Nothing is real, my chaaaampion. Only… a dream. An illusion.”
    It was … real. Wasn't it? Miraak straightened his shoulders and turned with an elegance that carried a smile.
    “You disappoint me, Mora. Such games are beneath you.”
    Even as the words left his mouth, Miraak realized his mistake.
    A deep, menacing rumble ran through Apocrypha. The fog began to swell, surging like an approaching storm, pressing closer from all sides as the bookshelves creaked and shifted.
    “I… don't… play.”
    Mora’s voice was no longer sound, but a deafening roar that seemed to penetrate the entire dimension.
    “You are… in my… realm. There are… no secrets… from me here.”
    Each word pressed deeper into Miraak’s mind, shoving him into the corners of his own doubt.
    “Heeere… I feel everything. Sense everything. Your thoughts. Your fears. Your… weaknesses.”
    Miraak's posture froze completely, his eyes fixed on a point in nothingness. The calm was a facade.
    Mora’s tentacles drifted closer. One of them slid around his ankle, cold and wet, heavy as the chains Miraak had worn far too long. He didn’t move as it slid up his calf, curling briefly as though testing something, then creeping higher along his spine. The chill made the muscles beneath his skin tighten.
    His heart pounded, loud and traitorous. He pressed his lips together. There it was again. That sensation. That loathsome weakness, he must not allow himself to feel. Didn't want to feel.
    The air shimmered heavily, yet he was freezing.
    “Yoooou… belooong… to ME.”
    Mora's voice shook his thoughts.
    “Your will… is MY will. Your strength… MY gift. Your resisssstance… MEANINGLESS.”
    The touch was not violence. It was control. Absolute, omnipresent control. It grasped, searched, groped. It demanded obedience: I know you. I see you. I take what I want.
    The tentacles lingered, a breath too long. Then they slowly withdrew. Almost lovingly. Not to let him go, but to remind him that they could do it again at any time.
    Miraak’s hands remained at his sides, fingers loose. Forced loose. He breathed shallowly. His pulse was still racing, but he forced himself to slow it down, even though anger was urging him on. Now was not the time for defiance. Not against the being that saw, heard, and controlled everything in its realm.
    “Goooood… my chaaaampion. You understaaand… your limits.”

***

Solstheim, 4th Era: Aimée

A pale yellow hung over Solstheim, as though the sun had fought its way through dense clouds of ash and was now too exhausted to warm the land. Volcanic smoke lay heavy over the island, bitterly settling on every breath.
    Aimée stood at the railing, her fingers clenched around the wood, staring at the coast. Black sand stretched out before her, an unnatural band defying the sea rather than welcoming it. Angular buildings rose up at the harbor, seemingly carved out of dark basalt. Some were shaped like the remnants of a stranded creature.
    “Raven Rock,” she murmured. It felt wrong to speak aloud, as if her words might disturb the silence of the place. Not that it was truly silent, on the contrary. The hammering from the forge echoed dully, seagulls shrieked, and the rumble of heavy barrels being rolled carried from the docks. Yet all of it felt strangely muffled, as if the island swallowed the sounds and buried them deep beneath its eternal ash.
    Borri stepped up beside her, his robe fluttering in the wind. He was silent, but his eyes wandered attentively over the harbor, the buildings, and the people. Finally, he looked at Aimée, placed two fingers on his heart, and slowly shook his head.
    “No,” Aimée agreed quietly. “This doesn't feel like home.”

The ship docked, accompanied by the weary creaking of the planks. Aimée tightened her grip on the railing again as the deck tilted beneath her, holding on until the motion stilled.
    Gjalund Salt-Sage stood at the bow, one hand firmly wrapped around the rope, the other resting on his hip. He watched the sailors securing the ropes, then glanced toward Aimée and Borri.
    “Here we are.” His voice carried an underlying bitterness that Aimée couldn't quite place. Was it fatigue? Concern? Or simply resignation?
    He straightened, his posture heavier than the years alone could explain. “I'll stay for a few hours. If you're smart, you’ll be back on board by then.”
    Aimée gave a brief nod, though she knew she wouldn't return so soon. “Thank you,” she said nonetheless.
    Gjalund snorted, a sound somewhere between a laugh and a sigh.
    “Thank me… if you come back with your wits intact.” His gaze drifted briefly over the rugged coastline. “Solstheim… takes more than it gives.”
    With that, he turned away, gave the rope a firm tug, and barked orders toward the sailors who hurriedly secured the deck.

Aimée and Borri descended the gangplank, the wood of the pier creaking beneath their steps, rough as the voices of the working men around them. People pushed carts, hauled crates, threw ropes, yet there was a mechanical indifference in their faces. Every glance that brushed over Aimée seemed to study her with suspicion before returning to its own task.
    A clearing of the throat tore her from her observation. Aimée spun around and found herself face to face with a Dunmer whose well-groomed clothes and upright posture spoke unmistakably of authority. But the lines on his face told of responsibilities and worries that weighed heavier than time alone could bear.
    “Adril Arano, second councilor of Raven Rock,” he introduced himself curtly. He eyed her critically and gave Borri only a fleeting, skeptical glance. “Since I have never seen you here before, I assume you are new to Solstheim. State your intentions, outlanders.”
    Aimée hesitated only briefly, then raised her head, “We are looking for someone. A man named Miraak.”
    The Dunmer's eyes narrowed, as if the name evoked memories that refused to take hold.
    “Miraak…” he repeated, “the name is familiar.” Frustration crossed his face as his hand brushed over the fine fabric of his vest. “But… I can't tell from where.” For a moment, confusion seemed to cloud his gaze.
    Aimée let her shoulders sink. “So… nothing?”
    “I'm sorry, outlander.” An annoyed frown crossed his face. It clearly displeased him not to have a precise answer. But quickly, his self-control regained the upper hand. “Just follow the rules and don't cause any trouble.”
    Aimée opened her mouth to respond, but he raised his hand. “If you have any further questions, speak with Captain Veleth. He’s in charge of security and has an eye for… unusual matters.”
    His gaze shifted back to Borri, lingered briefly, before he gave Aimée a curt nod. “Welcome to Raven Rock.” With that, he turned and disappeared into the crowd.

***

The air in the marketplace was stuffy, filled with the shouts of merchants. Aimée pushed her way through the stalls until she realized that Borri was no longer beside her.
    He stood a few steps away in front of a display, absorbed in examining several chitin plates. Focused, almost like a craftsman, the Greybeard inspected the quality of a tool. Aimée smiled. Even here, among the rough-tempered locals and the salty air, Borri remained the same: thoughtful, calm, with an eye for detail.
    The stall itself looked like a piece of Solstheim, rugged and weathered by salt. A faded red banner fluttered in the wind, the goods beneath it carefully arranged with an almost artistic touch.
    “Chitin!” called the merchant, a Dunmer whose rough hands skillfully smoothed the edges of a bracer. “Light, flexible, perfect for armor!” He lifted an elegantly curved dagger, its edge glinting in the dim light. “And blades that never break.”
    The Greybeard looked at him intently, silent appreciation in his gaze. Aimée stepped closer and ran her fingers over one of the plates. “Interested?”
    Borri gave a short nod.
    The salesman looked up. “Not from around here, I presume?” He put the chitin aside and wiped his hands on a worn cloth.
    Borri did not answer, of course not. His silence was absolute as ever.
    “Not a man of many words, huh?” the Dunmer remarked dryly.
    “He doesn't speak,” Aimée explained.
    The merchant raised an eyebrow. “And why not?”
    Aimée glanced toward Borri, who was studying the wares with the same careful expression one might give an ancient text waiting to be deciphered.
    “He's a Greybeard,” she said. “His voice… is too powerful.” She paused when she saw the unease on the merchant's face, then added with a faint grin, “One single word, and your stall would be nothing but splinters.”
    The merchant froze mid-motion, eyeing Borri with sudden caution before forcing a crooked smile. “That explains a lot.” Then his gaze shifted back to Aimée. “But why would a Greybeard leave the mountain and come here of all places?”
    “Sometimes there are reasons,” Aimée said dryly, a faint smile on her lips. “For example, when you need to protect someone who… isn't quite as wise as the Greybeards themselves.”
    Borri looked up, casting her a meaningful glance. A wordless admonition that Aimée was all too familiar with.
    “What?” she whispered to him. “It's true.”
    The merchant chuckled, a little more relaxed now, and regarded her with growing curiosity. “An unusual story. But I assume you're not here to admire chitin armor.”
    Aimée was about to reply when a greenish shimmer in the sky caught her attention. Delicate as melting glass, it spread across the clouds. The light seemed to breathe, and something in Aimée's chest tightened. It wasn't a call, not exactly.
    “I'll… be right back.”
    She didn't notice the way Borri looked at her. Nor did she notice the merchant's frown. Her thoughts were already elsewhere as she turned and ran toward the light.

The ashes gave way softly beneath Aimée's boots. The air grew heavier, almost as if she were crossing a threshold that no one was meant to pass.
    Then she saw it: the Allmaker Stone. A monolith rose from the ground like a black thorn. Its surface seemed to breathe, a restless mass of smooth, solidified waves, while greenish light pulsed from within in irregular bursts.
    Her heart skipped a beat when she noticed the villagers around the stone. With expressionless faces, they worked mechanically, as if in a trance. Puppets, moved by invisible strings.
    A woman knelt in the dust, her hands sore, as she tirelessly stacked stones into a tower. Again and again, the structure collapsed. Again and again, she rebuilt it. Again and again.
    Another knelt a little further away. She struck the ground with a blunt tool, rhythmic as a prayer no one could understand.
    Aimée felt an icy chill rise within her as her fingers clenched the fabric of her cloak. The sweet smell of sweat and ash filled her nose and made her stomach rebel.
    “Hey!” she called out loudly and stepped closer. “What are you doing?”
    The woman didn't respond.
    Aimée grabbed the kneeling woman's wrist. Perhaps too tightly.
    “What is… this? Why are you doing this?”
    Nothing. No response, no pause.
    “What's wrong with you!” Frustration.
    Aimée's cry echoed off the black rocks, as though the island itself were mocking her. For the briefest moment, the villagers’ movements stilled. Then everything resumed as if nothing had happened.
    Aimée backed away.
    “Borri?” She looked around, but the familiar figure was nowhere to be seen. When had she left him behind? Something was… wrong.
    The air grew thicker. The feeling emanating from the stone was… strange. It reminded her of the lingering notes of a song she had heard as a child, almost… familiar.
    She reached out her hand as a shiver of cold ran through her. And then…

***

The sound of the sea had fallen silent. The air seemed clearer, filling Aimée's lungs, carried by the scent of damp earth. A hint of resin wafted through it, fresh and alive, like a breath from another world… or another time.
    She stood before the same stone, yet it seemed different: new, freshly hewn. Its surface shimmered beneath the light of a sun far brighter than she had known on Solstheim. Aimée blinked. It wasn't just the light, it was the purity that emanated from the stone, untouched by the millennia.
    Two figures stood there. Daylight caught upon their masks, cloaking their faces in a metallic gleam. Their outlines wavered as if the world could not quite hold them; fleeting images, broken like reflections on restless water.
    “The magic is bound,” said a voice deep and full of emphasis. “The power now flows through the stone.”
    The other figure inclined his head, golden light gliding along the edge of his mask. “Then it is done, Solstheim will feel it.”  
    The words carried a meaning that Aimée could not quite grasp, but she heard satisfaction in them, the satisfaction of a creator beholding his work.
    “It will endure,” the first voice replied. “But the blood that is bound… it demands tribute.”
    “Power demands tribute, as the sun claims the day.” The second voice was softer now. “It is the law of being. The world itself will bend, Ahzidal. Is that not enough?”
    The one addressed fell silent, though his stance betrayed no dissent. Then he raised his hand and placed it upon the stone. “It will suffice.”
    Magic coursed through the veins of the monolith, surging like a river of divine force. The air trembled, shook. Aimée opened her mouth, but no sound escaped her lips. The light grew, brighter, even brighter—

***

She gasped for air. There was a rushing sound in her ears, then it became clearer. The sea. It was the sea.
    Her chest rose and fell violently, as if she had held her breath for too long. Aimée felt her knees give way and staggered a step to the side. Her heart was pounding wildly, a furious, uncontrollable beating, as if it had to prove to her that she was still alive.
    The world had returned, but it felt strange.
    The stone stood unchanged. It seemed to have seen nothing, felt nothing. And yet… Aimée couldn't shake the feeling that it was watching her. Or was it just an echo of the vision? What exactly… was that?
    The sound of the waves grew clearer again, and from afar, the hammering and clanging of the workers returned to her world.
    The stone remained uninvolved, like a pillar that had witnessed countless sacrifices and yet never turned away. Aimée couldn’t bring herself to look elsewhere. Something raged inside her as she watched the villagers around her: their empty eyes, their monotonous movements. Tired. Without beginning. Without end.
    “Stop! Don't you hear me? You have to stop!” But the world responded only with silence. The grinding of the stones and the groaning of the earth carried on.
    “Stop! What's the point of this? It's… this is wrong!” Her hands rose, seeking attention.
    A man dragged stones along, his gaze fixed straight ahead. As he came closer, Aimée was certain he had to see her. But he walked right through her. His shoulder collided with hers with a force that felt nothing human. The impact threw her off balance, and she fell to her knees.
    Aimée's hands dug into the rough ash, the sting in her palms felt distant, as if the pain belonged to someone else.
    Suddenly, a glaring flash of light tore through the sky above the coast, followed by a deafening bang. The earth beneath her knees trembled, sending shockwaves through her chest, stealing the air from her lungs.
    The smoke was the first thing she saw.
    Black and sluggish, it rolled across the beach, devouring everything in its path. The sour stench of burning flesh filled her nose and throat, seeping into her until she gagged and choked. Her fingers clawed deeper into the ash.
    “What…?” The word came out broken, but it cleared the paralyzing fog in her head.
    Aimée forced herself upright on trembling legs. Her limbs felt as though they were made of lead, but an urgent pull drove her forward. Smoke enveloped everything before another explosion shook the ground, sending a pillar of wild fire into the air.
    The heat seared her lungs, burning with every breath. She staggered, bracing herself against a nearby rock as yet another blast rattled the shoreline. Before the shock had even faded, she pushed herself off and ran.

The sand beneath her boots gave way, soft and sluggish, as if trying to hold back her every step, but she forced herself onward. The stench grew stronger, almost unbearable. Then she saw the source of the smoke:
    Corpses. Lined up along the shore like carelessly discarded dolls. Their limbs were grotesquely twisted, their skin burst open where the flames had reached them. Aimée instinctively pressed a hand over her mouth, trying to stifle the rising gag reflex. Her eyes watered, but she couldn't look away.
    In the midst of the scene stood a slender figure, a Dunmer, surrounded by a magical shield that kept the flames at bay. The staff in his hand glowed fiery red, and with almost playful elegance, he unleashed another wave of fire into the pile.
    Aimée held her breath as the hiss of the flames grew louder, their tongues leaping higher.
    The Dunmer remained unmoved. The delicate patterns on his robe caught the light, while the red fabric of his sash fluttered gently in the wind. Everything about him — the fluid grace of his movements, the flawless poise of his stance, the effortless command of his power — screamed arrogance. And it was not the kind of arrogance that begged for explanation.
    “What are you doing?”
    The Dunmer turned toward her with unbearable slowness. His sharply defined face remained expressionless, but his ruby-red eyes regarded her with measured scrutiny. “Oh, how… unexpected.”
    “Unexpected?!” Aimée stared at him in disbelief. “They're… people! You can't just—”
    “People?” His voice took on a mocking undertone. “Interesting that you're noticing that now. Alive, that realization might have served them better.”
    Aimée opened her mouth, but no words came. The flames behind him leapt higher, as if to accompany his words with a mocking dance.
    “But you can't just burn them!” she finally managed to say.
    The mage sighed, long and drawn out, wearing the expression of a teacher forced to instruct an exceptionally foolish child.
    “Should I leave them there, then? Wait for the crows and flies to come? Or would you like to take care of it yourself?” He gestured vaguely toward the burning corpses. “No? Then, as you can see, I do it.”
    Aimée gasped.
    “Oh, I see.” He grimaced. “You're one of those Nords who think fire is only for cooking and keeping the dark away.”
    “I'm not a Nord!” Heat rose within her, and not just from the flames. “My mother was Breton.”
    “Breton…” he muttered. The finger of his free hand began to tap rhythmically against his chin as he studied her more closely. “High Rock or… one of those savages from the Reach?”
    Aimée's chest tightened. Her fingers clenched the hem of her cloak as anger burned in her eyes. “Doesn't matter!”
    “To me? Certainly not.” Without giving her another glance, he sent one last wave of fire through the pile.
    Aimée took a deep breath. “Why are you really here?”
    The man slowly turned to face her.
    “I could ask you the same question. You came straight from the Allmaker Stone.” He scrutinized her, his voice taking on a dangerously gentle tone. “And yet… you seem perfectly sane.”
    “What do you mean?”
    “The stones enslave thoughts, rob free will.” He stepped closer, his eyes sharpening as he examined her. “And yet here you stand, free and unimpressed. That is… remarkable.”
    “I'm looking for someone.” The words escaped her faster than she had intended, and she heard the uncertainty in them.
    The mage's eyebrow rose. “I wonder if I already know the answer.”
    She lowered her gaze for only a moment before looking up again. “Miraak.”
    A fleeting expression crossed the Dunmer's face, too quick for her to read.
    “Of course,” he said, his voice quieter now, more to himself. “That does explain quite a bit.”
    His gaze remained fixed on Aimée. Outwardly motionless, but inwardly something was working. He savored moments like these, when the world aligned and things fell into place. A stranger resisting the power of an Allmaker Stone, seeking Miraak of all people. It was almost… elegant.
    “You know, I like curious people,” he said. “But I like those who combine their curiosity with… a certain usefulness even more.”
    He slowly lowered the staff, running his fingers thoughtfully over the wood before folding his hands behind his back. “Tell me, do you know how to brew tea?”
    “Tea?” Aimée blinked, thrown completely off guard. “What does tea have to do with Miraak?”
    “Nothing.” He ran two fingers thoughtfully over his beard. “But my servant left me some time ago. Extremely rude, if you ask me, and since then there's been no one to prepare my tea properly. I need someone to take care of it.”
    “What happened to her?”
    The Dunmer made a dismissive gesture with his hand, as if the answer were far too trivial to dwell on.
    “Varona Nelas. She's gone. Where to? I have no idea. And honestly, it's not my job to find out. I'm a mage, not a search party.”
    He spoke so casually that Aimée at first thought he was joking. But his face remained serious.
    “You're not looking for her?”
    “Me? Of course not!” He sighed exaggeratedly, as if the very idea insulted his intelligence. “If she wanted to leave, she can live with the consequences. That doesn't stop me from missing her tea, though.”
    His face showed a hint of regret, but it seemed aimed less at Varona than at the loss of a perfectly brewed drink.
    Aimée opened her mouth in indignation, but forced herself to stay composed. Instead, she lifted her chin. “Who are you anyway?”
    “Ah, where are my manners.” The mage straightened, his voice taking on a ceremonious tone. “Telvanni Master Neloth, builder of Tel Mithryn and one of the greatest living mages in all of Tamriel.” 
    Aimée narrowed her eyes, but before she could reply, she noticed a movement behind her. Borri stepped to her side.
    Neloth’s attention shifted immediately to the Greybeard, his eyes gleaming with curiosity. “And who is this?”
    “Borri,” Aimée said quickly. Her lips curved into a faint, challenging smile as she added, “And he makes… excellent tea.”
    Neloth's eyebrow arched a little higher.
    “Does he now? Well…” He nodded slowly, as though he had just reached a profound decision. “Good, bring him along. Then we can drink tea and talk about Miraak.”
    After a short pause, he added, “And about you, Nord-Breton, who appears to be immune to the influence of an Allmaker Stone.”
    “Bring him where?”
    “Tel Mithryn, of course.” Neloth's voice sounded as if she absolutely had to know the name. “My creation. The largest and most magnificent mushroom ever grown by a mage.”
    He allowed a dramatic pause, watching her closely to ensure she grasped the weight of his words.
    “It is the very center of intellect and civilization on this… unfortunate island.” With an elegant turn, he stepped away, his robe fluttering in the wind. “You can't miss it.”

Chapter Text

Aimée stood there, staring at the charred pile. The flames had almost died out, but the smoke still clung to the air like a silent accusation. Behind her, the sand crunched as Borri shifted his weight. Slowly, Aimée turned to face him. She knew that expression. He was angry, and that was rare.
    “What?” Aimée lifted her chin defiantly, but she felt like a child who had just been caught stealing. And she hated it.
    Borri gestured back toward the Allmaker Stone, to the people still carrying and stacking their stones without will. Then he pointed at Aimée and finally, with deliberate slowness, at the blackened remains.
    “I only wanted to…” she began, but Borri stepped closer, and the words caught in her throat.
    “It just looked so strange! I had to know what was going on.”
    He didn't reply. Instead, he looked at her silently until her defenses crumbled under the weight of his gaze. Finally, he raised both hands, let them fall heavily to his sides, and shook his head.
    Aimée turned away in shame, her cheeks burning.
    With a determined gesture, Borri clenched his fist, struck it against his chest, and pointed at Aimée. The message was simple: I worry about you.
    “I didn't know what was going to happen!” she defended herself.
    Borri shook his head again, but there was more than anger in his eyes. There was worry. Deep, genuine worry.
    “Yes, I… I understand.” Aimée's shoulders sagged, her voice lost its strength. “No more running off on my own. I promise.”
    He lowered his arms. Aimée expected him to turn away, but instead, he stepped closer and pulled her into a firm embrace.
    Aimée closed her eyes, burying her face against his shoulder, feeling the sting behind her eyelids.
    “I'm sorry,” she whispered.
    Borri held her a moment longer before slowly letting her go. He rested a hand on her shoulder once more, a gesture of forgiveness, then gave her a brief nod toward Raven Rock.
    Aimée took a deep breath and glanced back one last time. The smoke had cleared, but the smell still clung to her.
    She followed Borri back into town.

***

Aimée closed the door to her room at the Retching Netch and let out a sigh as she began taking off her cloak. The room was small but clean enough.
    She stopped in front of the washbasin in the corner, gazing at her reflection in the fogged-up mirror above it. Aimée had never been sturdy or broad-shouldered. Her critical eyes traced the soft curves of her hips and her breasts. She adjusted the hem of her top before beginning to wipe the soot from her arms and neck with a cloth. The lavender scent of the soap provided barely masked the stench, but for now, it was enough.
    After washing up and changing clothes, she descended the stairs to the busy dining room, where Borri was probably already waiting. A wave of noise and the heavy scents of sujamma and roasted boar met her, slowly dispelling the images of the beach. Aimée straightened up and leaned against the bar, her fingers drumming impatiently on the worn wood.
    Her gaze lingered on the innkeeper, a sullen Dunmer whose face was as expressionless as the ashen wasteland outside.
    “Tel Mithryn,” she said clearly, her tone slow and deliberate. “How do we get there?”
    The innkeeper froze mid-motion, a half-filled glass in his hand. He looked at her as if she had just made a particular bad joke. “Tel Mithryn? You mean, with that crazy mage out there? Why would anyone want to go there willingly?”
    “I have my reasons. So?”
    “Follow the southern path.” The Dunmer set the glass down with a sharp clink. “But without protection, you won't last two hours. Ash Spawn and worse scum are crawling everywhere.”
    “We'll manage.”
    The innkeeper snorted dryly and turned away, shaking his head.
    “Hopefully you have at least a shovel with you.” An unfamiliar voice suddenly spoke from behind. Aimée spun around, searching for the source, and finally spotted a Dunmer lounging comfortably in an alcove, casually twirling a glass of Sujamma in his hand.
    “A shovel?”
    The stranger leaned forward and pointed his finger at her. “For digging. Your grave.”
    Aimée frowned. “Funny joke.”
    “No joke.” The man stood up and bowed with an elegance that seemed almost too exaggerated to be real. “Teldryn Sero. Mercenary, guide, and, by sheer coincidence, someone who not only knows that mage, but also knows how to get to him alive.”
    Aimée eyed him skeptically from head to toe. His armor was worn but clean, and clearly battle-tested. “Why should I trust you?”
    Teldryn shrugged. “You don't have to. But if you plan to cross the Ash Wastes on your own, I'd suggest you start praying now. You're not a priestess by any chance, are you?”
    Aimée narrowed her eyes. “No, but I know how to defend myself.”
    Teldryn nodded approvingly, though his expression remained amused. “Then good luck. Maybe the Ash Spawn will be having a bad day.”
    He turned to leave but stopped after two steps, glancing back at her with a smug smile. “Or… you could hire someone who knows where the monsters lurk and where you really shouldn’t be walking.”
    Aimée cast a brief look at Borri. The Greybeard barely moved, but she didn't miss the subtle nod. The decision is yours.
    With a sigh, Aimée turned back to the mercenary. “How much?”
    Teldryn's grin faded, and his demeanor shifted instantly to business. “Five hundred. Up front.”
    “Five hundred?” Aimée raised an eyebrow. “That's robbery!”
    The mercenary gave a dry laugh. “That's the price of experience.”
    He stepped closer, lowered his voice, and spoke with a casual confidence that was almost convincing. “I know every dune, every hollow. I know where the wind will choke you and where you really shouldn’t stop moving. Trust me, I'm worth every septim.”
    Aimée hesitated. His self-assurance was irritating, but his gaze carried the weight of someone who wasn’t just boasting. Maybe he really was her best option.
    “Fine. Tomorrow morning. Be on time.”
    “Always.” Teldryn leaned against the counter, lazily twirling his glass in hand. His eyes brushed over her, fleetingly but intensely.
    Aimée felt her pulse quicken and cursed herself for it. His crooked smile was back, unreadable, and infuriating.
    “Punctuality is one of my finest virtues,” he remarked dryly. “Right after my modesty.”
    “Modest? You?”
    “Of course.” Teldryn pushed off the counter. “I could bore you with a long list of many qualities… but I’d say you’ve already gotten a fair impression.”
    “I don't even know who you really are.”
    “But I have a bit of an idea about you.” Teldryn stopped close in front of her, near enough to make her heart beat faster, but not so near as to cross the line.
    She felt her cheeks getting warmer. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
    “Nothing much.” Teldryn raised his hands innocently, though the look in his eyes was anything but innocent. “Only that this trip is going to be interesting.”
    “Interesting?”
    “Interesting,” Teldryn confirmed. “It definitely won't be boring with you around.”
    Aimée held his gaze for a moment before turning away. “Maybe that’ll make the five hundred septims easier to swallow.”
    “A real bargain.” Teldryn stepped back again.
    “So…” Aimée cleared her throat. “I'm going to bed. Early start and all that.”
    “As you wish.” Teldryn raised his glass in salute. “Good night, Aimée.”
    The way he said her name made her shoulders tense involuntarily. Quickly, she turned toward the stairs, her footsteps creaking loudly on the wood. She didn't want to think about the way he had looked at her, but she did anyway.
    Down below, Teldryn emptied his glass in one gulp.
    “Another sujamma,” he muttered, his gaze fixed on the spot where she had disappeared.

***

The morning air was thick with fine ash that lay like a veil over everything. Aimée pulled her cloak tighter and breathed only shallowly. A muffled silence lingered in front of the tavern, broken only the crunch of her footsteps. Borri stood next to her, his face half-hidden under a roughly woven cloth tied around his nose and mouth.
    A sound made Aimée turn her head. Teldryn was approaching.
    “Right on time, as promised.” His gaze shifted to Borri. “Ready for the grand adventure?”
    The mocking undertone made Aimée roll her eyes. “We're ready.”
    Teldryn grinned, let his bag slip from his shoulder, and picked it up again with a practiced motion.
    “And?” he turned back to Borri, who regarded him with the stillness of a rock. “You're the serious type, huh?”
    When the Greybeard didn't answer, Teldryn tilted his head. “Not much of a talker? Or just not a morning person?”
    “He won't say anything.” Aimée's voice sounded amused, and a hint of warmth glinted in her eyes. “Borri never speaks.”
    Teldryn looked at her in surprise. “Never?”
    “Never. He's a Greybeard.” Aimée shrugged. “His voice would… shatter everything around him.”
    Teldryn let the information sink in, then respect crossed his face. “A silent warrior. I like that.”
    Borri, predictably, gave no response, but Aimée couldn't help smiling.
    Finally, she turned back to Teldryn. “So?”
    “Let’s go.” The mercenary made an expansive gesture, as if opening the gate to the realm of oblivion. “Stay close to me. I’m not walking this path twice just to drag you back.”

The wind drove the ash relentlessly before it, clinging to hair and clothing alike. Aimée pulled her cloak tighter, but the dust seeped through every gap. After a few minutes, her throat began to itch. She coughed softly at first, then more and more violently. The sharp, dry air burned, and an unpleasant pressure built up in her chest. She coughed again, harder this time.
    “You'll cough your lungs out before we've even gone a mile,” Teldryn remarked casually, without taking his eyes off the horizon.
    “Thanks for the warning,” Aimée rasped hoarsely, clenching her teeth. She forced herself to keep moving, even though her eyes began to water and the stench of scorched earth threatened to steal what little breath she had left.
    Suddenly, Teldryn stopped, turned toward her, and stepped closer. Aimée instinctively took a step back.
    “Still,” he ordered quietly.
    He took off one glove and reached into his pouch. His fingers were slender and well-kept, but roughened by battles fought. He pulled out a piece of cloth and moved even closer.
    “Wrap this over your mouth and nose,” he instructed. “It won't filter everything, but at least you won't choke to death right away.”
    Aimée tried to respond, but another fit of coughing cut her off. She quickly reached for the cloth. But before she could put it on, Teldryn raised his hand.
    “Wait, let me.”
    Aimée held her breath as he placed the fabric over her nose and mouth. His fingertips brushed her cheek fleetingly. The touch was surprisingly gentle, and she noticed how precise and assured his movements were.
    Then he carefully lifted a loose strand of hair from her forehead and tucked it softly aside. His eyes met hers. “Better?”
    Aimée's heart was beating too fast, and she cursed herself when an entirely misplaced thought came unbidden: How would his hands feel like if he… She cut the thought off, heat flooding her cheeks. Not now!
    “Thank you,” she murmured, her voice still a little hoarse.
    “Don't mention it.” Teldryn stepped back as though nothing had happened. His demeanor was so relaxed that Aimée almost believed she had imagined the intensity just now.
    “Borri has long since adapted,” Teldryn remarked casually, nodding toward her silent companion, whose improvised face covering almost resembled that of an experienced nomad. “You should follow his example.”
    Aimée stubbornly fixed her gaze on the path ahead. “I’m fine.”
    “Of course you are.” Teldryn grinned faintly before moving on.
    Aimée followed, her breath now muffled by the cloth. She tried to think of something else, but the memory of his touch and that unreadable smile were hard to ignore and even harder to forget.
    Borri silently caught up to them, his face impassive. Aimée wondered if he had seen more than he let on.

The wind howled and whipped up fine dust in thick gusts that darkened the sky. With every step, the brittle ground gave way slightly, as if the island wanted to swallow them whole. Jagged rocks jutted from the earth like gnarled fingers, while the world around them blurred into a gray haze.
    “Keep moving!” Teldryn called over his shoulder, his voice suddenly sharp and tense.
    Aimée tightened her grip on her weapon as she scanned the shadows between the rocks. Then she heard it: a sound like an underground heartbeat. She froze, instinctively tensing.
    “Do you hear that?”
    Teldryn was already reaching for his swords, a faint curve on his lips. Anticipation, perhaps. “Oh yes. I hear it.”
    It grew louder. The pressure in the air shifted, and then there was a hiss.
    “Ash Spawn,” Teldryn muttered, more statement than warning. With a metallic clang, he drew his blades, their dull shine gleaming in the daylight.
    The moment he spoke, the first creature leaped out from the shadows: a walking mass of stone and lava. Its glowing eyes locked on Aimée before it rushed toward her.
    Teldryn moved with the precision of someone for whom killing came as naturally as breathing. His blades cut effortlessly through the air, slicing the creature apart in a spray of sparks until it collapsed into ash.
    “Another one!” Aimée shouted as a second beast surged at her from the left. She spun around, her dagger striking its side. Glowing ash particles scattered and seared against her cheeks.
    “Borri?” The Greybeard didn't even bother to draw his weapon. Instead, he raised his hand and a shockwave hurled another creature against a rock, where it immediately crumbled to dust.
    A sudden blow struck Aimée unexpectedly, causing her foot to slip on the ashy ground, throwing her brutally onto her back. She couldn't breathe. Panic rose within her as the creature approached, snarling furiously, its claws outstretched toward Aimée.
    Desperately, she tried to raise her weapon, but her muscles felt paralyzed. Too slow, she thought desperately as the creature's glowing eyes drew nearer.
    This is it. The thought was so clear, so shockingly final. Reflexively, she raised her blade, but her arm shook too much to fend off the attack. The world already seemed to be dissolving.
    And then suddenly — a shadow stepped between her and certain death.
    Aimée caught only a glimpse of motion. Sparks burst where Teldryn's sword severed the creature's arm.
    The beast screamed and staggered back, but Teldryn gave it no time to recover. In a swift lunge, he followed up, and his sword pierced deep into the creature's chest. Flames flared briefly, then died out just as fast, and the opponent crumbled into a harmless cloud of dust.
    The silence that followed was deafening.
    Aimée was still lying on the ground, her chest rising and falling rapidly as she struggled desperately for breath. Her fingers clenched around the hilt of her weapon, but her body was shaking too violently to let go. A burning sensation rose in her eyes.
    Not now. The thought was a desperate plea as she fought back the tears. Not now, damn it. She couldn't cry. Not here. Not in front of him.
    “You should be more careful,” Teldryn said. His voice was calm, almost teasing, but there was something soft in his gaze. He leaned forward and extended his hand to her.
    Aimée hesitated. Her thoughts were racing, scrambling for something to say, to do, to reclaim control. But when her gaze fell on his hand, she realized that resistance was pointless.
    His fingers closed firmly around hers. He pulled her up, seemingly without effort. Her balance wavered, but he held her steady. For a moment, they stood close. She felt the warmth of his body despite the cold air and caught the faint scent of leather from his armor.
    “Thank you,” she murmured, her gaze fixed on a point somewhere just past his face. She hated feeling like this: vulnerable, and yet… grateful.

***

The third night of their journey had fallen. The sky, gray and cloudy, shimmered at the edges like burnt paper. Aimée knelt by the campfire and worked methodically on a bundle of herbs, but her thoughts kept drifting away.
    Borri sat apart. He seemed distant, almost untouchable, and Aimée wondered if the harshness of the Ash Wastes affected him at all.
    Teldryn leaned against a rock with his eyes half closed, his armor laid out beside him. His open shirt hung loosely across his chest, revealing a long, narrow cut. Aimée had noticed the injury when they had set up camp. The mercenary had tried to play it down, but his movements were not quite as fluid as before.
    “Let me see,” she demanded.
    Teldryn raised an eyebrow but pulled his shirt aside without protest.
    Aimée frowned and knelt down beside him. She inspected the injury more closely. The cut wasn't life-threatening, but it was deep enough to become dangerous if it became infected.
    “You really need to be more careful,” she muttered as she opened her satchel and took out a small glass vial.
    “Could say the same about you,” he replied dryly. He watched her closely as she soaked a cloth in a greenish liquid.
    “This stuff burns, doesn't it?” His question was casual, but Aimée didn't miss the slight curl of his fingers.
    “Yes.” She looked up, met his gaze, then, without warning, pressed the cloth firmly to the wound.
    Teldryn flinched but didn't make a sound. His hands clenched briefly into fists before he relaxed them again.
    Aimée worked methodically, but inside, she felt anything but calm. The crackling of the fire, the intimate silence of the night, Teldryn's nearness… suddenly she was acutely aware of everything, more intensely than she wanted to be.
    “Where'd you learn this?” His voice was softer now, and she was surprised at how gentle he could sound.
    Aimée's fingers paused briefly. Unbidden, a familiar sadness stirred in her chest.
    “My mother.” She swallowed before continuing. “She was… a kind of healer. Or alchemist.” Then she shrugged, forcing herself to resume her work. “I learned a few things from her.”
    “Hmm,” Teldryns hummed thoughtfully. “You're full of surprises.”
    Aimée snorted, a faint smile playing on her lips. “And you’re a walking nuisance.”
    “I hear that a lot.” His grin returned.
    She pulled a small tin out of her pocket and opened it. An earthy scent escaped and mingled with the smoke from the fire. Carefully, she applied the ointment to the wound.
    Teldryn remained still, but she could feel his gaze on her, which unsettled her more than she wanted to admit.
    “You're good at this.”
    “I know.” The replay came automatically. She didn't look up, unwilling to give him the opportunity to read her face. Nevertheless, she was aware of him: his closeness, the steady rise and fall of his chest, which was much calmer than her own.
    Her gaze briefly slid over the fine lines of the scars on his skin, over his sharply defined muscles—
    Stop.
    She bit her lip and was annoyed at her own thoughts. How could he remain so calm while she…
    Aimée tightened the bandage.
    “Done,” she murmured, wanting to quickly retreat, but his fingers closed around her wrist.
    Slowly, Aimée lifted her head until her eyes met his. The expression was different. The familiar spark was still there, but it had softened, seemed to be searching for something.
    “Wait,” he said quietly. “I have a question.”
    Aimée swallowed. Her heart was beating too fast, but she held his gaze. “A… question?”
    “Why are you really here?” The warmth of his voice seemed to dispel the cold night. “I mean, you're clearly not a mercenary. You're not selling anything, you're not hunting treasure. But here you are, in the middle of this cursed island. Why?”
    “That's… none of your business.” Her words came quickly, but they sounded less firm than she'd hoped.
    Teldryn's lips curved into a smile, as if he had expected exactly that.
    “Too bad.” His voice dropped lower. “You have no idea how curious I am.”
    Aimée wanted to say something, but her throat tightened. Only her heart was pounding, loud and relentless.
    Slowly, Teldryn raised his arm. His movement was almost hesitant, as if testing whether she would allow it. Gently, he brushed a loose strand of hair from her face.
    Aimée held her breath. A thousand thoughts raced through her mind: What is he doing? Why am I letting him do this? Why do I want him to continue?
    His fingers traced her cheek lightly, sliding lower, brushing a delicate line down her neck. His breath was so close, she could almost feel it. The scent of leather and ash, mingled with the smoky warmth of the fire, enveloped them both.
    “What… are you doing?” she whispered. Her voice sounded strange, she hardly recognized herself in it.
    Teldryn's gaze drifted slowly across her face. “I'm wondering the same thing…”
    His hand came to rest on her shoulder, and Aimée felt the warmth of his touch through the thin fabric of her tunic. He pushed it aside slightly, tracing the curve of her collarbone with his fingers. He trembled, barely perceptible, but Aimée noticed it nonetheless. He's just as uncertain as I am.
    She sought his gaze. There was hesitation in it, as if he were unsure whether he had gone too far.
    But then the uncertainty faded and the trembling of his hand subsided. His gaze sank deeper, lingering briefly on her lips, before he stroked her hair back once more and placed his hand on the nape of her neck.
    Aimée's heart thundered so violently now that she was certain he could hear it. But he said nothing. Without a word, he took her hand and guided it to his chest. Beneath her palm, where his shirt hung open, his skin was warm and taut. He drew her closer. His heart was pounding… thump-thump… thump-thump… Don't move. Don't even breathe.
    Her lips parted slightly without her consciously deciding to do so. She couldn't help herself.
    But suddenly the atmosphere shifted. A shadow fell over them, abruptly tearing them from the moment.
    Aimée blinked in confusion and turned around quickly.
    Borri stood there, his face carved from stone. The flickering of the fire reflected in his calm eyes, which held no judgment, but his message was unmistakable: Enough.

***

Solstheim: Teldryn

Teldryn sat alone by the campfire, poking the embers with a small stick. Aimée had lain down a while ago, and even Borri had retreated to rest. Only the wind kept him company, carrying ash softly through the night.
    He dropped the stick and scoffed quietly at himself. “Great plan, Teldryn.”
    The face of the man who had hired him appeared before his inner eye. The old man had not only been strange, there had been something disturbing about him. His movements were erratic, as if his thoughts were always one step ahead of his body. And his eyes… restless, full of unease, as if he were on the run.
    And then there was the gold. Enough of it to make even his suspicion look the other way for a moment.
    “An easy path for a man of your talents. Bring her to the temple alive. That's all.”
    That's all. Teldryn snorted and shook his head. What a load of crap.
    At the time, he hadn't cared. It seemed simple enough: no murders, no schemes. He just had to get a girl from one place to another. Harmless enough.
    What had he missed? Who was that old man really? And why was it so damn important that Aimée reached that temple?
    He still had no idea how to get her moving in that direction. First Tel Mithryn, then he'd come up with something. Some brilliant excuse, no doubt.
    But that was only half the problem.
    Teldryn stared into the embers, but his thoughts refused to leave him alone. Aimée was no “simple girl.” There was something about her eyes that irritated him every time he looked into them for too long. She was like an unspoken question, and he couldn't help but want to know the answer.
    And then there was tonight.
    With a frustrated sound, he ran his fingers through his hair and exhaled sharply. He'd gone too far, he knew it. That moment when he had almost crossed the line had been a mistake. He had realized it the instant when Borri had appeared.
    Teldryn rested his elbows on his knees and buried his face in his hands. He sat like that for a moment, motionless, as if he could escape his thoughts if he just stayed still long enough.
    But the memory wouldn't leave him. The way her eyes had widened… that brief suspension of time, like the world had skipped a beat… Her eyes… those eyes…
    “A mistake,” he muttered.
    The voice in his head sounded like his own, only more sober: You're not a boy anymore, not a dreamer. You're a mercenary. You do the job, take the gold, and walk away. You don't play dangerous games.
    He gave a quiet laugh and snorted. He could tell himself that a hundred times, but those eyes still haunted him. The way she had looked at him. The way her lips had parted ever so slightly. The way she had allowed him to get too close…

Chapter Text

“What’s wrong with you?” Aimée quickened her pace until she was beside Teldryn and glanced sideways at him. “You’re so quiet today. Have you lost your tongue?”
    Teldryn didn’t respond. His gaze remained fixed on the barren landscape, his face as unmoved as the stones lining the path. But Aimée didn’t miss the barely noticeable twitch at the corner of his mouth, a telltale sign that he had indeed heard her.
    “Come on, tell me. Was it me? Did I snore?” She raised an eyebrow and spread her arms dramatically. “Or was it Borri? He looks like he could summon a thunderstorm in his sleep.”
    Still no answer, just a soft, rhythmic drumming of his fingers on the hilt of his weapon.
    “I knew it!” Aimée grinned, her voice turning playful. “You’re trying to stay serious, but you want to laugh.”
    “I most certainly do not—” Teldryn began, but an involuntary snort escaped him.
    “Ha! I knew it!”
    Teldryn cleared his throat quickly and pressed his lips together. But his eyes betrayed him. “Damn it.”
    “Well, well.” Aimée stopped, put her hands on her hips, and regarded him with a triumphant sparkle in her eyes. “The great, untouchable Teldryn Sero. And here I thought you’d gone mute overnight.”
    “I’m not untouchable.” Teldryn ran a hand over his face, but his attempt to remain serious failed miserably. “But if you keep this up, I can’t be held responsible for what happens next.”
    “Oh, really?” Aimée tilted her head, her smile challenging. “What are you going to do, Sero? Stare me to death?”
    Something dangerous flashed in Teldryn’s eyes, and he stepped toward her. “Just you wait…”
    Aimée instinctively backed away, her eyes widening, though the grin remained. “Oh no!” she cried, spinning around. “You’ll have to catch me first!”
    “You’re done for,” Teldryn called after her.
    Her boots kicked up dust and ash as she hurried across the cracked ground. The wind tugged at her cloak, her breath quickened, then she heard his footsteps approaching, much too fast, much too close.
    “Got you!” Teldryn's hands closed around her waist and lifted her off the ground with playful ease. Aimée squealed and squirmed, but his grip was firm.
    “Put me down, you idiot!” she gasped, but her laughter made it impossible to sound serious.
    “What was that?” Teldryn leaned in. “Put you down? Sure, if you ask nicely.”
    Before she could respond, his fingers brushed her sides and she flinched under his touch.
    “Stop it! Stop!” Aimée wheezed. “That’s not fair!”
    “Oh, now you want fair rules?” Teldryn grinned, but his hands finally stilled, still resting at her waist.
    Slowly, Aimée’s laughter subsided. Her breath came in gasps, just like his, and for a brief moment, there was nothing else. She felt the warmth of his body pressed against her back, the firm grip of his arms. His scent surrounded her: leather, ash, and something else entirely his own, a scent as earthy and strong as the man who held her.
    Teldryn took a deep breath and lowered his forehead to her shoulder. His voice brushed her ear. “You’re making this really hard for me, Aimée.”
    Her thoughts raced as his breath tickled her neck. She wanted to say something — a joke, a teasing comment, anything — but nothing came.
    Then he let go.
    The cold that slipped between them felt harsher than it should have. For a moment, he seemed indecisive.
    “Come on,” he said at last, his voice calm but not cold. “We still have a way to go.”
    Aimée hesitated a moment longer, her breathing still uneven, her thoughts confused. Then she nodded slowly. “Yes… sure.”
    Borri stood silently in the background. His face was as expressionless as ever, but the slight crease on his forehead revealed that he had seen every detail of the scene. Without a word, he continued on his way.

Aimée’s boots slipped on the ashen ground and for a moment she nearly lost her footing, but a hand quickly closed around her arm. Borri gestured sharply at the path ahead: Be more careful.
    “I’m fine,” she grumbled, brushing the ash off her knees. But then her gaze caught on something: a dark spot, barely visible in the gray dust of the desert.
    “What the…” Aimée squinted. At first, it looked like a burnt, withered bush. Then clearer contours emerged. Arms. Legs. A body.
    “What is that?” Her legs moved almost on their own. Borri followed her, frowning.
    Teldryn also stopped and glanced around the area before quickly catching up with them.
    Aimée came to an abrupt halt, one hand pressed to her mouth. The stench hit her like rot, and her lungs rebelled against the very idea of breathing it in.
    The remains were barely recognizable, the skin partly decayed, partly charred black. What once might have been clothing now hung in tattered strips from limbs covered in bite marks and torn flesh.
    Aimée stumbled back, her knees going weak. Borri placed a hand on her shoulder, a reminder to keep her composure. Find your balance.
    “Ugh…” was all she managed. She turned away, but the image had already seared itself into her mind.
    A soft clink made Aimée look up. Teldryn had moved closer and knelt beside the corpse. His fingers brushed lightly over the torn clothing as he studied the marks.
    “Varona, Varona…” he muttered, shaking his head. “I told you to stay near the tower. The Ash Wastes aren’t a place for strolls.” He examined the deep bite wounds more closely. “But who listens to good advice?”
    “That… is Varona? Neloth’s servant?”
    Aimée tried to picture her: a Dunmer woman, maybe polite, maybe smiling, offering tea. But that image didn’t fit the torn remains in front of her.
    Teldryn nodded and straightened up, his gaze still on the corpse. “Too curious, too careless, and far too poorly armed.”
    He snorted and crossed his arms. “Not that Neloth would’ve cared. As long as someone’s bringing his tea, he doesn’t mind who it is.”
    Aimée’s brow furrowed. “But… Neloth said she was just missing! That was only a few days ago!”
    “And now we know where,” Teldryn replied dryly, shrugging his shoulders. “Exactly why I told you to bring a shovel.”
    Aimée stared at him in disbelief. “You can’t be serious!”
    There was a dead body lying in front of them, and he was joking?
    Teldryn seemed unimpressed, but for a tiny moment, something flickered in his eyes: regret, perhaps, or hesitation. Then his usual cynical smirk returned. “Dead serious. And I’m right.”
    Aimée’s voice broke with anger. “You’re insufferable!”
    There was fire in her eyes, enough to melt stone. Before Teldryn could reply, she already spun around. “Come on, Borri! We’re leaving!”
    Teldryn followed at a leisurely pace, his footsteps deliberately casual. His eyes remained fixed on Aimée, as if waiting to see whether she’d turn around again. “I’m right behind you,” he called after them.
    Aimée kept her head facing forward, jaw tight.
    As Borri passed the mercenary, he gave him a measured look. The Greybeard said nothing, but the slight raise of his eyebrow was a silent warning: Don’t push your luck.
    He caught up with Aimée and placed a hand on her back. Steady yourself.
    His eyes wandered over the path ahead of them, tracing the lines of the cracked earth, patterns the wind had drawn into the dust. Then he shook his head. Youth is so passionate. Quick to burn, quick to tire. But there was no judgment in his stance, only quiet acceptance.

On the horizon, the last rays of sunlight cast their glow over the sea of ashes, a dull shimmer that brought more shadow than hope. And there, in the middle of this wasteland, rose a tower: not built, but grown, as if it had twisted itself out of the earth in defiance of the sky.
    The structure seemed both organic and unnatural, like a dream forced into reality. The wood — or what looked like wood — spiraled upward in bizarre patterns, as if it had tried to dance before freezing in a moment of perfection. The surface was covered with fine grooves. Here and there, fungal spores glowed like stars falling from a foreign firmament. Lanterns hung from curved branches. Their light shifted, as if reflecting the thoughts of someone who believed in nothing less than eternity.
    Aimée stopped. The wind played with her hair, swirling fine ash into the air. She pulled her cloak tighter, but not because of the cold. It was the feeling of having arrived at a place untouched by time.
    Borri also lifted his gaze and stood still, as if listening to a voice only he could hear. His posture conveyed composure. Acceptance.
    “Well?” Teldryn broke the silence. “Impressed? Or still sulking?”
    Aimée didn’t reply, just kept staring at the structure, which seemed to breathe even in the twilight. The edges of the mushroom caps glowed softly, as if storing the warmth of the day to preserve a gentle light through the night.
    Then, with a creak, the wooden door at the foot of the tower swung open.
    Neloth stood there, his face expressionless. His eyes scanned the travelers, an observer, not unlike an alchemist examining the ingredients of a new mixture.
    “Interesting,” he began dryly. “I didn’t expect to see you again so soon.”
    Aimée opened her mouth, but Neloth continued.
    “And Sero, the mighty mercenary himself. I’m amazed you’ve lowered yourself to such… ordinary errands.”
    Teldryn met Neloth’s gaze without flinching. “Gold is gold. I do my job.” And that was true enough.
    “Well then.” Neloth gestured vaguely toward the door. “Before you drag in more ash, come inside. I assume your journey was… exhausting.”
    They followed him into the tower. The room they entered was a fascinating blend of chaos and order: overflowing shelves, glass vials filled with colorful liquids, and crystals hovering gently in the air. But wherever they looked, everything seemed to follow a strange pattern, an order only Neloth seemed to understand.
    “Sit down or don’t.” Neloth waved at some chairs, his tone so disinterested it sounded like he had only said the words because etiquette demanded it — or something he thought was etiquette.
    “And Sero,” he added as he turned. “Why someone like you would suddenly guide strangers through the Ashlands will forever be a mystery to me. Your reasons are certainly not altruistic in nature.”
    Teldryn checked the stability of a chair with exaggerated caution before sitting down.
    “Of course not. But these two aren’t ordinary.” His gaze wandered to Aimée and a faint smile played at his lips. Especially not her, he seemed to add, and Aimée felt heat rise to her cheeks.
    “I noticed that myself, Sero,” replied the mage flatly. “I have eyes.”
    His expression shifted abruptly. “I’ll have tea brought. You look like you need it.”
    And with these words, Neloth had already vanished through the door.
    With a sigh, Aimée sank into one of the chairs. She ran her fingers over the rough surface of the table, trying to organize her thoughts. “He really is… peculiar.”
    Teldryn rested an elbow on the table and gave her an amused look. “That’s the polite way of putting it.”
    Aimée leaned back and took a closer look at the room. The shelves, heavy with strange bottles, looked like they might collapse at any moment, but somehow they held, just like this absurd tower, which in its very existence was a paradox.
    The door opened again and Neloth returned. He was followed by a young Dunmer balancing a tray with a teapot, four cups, and a small bowl of sugar. The boy set the tray on the table and quickly retreated.
    “Here.” Neloth nodded to the tea. “Pour it yourselves.”
    He lifted a cup to his nose, and took a tiny sip. Immediately, his face contorted.
    “Disgusting,” he muttered, and set the cup down with a clatter.
    Aimée also took a sip, her brow slightly furrowed. “Really? Tastes… normal, actually.”
    “Normal?” Neloth leaned forward, eyes narrowing. “This… brew is an insult to the very concept of tea. What savages brewed this?”
    His gaze shifted to Borri, who sat silent and unmoving at the table as usual. “Starting tomorrow, you’re taking over.”
    Borri blinked slowly once and said nothing, of course. His only reaction was a subtle lift of his eyebrow.
    Aimée looked back and forth between him and Neloth. “He’s a Greybeard, Neloth. You can’t just order him around.”
    Neloth regarded her as if she had just said something particularly naive. “I am of House Telvanni. It is my duty to guide those with less talent or power than myself. In other words… nearly everyone else alive.”
    Aimée opened her mouth to object, but the sheer arrogance of his tone left her speechless. Finally, she turned to Borri with an annoyed snort: “You’re not going to make his tea, are you?”
    Borri calmly picked up his cup, sniffed it briefly, and took a deliberate sip. Without changing his expression, he set it back down.

Some time had passed. Aimée rested her head on her hand while her fingers played with a loose strand of hair. She let out a yawn, which she tried only half-heartedly to suppress. The tea might not have been as bad as Neloth claimed, but there was nothing magical about it either. Her eyelids grew heavier and heavier, the warmth of the room seeming to envelop her.
    “Well, look at that.” Teldryn leaned back and stretched his arms lazily. “Are you getting sleepy, Aimée?”
    Aimée sat up abruptly and shook her head. “I’m not!”
    “Of course not.” The mercenary grinned, amused. “That would explain why you’re about to fall off your chair.”
    She glared at him, but the effect was lost when she suppressed another yawn. “Careful, or I’ll show you just how awake I really am.”
    Neloth stood up. “Save your pointless banter for tomorrow. And not here in my study. Your guest rooms are upstairs. Sero, you know the way.”
    “Of course, Master Neloth,” replied Teldryn with an exaggerated bow. Neloth merely snorted as if he’d expected nothing less and disappeared through the door, his robe billowing behind him.
    Aimée stood up, swayed a little, and grabbed the edge of the table for support. “Alright then. Lead the way, oh wise guide.”
    Teldryn looked at her briefly, his grin softening into a gentler smile. “Alright. Let’s try to get you to bed in one piece before you collapse somewhere.”
    “Very funny,” Aimée muttered, but followed him to the stairs. Borri, in his typical quiet manner, walked behind them.
    Once upstairs, Borri paused. His gaze wandered first to Aimée, then slowly to Teldryn. With a brief nod, he disappeared into his room. The creak of the hinges was the last sound before silence settled completely.
    Aimée stopped in front of her door, but didn’t open it. Instead, she leaned against the frame with a weary sigh and ran her fingers absentmindedly over the rough wood. Her gaze lingered on Teldryn, who was just about to turn away.
    “Hey.” Her voice was weighed down with fatigue, making every syllable difficult to utter. “Tell me a story.”
    Teldryn paused and turned to her. His brow rose skeptically, though a smile played at his lips. “What, am I your lullaby now?”
    “Maybe.” A faint smile crossed her face, but she held his gaze. “You know…” She hesitated. “Your voice and your… scent. I like your scent. It… relaxes me somehow.”
    For a moment, time seemed to stand still. Teldryn froze. Part of him wondered if she even realized what she had just said, or if her exhaustion had simply bypassed all filters. His smile faded and something softer, more thoughtful took its place.
    Without warning, Aimée took a step toward him and rested her head on his shoulder. “Stay with me a little longer,” she murmured. Just a little…
    “Aimée …”
    “Mhm.” More of a contented hum than an answer. She leaned against him, so relaxed that she could fall asleep at any moment.
    He took a deep breath, then gave in. “Alright,” he said softly, slipping one arm under her knees and the other around her waist to lift her. Aimée barely reacted, letting out only a pleased sound that made him smile involuntarily. Her head rested against his chest and she nestled closer.
    “You’re impossible,” he murmured, but his tone was filled with warmth. He carried her carefully into the room, his steps muffled on the creaking wooden floor.
    He bent down to lay her on the bed, but as soon as her back touched the mattress, her arms wrapped around his neck. It happened so suddenly that he had no time to react. She pulled him closer.
    “Aimée…” he whispered, voice rough. Her eyes opened halfway and there was something soft, almost vulnerable in her gaze, that completely disarmed him.
    “Stay,” she begged. Her forehead touched his.
    The warmth of her skin and her soft breathing robbed him of all reason. Instinctively, his hands found her waist, feeling the delicate curve of her form beneath his fingers. Part of him longed to give in to that closeness, to get lost in it, but something held him back.
    “Aimée…” he said again, more firmly. “You’re tired. You need sleep.”
    “I’m not that tired,” she protested, but her eyelids drooped in contradiction.
    He hovered for another long moment, caught between desire and reason, but then forced himself to restore the distance. “I’ll stay… but only until you fall asleep.”
    Gently, he unwrapped her arms from around his neck. Her fingers resisted for a second, then finally let go.
    “Teldryn…” she breathed, almost asleep. His name on her lips felt unexpectedly right.
    “Sleep, Aimée.” He straightened, pulled the blanket over her body, and looked at her peaceful, now completely relaxed face.
    He stood there for one final moment before slowly turning away and leaving the room. As soon as the door closed behind him, he leaned heavily against it. His forehead sank forward as he clenched his hands into fists, then loosening again as he exhaled deeply, trying to calm the heat still burning in his chest. Finally, he pushed himself away and stepped into the dark hallway.

The glowing lamps cast restless shadows across the walls of Tel Mithryn. Everything seemed to be asleep in the lower part of the tower, except for a soft, steady dripping sound somewhere in the distance.
    “Sero.”
    Teldryn paused and looked up. Neloth stood near a shelf, holding a glowing phial in his hand that lit his face with an eerie light. His gaze fixed on Teldryn with analytical composure.
    “You look tired,” the mage said casually. “Or is it something else?”
    Teldryn hesitated only briefly.
    “Long day,” he replied and was about to turn away when Neloth raised his hand, a gesture that unmistakably meant the conversation was not over.
    “Sit.”
    With an audible sigh, Teldryn dropped into the nearest chair, his fingers drumming restlessly on the edge of the table. “What is it?”
    “I’ve made an observation,” Neloth began, examining the phial in his hand as he spoke. “You’re not a man who is easily distracted. And yet… you seem distracted.”
    Teldryn pressed his lips together. “If you’ve got something to say, Neloth, then say it.”
    “I don’t particularly care what you do, Sero.” Neloth placed the phial back on the shelf before slowly turning to face Teldryn. “But… it’s hard to keep a secret when you get too attached to someone.”
    Teldryn’s fingers stopped drumming. “What are you talking about?”
    “Nothing specific.” Neloth’s lips curled into a thin, knowing smile. “Just a general observation. Human — or in your case, dunmer — nature is so wonderfully predictable. Feelings and duty always in conflict. A fascinating mess.”
    “I know what I’m doing.”
    “Of course you do.” Neloth shrugged, utterly indifferent. “But maybe you should ask yourself whether you’re really doing what’s best for her, or just what’s best for you.”
    Teldryn felt the sting behind the words, even though he didn’t let it show. His fingers resumed their drumming, slower this time, but his thoughts were racing.
    Neloth had already turned away. “I wish you a restful night, Sero.”
    Teldryn remained alone, resting his elbows on the table and running a hand over his face. The mage’s words echoed in his head, and he wondered if Neloth was really just speculating… or if he knew more than he was willing to admit.

***

Tel Mithryn: Borri

Pale morning light streamed through the windows, a hesitant glow lost in the floating spores of the alchemical lamps. Borri stood at the table, pouring water over carefully selected tea leaves. Steam curled and lost itself in the faint whiff of magic that never quite left the tower.
    For Borri, silence was never emptiness. It was observation, a space where thoughts could breathe.
    At the other end of the table sat Neloth, watching the Greybeard with a mixture of curiosity and subtle disapproval in his gaze.
    “You are aware that water temperature is critical,” he remarked. “Too hot, and the flavors are destroyed. Too cold, and it becomes… undrinkable.”
    Borri did not respond. His movements remained ritualistic, deliberate, as he gently stirred the spoon through the water and swirled the pot with practiced ease.
    “Well,” Neloth sighed theatrically, “at least you don’t seem entirely incompetent.”
    Borri gave no reply. A few quiet moments passed.
    “I will speak with the girl today,” Neloth continued casually, as if commenting the weather. “A short walk.”
    Now Borri lowered the pot and looked up. He raised a hand, gesturing in a questioning arc toward the door. Where to? Then he pointed two fingers at Neloth, then at an empty space beside him. Alone?
    Neloth frowned, unsure whether he was being questioned or lectured. “Not far,” he said curtly. “As alarming as the idea may be, I am perfectly capable of defending us.”
    Borri held his gaze a moment longer, then lowered his chin. A silent agreement.
    Finally, Neloth motioned with a slight tilt of his chin toward a nearby shelf. “If you find yourself bored, there are books. I assume you can read.”
    Borri followed the gesture as footsteps sounded outside. Aimée was awake.

***

Tel Mithryn: Aimée

Aimée paused on the last step of the staircase and looked around, searching. No sign of Teldryn. Something in her chest tightened.
    “Morning.” She cleared her throat and turned to Borri. “Do you know where Teldryn is?”
    Borri pointed toward the door before returning to his task.
    Aimée bit her lip and sank into one of the chairs. When the Greybeard handed her a cup a moment later, her fingers gratefully closed around the warm ceramic. Steam curled before her face. She blew on it gently while Borri set another cup in front of Neloth.
    “Hmm.” The mage took a testing sip. His face remained expressionless as he set the cup back down. “Interesting.”
    Aimée raised an eyebrow. “That’s… it?”
    “You weren’t expecting effusive praise, were you? It’s tea, not an alchemical marvel.”
    She shook her head and took a sip herself. The taste was mild, with a faint freshness that slowly dispelled the fatigue in her head. After a moment of silence, she lowered the cup. “What is Teldryn doing… so early?”
    Neloth waved dismissively. “Your esteemed mercenary said he needed to ‘get some fresh air’. Whatever. It’s none of my concern.”
    “And… he didn’t say anything else?”
    “Why should he?” Neloth gave her a cool look. “I’m not interested in a mercenary’s wanderings unless they affect my own affairs. And they don’t.”
    Aimée leaned back with a barely audible sigh and stared at her cup. The thought that Teldryn had just vanished without saying anything stirred a quiet frustration in her. She tried to hide her irritation, but not entirely successfully.
    Borri pushed his now empty cup aside and stood up. His gaze lingered on Aimée for a brief moment with understanding before he went to the shelf, selected one of the books, and quietly withdrew.
    “Well,” Neloth said, in a tone that made it clear the matter was already settled, “if you’ve had enough to drink, get ready. I want you to accompany me.”
    Aimée looked at him questioningly. “Where to?”
    “Outside, of course,” Neloth replied. “A bit of fresh air will do us both good. And there are certain matters that… need to be discussed.”

Chapter Text

The wind carried ash across the barren landscape, and Aimée pulled her cloak tighter around herself. Neloth walked ahead of her, his robe hovering just above the ground. In the low-hanging sun, his silhouette seemed unreal, like someone who neither belonged in this world nor cared about it.
    “What exactly are we doing out here?” Aimée broke the silence.
    “Some questions are best asked where the walls don't listen. Besides, I think better when I'm walking.”
    “And these questions concern me?”
    “Of course they do.” Neloth turned to her, assessing her with a sharp look before facing forward again. “I'm not blind, Aimée. You are… an anomaly. And I have no patience for puzzles that can't be solved.”
    “I'm just… me.”
    “Nonsense,” the mage immediately disagreed. “The All-Maker Stones have no hold over you. That alone makes you noteworthy. Add to that your search for Miraak. That cannot be coincidence.”
    Aimée lowered her gaze as the wind tugged at her hair. “I'm Dragonborn,” she finally murmured.
    Neloth stopped abruptly. He slowly raised an eyebrow and for a moment he actually looked surprised. “Don't you think something like that should be mentioned… earlier?”
    Aimée opened her mouth, but Neloth raised a hand to cut her off. “Dragonborn,” he repeated. “Immune to the influence of the All-Maker Stones. Searching for Miraak, the most powerful priest who ever lived, also Dragonborn.”
    A gust of wind swirled ash around them, as if the world had reacted to Neloth's words.
    “The first of his kind. Powerful enough to bend the world to his will. And ambitious enough to rise up against his dragon masters.” Neloth's smile was thin. “Almost poetic, don't you think?”
    Aimée glanced at him uncertainly, her steps slowing. “I don't know if I'm really as… immune as you say.”
    Neloth studied her closely. “What makes you doubt it?”
    “In Raven Rock, I touched that stone. Just briefly.” She searched Neloth's face for a reaction, but he only waited in silence. Her gaze dropped to the ground.
    “I… saw something.”
    Neloth stepped closer. “What exactly did you see?”
    “It was the stone, but… different.” Aimée hesitated. “There were two men. One was performing magic, something complicated. The other just watched. They were talking about the stone.”
    “And?”
    “And then it was over. It felt real, but… I have no idea who they were.”
    “Do you remember what they said?”
    Aimée frowned, her gaze distant as she searched through the fragments of her memory. Finally, she nodded. “One of them called the other… Ahzidal.”
    “Ahzidal,” Neloth repeated thoughtfully. “Fascinating. That does… make a certain kind of sense.”
    “You know who that is?”
    “Of course.” Neloth examined her with renewed interest, his analytical mind clearly at work. “Ahzidal was a legend, a pioneer of the arcane arts and a man with, shall we say, an unhealthy obsession with power.”
    Aimée frowned. “And how does that connect?”
    “Ahzidal was one of the dragon priests, but not just any dragon priest.” Neloth's voice dropped slightly. “He served a very specific master. He served Miraak.”
    “Wait… you think the other man in my vision was Miraak?”
    “It's likely.” Neloth crossed his arms. “Miraak, the most powerful among the priests and the first Dragonborn, would have tolerated no one less than Ahzidal at his side. And who, if not the master of enchantment, would have been capable of creating such stones?”
    He smiled triumphantly. “Only a theory for now. But a very good one.”
    “But the Skaal believe the All-Maker created the stones,” Aimée objected.
    “All-Maker.” Neloth scoffed and waved a hand dismissively. “The Skaal’s superstition is charming in its naivety. A single god who made everything? A pretty idea that may comfort them, but it can hardly be taken seriously.”
    He paused briefly before continuing, “The real question is: Why did you see it? What connects you to that past?”
    Aimée shook her head. “I don't know. I don't understand it.”
    Neloth smiled knowingly. A smile that made her uncomfortable. “You may not understand it, but the stones do. They showed you something because you are something. Because you carry something they recognize.”
    His eyes narrowed. “What I wonder, Aimée, is this: What would you see if you got closer to their center? If you stood before the stone in Miraak's own temple?”
    “I…” Aimée broke off. The mere thought of it threw her off balance.
    The wind swept across the ash-covered plain, stirring pale dust into the air. Aimée raised her head and saw something in Neloth's gaze that made her shiver. Curiosity, yes. But also… expectation. Or obsession?
    “Whatever you see there,” Neloth said quietly, “it will affect not only you, but perhaps the entire world. And you'd best hope the world is ready for it.”

***

It was midday. Aimée sat on a wooden bench in front of the mushroom house, a bowl of soup in her hands. The scent of herbs drifted into the air, but her thoughts were far away. Absentmindedly, she stared at the grain of the organically grown wood until a familiar crunch pulled her from her reverie. She lifted her head and blinked against the sunlight.
    There he was.
    Teldryn approached slowly, his hands resting on the hilts of his swords. The fine layer of dust on his armor spoke of a tiring journey. He paused for a moment when he saw her, and his confident posture seemed to falter. However, he quickly put his usual mask back on.
    Aimée smiled. “At last, our great adventurer.” She felt her cheeks grow warm and hastily hid her unease behind a sip from the bowl.
    Teldryn's gaze glanced briefly over her before turning to the door. “And you're still here.” There was a lightness to his words.
    “Where have you been?” Aimée set the bowl down beside her, stood up, and brushed a fold of her robe. “I was starting to think you’d forgotten us.”
    Teldryn paused and raised an eyebrow. “Forget? That would be… impossible.”
    “Good to know.” Aimée's voice sounded more cheerful than she felt. Her attempt to appear casual nearly collapsed under the weight of his gaze.
    Teldryn turned away and reached for the door handle. “Had something to take care of.” Without looking back, he disappeared inside.
    Aimée remained where she was, her smile long faded. Her fingers played thoughtfully with the bowl, but the soup had lost all appeal.

In the afternoon, they gathered around the large table in Neloth's study. Papers, ink vials, and glass apparatuses covered the surface. The scent of freshly brewed tea mingled with the bitter aroma of alchemical ingredients.
    Teldryn stood leaning against the wall, arms crossed, his face half in shadow. Aimée, seated between Neloth and Borri, sensed the tense silence in the room. Finally, Neloth cleared his throat and leaned forward.
    “Now that we are all present,” he began, casting a casual glance at Aimée, “we should discuss the matter that brought you here: Miraak.”
    Teldryn's fingers tapped softly against the wall, falling still the moment the name was spoken.
    “Miraak? So that's what this is about?”
    Aimée glanced at him sideways. “Why do you ask?”
    “Pure curiosity.”
    Neloth smiled thinly. “Fascinating, isn't it, Sero? How fitting coincidence can be sometimes.”
    “The world is full of coincidences,” Teldryn replied, resuming his tapping.
    Neloth straightened, his gaze fixed on Aimée. “Be that as it may, one thing is clear: Miraak is the key. And if I'm not mistaken, your path leads directly to his temple.”
    Aimée's fingers tightened around her cup. “That's the plan.”
    “A foolish plan,” Teldryn interjected, his voice sharper than he probably intended.
    Aimée looked at him, surprised by his sudden objection.
    “That temple is no place for someone like you.”
    “Someone like me?” Her eyes narrowed in defiance. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
    Teldryn scoffed. “It means you don’t really know Miraak or the place you’re walking into. And clearly, you have no idea what’s waiting for you there.”
    Heat rushed to Aimée's face, but before she could reply, Neloth intervened.
    “Sero.” The room fell silent at once, only the faint hum of a machine still audible. “Whether you like it or not, she's going.”
    Teldryn's hand stopped mid-motion, his jaw muscles visibly tensing. For a moment, it looked like he might argue further, but then he shrugged. “Do what you want.”
    Borri curled his hands slightly into fists. He raised one hand, pointing first to Aimée, then to himself. His message was clear: he would go with her.
    Neloth rolled his eyes and waved him off. “Absolutely not. Your tea is irreplaceable, Borri. At least until Varona returns…”
    “Gonna be hard,” Teldryn said dryly. “Varona's dead.”
    “Ah.” Neloth merely raised an eyebrow. “That explains a lot.”
    He took another sip of tea before setting the cup down. “Which means you…” his gaze returned to Borri, “…will take her place for the time being.”
    Borri gave a firm shake of his head and pointed at Aimée again. The tension in his features was unmistakable, and he placed his hands flat on the table, a silent gesture of determination.
    “I'll go with her,” Teldryn said suddenly, pushing off from the wall.
    Aimée looked up in surprise. Her heart beat faster and she sought his gaze. “You… want to come with me?”
    Teldryn shrugged, but there was something forced in his nonchalance. His eyes avoided hers before he replied, “I’m a mercenary.” Then, with a scoff, “And honestly? I don’t trust any of you to get out of there alive.”
    Neloth nodded in satisfaction, as if he had expected exactly that. “Excellent. That simplifies things.”
    Borri, however, crossed his arms. His eyes narrowed as he stared intently at Teldryn.
    The mercenary held his gaze with the same stoic calm, but his fingers tightened around the hilt of one of his swords, a reflex that only heightened the tension in the room. For a moment, the air between the two seemed to crackle.
    Neloth let out an irritated sigh.
    “Your dedication is… admirable, Borri.” His words sounded almost conciliatory, though the cold edge in his voice made it clear the matter was settled. “But let's be honest: you're no fighter. Teldryn, on the other hand… is the best mercenary Solstheim has to offer. If anyone can bring Aimée back alive, it's him.”

***

The sky above Solstheim was dark, and the Red Mountain glowed on the horizon like a sluggish heartbeat that gave the night its breath. The wind carried the pale taste of ash, and the air felt heavy with an unspoken grief that faded into distance.
    “What did you just say?” Aimée stood in front of Teldryn, her voice sounding as though she must have misheard him.
    “Don't go to Miraak's temple.” His eyes, full of contradiction, searched hers as he held her hands.
    Aimée pulled one hand from his grip. “You already said that earlier. Why are you bringing it up again now?”
    He let his shoulders sink. “It's dangerous, Aimée.”
    “Dangerous?” She snorted. “It hasn't bothered you so far. Why now?”
    “It has always bothered me.”
    “Oh, really?” Aimée stepped closer. “All day, you've been… absent. Barely a word, barely a glance. And now you expect me to believe you care?”
    An inner struggle raged within Teldryn. He couldn't tell her. Not now. Maybe never. It would ruin everything.
    Of course, he should have done it long ago. She deserved to know that this path wasn't only hers, but also his. That he had been paid to bring her to the temple long before Aimée had even looked at him. But what difference would it have made? She would have gone anyway. Just alone. And she would have despised him.
    Besides… something about this job felt off. He couldn't put his finger on what it was. The old man who had hired him had been nervous, his eyes restless, like those of an animal that senses a trap. Too much gold, too few questions. His instincts had told him even then that something was wrong, and his instincts had never failed him.
    He tried to rationalize it: She wants to go this way, so I let her. But deep down, he was gnawed by the fear that this fragile connection between them might break before he even understood what she truly meant to him.
    The wind tugged at Aimée's robe, but she ignored it. She tilted her head, holding his gaze. “Give me one reason not to go.”
    Teldryn hesitated. Her closeness burned like fire. His gaze fell to her lips, his hands longing to touch her. She was so close, he could feel her breath.
    “Aimée…” For a moment, it seemed as if he would give in.
    “Just one, Teldryn…”
    Slowly, his fingers clenched into fists and he took a step back. “I… can't,” he forced out, each word a battle against himself.
    Aimée's expression hardened, but beneath her defiance lay something else: disappointment.
    “Not yet,” Teldryn added quickly. “Please, Aimée. Give me time.”
    She closed her eyes and let the wind brush her cheeks. When she opened them again, she nodded and turned away.
    “Tomorrow morning,” she said quietly, without looking back at him. “Be on time.”

***

Apocrypha, 4th Era: Miraak

A single book lay directly in his path, as if it had always been there. And yet, Miraak knew that this was not the case. He paused. Shadows whispered as they retreated, but their presence remained oppressive. The book itself seemed to challenge him.
    The priest tilted his head, eyes narrowing with suspicion. Another of Mora's games?
    Cautiously, he reached out, his fingers trembling as they touched the cover. Then he opened the book and read:

“Eternal,” cried the dragons, “shall our reign endure. No judgment shall break our dominion.” But nothing lasts forever, not even the rule of the undying. Thus, it came to pass that a mortal rose, blessed by Akatosh, Lord of Time. […]

Miraak's expression darkened. His story. His damnation, as he had lived and suffered it.
    But then… something new:

Behold, the Lord of Time does not intervene where oblivion reigns. So he turned his gaze once more to Nirn and shaped a second vessel. Once more a mortal was blessed, and in her veins burned the fire of dragons, pure and untamed.

“Go,” spoke the Lord of Time. “Where he fell, you shall walk. Where he broke, you shall mend. For your blood is one. His path is your path, and his fate is your fate.”

“A second Dragonborn… sent to find me?” His whisper trembled with fury and something else he dared not name. Hope?
    “Then… where is she?”
    With a violent motion, he slammed the book shut and hurled it away from him. The impact echoed through the dark corners of Apocrypha, pages fluttering like the wings of a dying bird before the tome disappeared in the shadows. For a brief moment, the whispering on the shelves fell silent, as if Apocrypha had sensed his anger.
    Miraak ran his hand over his face. A trick of Mora, nothing more. Another deception, a cruel game!
    But… what if…?
    That feeling… it had been there, hadn't it? Warmth. Human warmth, so utterly foreign in the endless void of his existence.
    Mora had insisted it was nothing more than an illusion, as the fickle god pleased. But perhaps…
    His breathing slowed as his thoughts sought to grasp the impossible. Slowly, he summoned his power, a remnant of his old strength, reaching out through the shadows and into Nirn. His mind brushed against the fading bond to his followers, weak but not yet severed.
    His thoughts shaped into a command:
    Find her. Bring her to my temple. I command it in the name of the First, whom you serve.
    The connection died like a candle in the wind. Miraak lowered his hands and closed his eyes. It was a risk. Perhaps his last.

***

Solstheim, Tel Mithryn: Aimée

The morning over Tel Mithryn slumbered quietly, interrupted only by the soft crackling of the mushroom walls; a familiar, almost living sound. Tears glistened in Aimée's eyes, but she held them back.
    “I can't just leave you here,” she whispered.
    Borri shook his head. His face was calm as always, but his gaze said everything she needed to know. Then he reached for the small wooden figure on her belt, the carved fox whose edges had softened over the years. He held it gently between his fingers before placing it back into her hand. You are never alone.
    Aimée lowered her head. “I know, but…” Her voice broke. A tear made its way down her cheek and fell into the stillness of the morning.
    Borri laid a hand on her shoulder. It was not a grand gesture, but in its simplicity lay all the strength in the world. With his other hand, he traced a circle over his heart, a silent vow: I am always with you.
    The sobs that Aimée had been trying to suppress finally burst out of her. She stepped forward and wrapped her arms around him. Borri allowed it, patting her gently on the back, half scolding, half comforting.
    “Take care of yourself,” she murmured into his robe before slowly letting go. “And don't allow Neloth to push you around.”
    Borri raised his eyebrow slightly, a faint twitch of his lips betraying his hidden smile. Then he pointed at Teldryn.
    The mercenary stood leaning against one of the mushroom walls, arms loosely crossed. His posture was casual, but his gaze attentive. When Borri looked at him, Teldryn pushed off the wall and stepped closer. “When you're ready, we have a temple to find.”
    At that moment, the door of the mushroom tower opened and Neloth stepped out. In his hands, he held a cultist mask, its surface scratched and weathered.
    “Ah, Sero.” Neloth's voice was exaggeratedly casual. “Before you leave, I want you to take this.” He lifted the mask slightly. “I recovered it from one of those… unfortunate servants of Miraak. In theory, it should protect you from the influence of the Stones.”
    Teldryn eyed the mask with suspicion and accepted it reluctantly. “You want me to test it.”
    Neloth offered a thin smile. “Naturally. It would be a shame to waste such an opportunity, wouldn't it?”
    Teldryn snorted dryly. “Well, I live to serve.” Then he slipped the mask into his pocket.
    He looked over at Aimée. “Ready?”
    She nodded, wiping the last traces of tears from her cheeks, and reached for her backpack. The wind picked up as she turned to Borri one last time.
    “See you soon,” she said.
    Borri's gaze followed her until they were both out of sight.

***

Before them rose the Sun Stone, an unholy monument that twisted out of the lifeless landscape like a wound. They had been walking for hours, and now the sun hung low in the sky, its faint light overwhelmed by the stone’s eerie glow.
    “There it is,” Aimée murmured without looking away. Her fingers unconsciously brushed the hem of her cloak. “The Sun Stone.”
    “Right.” Teldryn's voice came from behind her. He stepped beside her, his eyes narrowing as he studied the stone. “And now we've seen it. Let's move on.”
    But Aimée didn't move. Something about the stone drew her closer, a silent, almost pleading call. It seemed to sing, but it was no melody. The greenish light pierced the wasteland like a beacon of plague, a dancing flame, but there was no joy in its dance. Only endless repetition, like tides washing against the same shore over and over again.
    The workers moved around the stone like shadows, their eyes empty. They stared into nothingness, disconnected from reality.
    “Look at them…” Aimée whispered.
    “Miraak,” replied Teldryn curtly, without taking his eyes off the scene. “Get used to it. If you want to face him, you'd better stop questioning things like this.”
    Aimée turned to him, her forehead creased with deep wrinkles. “Stop questioning it?” Her voice sharpened and she crossed her arms. “When I meet Miraak, I'll do exactly that. This?” she pointed at the workers, “this… isn't normal.”
    Teldryn blinked slowly before a crooked grin spread across his face. “Oh, sure. Just walk up to him, tap him on the shoulder, and say, ‘Miraak, be a dear and stop that.’ The most powerful Dragon Priest of all time will surely fall to his knees in awe.”
    Aimée put her hands on her hips. “If not me, then who? Apparently no one else is going to do it!”
    Teldryn let out a dry laugh, but there was no amusement in his eyes. “You're unbelievable, you know that?” His sarcasm sounded almost affectionate, but at the same time it carried resignation.
    “Listen to me, Aimée.” He stepped closer, close enough that she could see every tired, tense line of his face. “Miraak won't talk. He'll bend you to his will if you're not careful. This stone?” He nodded briefly toward the object, its sickly light reflecting in his eyes. “This is a taste. Just a taste.”

***

On the third day of their journey, the sky hung low and leaden, as if it had decided to swallow all warmth from the world. Aimée sat on a rock that offered little shelter from the wind, which swept relentlessly across the plain, carrying snow with it in white spirals.
    A few steps away lay Teldryn. For the first time in days, he had lain down, his armor half unfastened, as if, in a rare moment of trust, he had allowed himself to let go.
    Aimée's gaze drifted to him. His breathing was steady, a gentle rhythm that did not match the vigilance with which he usually observed every movement around him. At this moment, he seemed vulnerable, almost younger. She noticed a small scar along his jaw, one that had until now escaped her attention, and she wondered what story lay behind it. For a fleeting moment, she felt the urge to touch it, but pushed the thought away before it could take hold.
    Her eyes wandered back to the horizon. There, in the distance, was a green shimmer. Aimée felt something she couldn't name: fear perhaps, but also fascination, an unwanted pull.
    Miraak's temple.
    Her thoughts wandered back to the Sun Stone they had left behind. She remembered the moment when she had wanted to reach out, just to see if she would feel anything. But Teldryn had held her back.
    Miraak won't talk. He'll bend you to his will if you're not careful.
    She drew her knees to her chest and wrapped her arms around them. The wind bit at her cheeks, but she ignored the cold. Her gaze found Teldryn again. Even in sleep, he looked tense.
    He was cautious enough for both of them, but how long could she rely on that being enough? How long before she would have to be the one to protect him? From Miraak, or worse, from herself?
    The wind picked up. Aimée leaned her head back slightly and looked up into the grim sky. “What are you, Miraak?” she whispered.
    Whatever you find… it may not be the man you seek.
    The words came back to her as if Paarthurnax had just spoken them. The old dragon had taught her to breathe, to fight, and to understand the power that lay deep within her. His wings had been a shelter from the world when she was too young to understand how merciless it could be.
    A warm pain spread through her chest at the thought of him. And of High Hrothgar, the place where the wind sang songs only the mountains could understand.
    She remembered Einarth, whose hands always smelled of fresh bread. And Wulfgar, who would spend hours carving little wooden figures — a bird, a wolf, a dragon — and then secretly place them all around the monastery. And Arngeir, the only one of them who ever spoke. He was strict, but in his words lay wisdom that shaped Aimée more deeply than she had realized at the time.
    Are they well? The thought tightened her throat. It felt as if a whole world lay between her and the place she once called home. It was not just the sea that separated them, but an unbridgeable distance that had arisen the moment she had chosen this path.

***

Teldryn blinked as sleep slowly left him. Fine snow danced in the morning light, and the cold had settled deep into his bones, despite the fire still crackling faintly nearby. He stretched his fingers, shaking off the unpleasant tingling sensation, and let his gaze wander across the landscape.
    A few steps away, Aimée sat on a rock, her gaze turned toward the sky. Her fingers played absentmindedly with a loose thread of her cloak. There was something different about her posture, withdrawn, almost fragile.
    She looks sad. The thought came unbidden and refused to leave. It wasn't the kind of sadness that spilled into tears or lost itself in despair. It was a silence that felt too heavy to be spoken aloud. A silence that unsettled him. Aimée was never silent. Even when she wasn't speaking, she was full of energy, full of life, which often made more noise than he could bear. But now…
    His eyed lingered on her for a moment longer as he sat up. Snow had settled gently in her hair, and the light filtering through the clouds traced the soft lines of her silhouette.
    He rubbed his hands together to chase away the cold, but the dull ache in his chest wouldn't fade. We're almost there. A thought he had avoided for too long. They were only half a day away from Miraak's temple, a place he'd rather not set foot in, but which had become almost an obsession for Aimée.
    Over and over, he had imagined how this might end. Maybe she would touch the stone, receive a vision, get her answers, and that would be it. Would it really be that simple? Teldryn let out a bitter snort, quiet enough that Aimée couldn't hear it. When had anything ever been simple with her?
    She wouldn't give up, wouldn't turn back, no matter what he advised her to do. Her stubbornness ran as deep as her courage. And that was what scared him most. She is stubborn, but not invincible. The thought gnawed at him. He couldn't stop her, but he could stay with her, protect her. And maybe that was all he could do.
    With a quiet sigh, he ran a hand over his face and finally cleared his throat to get her attention.
    Aimée blinked as if waking from a dream and looked at him. Her eyes, slightly red, revealed more than she likely wanted. For a moment, a pain went through him, one that was not his own.
    “You're awake,” she said.
    “Seems like it.” Teldryn sat up and tightened the straps of his armor. “We should get moving before I change my mind.”
    His tone was dry as usual, but even he could hear the weight behind his words. He wondered if she noticed. She probably did. Aimée never missed anything, but perhaps she would ignore it, as she often did.
    She nodded, stood up, and pulled her cloak tighter around herself as her gaze swept one last time across the horizon. She looked as if she wanted to say something, but then she turned back to him. “Let's go.”

Chapter Text

The Temple of Miraak rose before them, an intention cast in stone. Every crack in the rock whispered a threat that echoed through the centuries: Forget me not.
    The arches and towers jutted toward the sky like broken limbs, as if they had long since given up reaching for the stars. Silence lay over everything, which even the wind seemed to avoid.
    At the foot of the stairs lay the remains of those who had dared to challenge Miraak — and failed miserably. Massive bones gleamed pale in the dim light, some scattered carelessly, others arranged as if to warn.
    Aimée's fingers brushed over the wooden fox on her belt, her voice thin as the snow drifting across the plain. “Dragons…”
    Teldryn stepped beside her, his gaze sweeping over the bones, then up the stairs toward the temple. “If you wanted to know how powerful Miraak truly is… there's your answer.”
    She swallowed. The talisman in her hand suddenly felt heavy. “Those are… dragons. And he defeated them all.”
    The mercenary scoffed. His eyes lingered on a particularly large skull, its teeth protruding like daggers. “Not just defeated,” he said at last. “He annihilated them.”

The stairs led up the slope, and the wind grew sharper with every step. The hum of the temple was no ordinary sound, but rather a dull tone that sank deep into the gut.
    Suddenly, Aimée felt arms wrap around her from behind. Teldryn held her tight, almost desperately, as if he could keep her from going any further. His forehead dropped to her shoulder.
    “Don't…” he murmured.
    Aimée placed a hand on his forearm. For a moment, she stayed like that, allowing his closeness, feeling her chest rise and fall against his grip. Then she turned. She stroked his cheek gently, her gaze soft but clouded with sadness.
    “Too late,” she said quietly.
    She turned away.
    He remained behind as she walked on, watching her go. Finally, he ran a hand over his face, reached into his satchel, and pulled out the mask. When he put it on, he felt… nothing. No tingle, no magic, no whispers. Only the weight of the mask, heavy and disappointingly mundane.
    They passed beneath the temple arches, and at once the air changed. In the center stood the Tree Stone, bathed in pale light.
    Aimée's eyes widened. It was not fear that Teldryn saw in them, but something else. Expectation, perhaps. A secret longing for a promise meant only for her.
    Teldryn, on the other hand, remained unaffected. No voice, no pull, only silence and the oppressive chill of the stones. The mask worked, just as Neloth had predicted.
    Aimée stepped closer and the world grew quieter. The hum filled her thoughts, gentle as a lullaby from a distant memory.
    Closer still.
    Her legs felt heavy, but she did not stop. The light reflected in her eyes and the world began to fade. Her hand rose and trembled. The cool air grew warmer as she reached out, until she touched the surface of the stone.

***

A scream tore through the air.
    The world beneath Aimée tilted away. Heat hit her, and she found herself in a vaulted chamber whose walls shimmered in the flickering light of torches. Dust trickled from the ceiling, small fragments rained to the ground as tremors shook the floor.
    “Ahzidal!” A woman's voice, shrill and full of despair, cut through the rumbling.
    Aimée spun around. Before an altar stood a man, arms outstretched. Runes glowed, orbiting above the shattered stone floor.
    “Wait!” Ahzidal's hands burned. Blue flames curled around his fingers. His eyes blazed with power, but there was something else in them. Anguish.
    The woman pressed her hands protectively over her belly, her gaze flicking between Ahzidal and the sealed entrance at the end of the room. Once again, a thunderous blow struck the door. Stones cracked under the force.
    Dragons.
    “Ahzidal, please!” Her voice broke as another roar shook the chamber.
    “I'm doing everything in my power!” Ahzidal's words were like a command to reality, the runes glowing brightly. “Kirod, lokaliin. Kirod.” Hold on, beloved. Hold on.
    Aimée stumbled back, hands grasping at nothing. Why am I seeing this? Why am I here?
    Ahzidal began to chant, and the words echoed like an ancient song. Each syllable made the light around him flash. The runes danced in patterns. Aimée did not understand them, but she could feel their power. Dangerous, overwhelming power.
    “Now, Ahzidal!”
    But he hesitated. The surrounding light faltered, as though the magic itself wavered with his will. Pain showed on his face, marked by scars no time could heal. His gaze found the woman. The runes continued to pulse as if urging him to hurry, but he remained frozen.
    “Nid.” It was more than a denial. It was a prayer, a plea to the gods who had long since abandoned him. “I can't… lose you too.”
    The ground trembled again. Cracks split deeper into the walls. Dust fell, stone crunched, and the air pressed heavily on Aimée's chest.
    The woman approached Ahzidal until she was standing directly in front of him. Her fingers gently brushed his cheek, a gesture full of unspoken words. Aimée saw the fear in her eyes — and the overwhelming love within them.
    “It's not about us,” she said softly.
    Ahzidal closed his eyes for a brief, painful moment before his gaze slowly wandered to her hand, still resting on her stomach.
    Another rumble shook the chamber.
    The priest breathed heavily, desperately grabbing her arms, holding them tight as if he could delay the inevitable. Then, slowly, he let go.
    The woman stepped back, all doubt seemingly erased. The magic in the room thickened.
    “Mahfaeraak…” Forever. Words, soft and tender, yet with the finality of a farewell. Tears glistened in her eyes.
    Ahzidal stood motionless, his lips trembling. “Mahfaeraak,” he replied and closed his eyes. When he opened them again, they burned with fire. Despair. Resolve. He turned to the altar, his lips forming silent words.
    Then he spoke aloud: “Amativ ko tiid.”
    His voice reverberated through the chamber, powerful and laced with magic. His fingers traced precise lines across the runes on the altar, which then lit up like constellations.
    “AMATIV KO TIID!”
    This time, his voice broke beneath the weight of the spell, and the runes exploded in blinding light. Energy flooded the room, a radiance so pure and terrible that Aimée didn't just see it. She felt it. It crawled into every crack in the stone, grew in the shadows of the walls, and settled into the deepest corners of the soul.
    Ahzidal raised both hands and the magic… detonated.
    It went beyond mere light, and unfolded into everything light could be: hope and ruin, warmth and cruelty, a fire without flame. The world tore apart, layers crumbling like parchment that could no longer withstand time. Everything shattered.
    Everything shattered.
    Ahzidal collapsed to his knees, hands still reaching for the altar, as the light faded. The runes dimmed one by one until only loneliness remained.
    Aimée's gaze found the woman. Magic enveloped her floating body, a peaceful image. But she was dead.

***

Aimée gasped for air. Her chest rose and fell frantically, each breath too shallow and yet too much. Her knees buckled, and she collapsed onto the cold stone slabs before the Tree Stone. Her fingers grasped at the rough cracks, searching for support as her thoughts reeled.
    Ahzidal's despair. His beloved. Dead.
    Slowly, she raised her head. Her vision was blurred as she blinked through the fog of disorientation. A whisper hung in the air, and then she realized it. She was not alone.
    Before her, they stood like statues: cultists, their masks expressionless. Yet, beneath their stillness lay something alert, as if they were watching her every breath.
    Behind her, the Tree Stone continued to hum.
    One of the cultists stepped forward, the fabric of his cloak rustling across the stone slabs. He bowed his head respectfully as he spoke: 
    “Dovahkiin.”
    Aimée blinked. “… What?”
    It wasn't a title she heard often. And certainly not in such reverence, yet demanding, as if he were claiming something that belonged to her.
    A murmur rose from the ranks. “She is the one,” they whispered. “The Chosen. The Last.” A monotonous chorus, almost a prayer.
    Aimée forced herself to turn her head. Her gaze searched for orientation, for anchor — and found it.
    Teldryn.
    Only a few steps away, but restrained by two cultists, his hands tied behind his back. His mask hid every emotion, but Aimée knew better. She could feel his tension, even from the distance.
    “Let him go,” she demanded, her voice firmer than she felt.
    The leader tilted his head slightly. “He is part of the path,” he explained gently. “So it is written. So it shall come to pass.”
    Again, that whispering rippled through the ranks.
    “The First has laid his claim upon you.” The speaker stepped closer. “His light has touched you. You are more than flesh, more than blood. Creation itself has bound you to him. His will flows through your veins, his song echoes in your soul.”
    Aimée's hands clenched into fists, anger boiling within her. “I belong to no one!”
    The speaker seemed confused for a moment, but quickly recovered. “You… will understand,” he said with certainty. “The will of the First cannot be denied.”
    Teldryn reared up. Immediately, the cultists tightened their grip.
    Aimée looked over at him and, despite his mask, she could see that he was trying to tell her something. A warning?
    “Come,” said the speaker. “Our master awaits you.”
    It was not a request, yet it sounded like an invitation.
    Aimée's gaze darted between the cultists and Teldryn. Her thoughts raced as fear, anger, and despair tore at her. There was no choice.
    She closed her eyes, a final retreat inward. Only the here and now mattered. Only Teldryn. With effort, she forced the chaos down, smoothing the tempest within. Su'um ahrk morah. Su'um ahrk morah.
    Her breath slowed. She straightened her shoulders and commanded the storm within her to cease. “Fine,” she said at last. “But only if nothing happens to him.”
    The whispering died instantly, and an eerie silence descended over the square. The speaker remained motionless, only the tilt of his head revealed that he was weighing her words. Then he nodded solemnly.
    “Your wish shall be honored, Dovahkiin. So long as you follow, no harm shall come to him.”

The corridor was so quiet that Aimée's footsteps echoed loudly off the walls. The air was saturated with a strange mixture of incense, damp rock, and something metallic. No one spoke.
    The door ahead opened as if the room behind it had been waiting for them.
    Beyond lay a chamber, vast and empty, filled only with dense steam that made the air sluggish. Heat immediately settled over her skin like a cloak, and each breath became a burden. The polished, dark stone floor reflected the torchlight with a muted sheen. In the center waited a thermal bath, its surface shimmering faintly.
    Aimée stopped. Since being separated from Teldryn, she had offered no resistance, but when a cultist stepped forward to reach for her robe, she instinctively recoiled.
    The women paused. There was no threat in their posture, only a reverent devotion that unsettled her more than open hostility ever could.
    “You must be cleansed before you stand before him,” one of the cultists explained so gently that her words barely touched the air. “That is what pleases him.”
    Aimée swallowed. She didn't know what she had expected, but it certainly wasn't this kind of ceremony. She nodded and undid the fastening of her cloak. As the fabric fell from her shoulders to the floor, the chill immediately gave way to an oppressive heat.
    The cultists stepped forward again, their movements careful, almost tender, as they helped Aimée remove her heavy traveling garments.
    As Aimée stepped into the water, the heat enveloped her at once. Warmth seeped deep into her limbs, filling her until she felt almost dizzy. The scent of unfamiliar herbs clung to the air, sweet and tart at the same time, and the soft splashing of the water echoed oddly in her ears.
    She closed her eyes. The world receded into distance; High Hrothgar, with its snow, the familiar song of the mountains. Even Raven Rock, so close just a few days ago, now seemed like another life. Here, there was only stone, heat, and the monotonous murmurs of the attendants.
    The women leaned over her and worked silently in unison. One gently soaped her shoulders, while another untangled her hair strand by strand and poured water over it.
    Aimée let it happen. Her muscles remained tense, but she forced herself to stay still. Resistance would change nothing. Nor would questions. Her path had been laid long before she entered this temple.
    “You treat me like a sacrifice,” she murmured without opening her eyes.
    The hands in her hair paused briefly. The air grew thicker, as if she had uttered something forbidden. But soon the movements resumed, calm and steady.
    One of the cultists replied in a voice as gentle as it was comforting: “You are no sacrifice.” A brief pause followed, just long enough for the words to sink in.
    “You are his salvation.”
    Aimée opened her eyes without lifting her head. Salvation? The thought sank heavy into her chest. And who will save me?

After the bath, the cultists handed her a robe. The fabric clung to her skin, soft like warm sand after a cool night. It was beige, the color of parchment, empty and ready to be written on, plain and without any adornment.
    They gently helped her put on the robe, brushed her hair, and let it fall loose over her shoulders. Aimée allowed it all. It was easier that way.
    Then her hand unconsciously reached for the place where her belt used to be. Her fingers fumbled in the empty space.
    “The fox,” she said.
    One of the women slowly raised her head. Despite the mask, Aimée sensed the tense restraint behind it, as if an invisible line had been crossed. “You don't need it.”
    Aimée did not react immediately. Her fingers brushed over the robe's fabric. She kept her gaze straight ahead, seemingly indifferent. Yet, when she spoke, her words were heavy and final: “But I want it.”
   The women remained still. Aimée's muscles tensed, but she did not move.
    Finally, one of the women stepped forward. Hesitantly, as if violating an unwritten rule, she reached for the small fox figurine on the table and placed it into Aimée's hand.
    Aimée closed her fingers around the wood. Its weight was familiar, a quiet comfort, as if she had regained a part of herself. She held it for a moment before tucking the figurine into the fold of her robe. Hidden, but not forgotten.

A door opened and Aimée turned her head. Her eyes found the cultists, who stepped aside as if on cue. She took a deep breath, forced herself to stand tall, and set off without another word.
    The corridor was so narrow that her fingers involuntarily brushed the dusty stone. The masonry carried an unnatural chill, fed by time itself, heavy like rain falling on forgotten graves. The torchlight cast shadows on the walls, which stretched and twisted with every movement.
    Then the passage opened up.
    At first, Aimée saw only the fire in the center, its restless flames casting grotesque patterns. But it wasn't the fire that held her attention. A creaking sound drew her gaze upward. Cages hung from the ceiling, large enough to hold people. Some were empty, others… were not.
    Aimée instinctively turned away, but her eyes kept returning. Is this power? Is this what it means to rule?
    Behind her, a cultist silently placed a hand on her back. A slight pressure urged her onward.
    The corridor wound deeper into the bowels of the temple. The air grew colder, but it was a stale cold, as if this place had shut out, forgotten, or banished the warmth of the world. Even the torches on the walls burned dim and feeble.
    The passage ended in a dead end.
    Aimée stopped, her fingers resting against the rough stone. It felt wrong for it to end here. But one of the cultists stepped forward, searching the wall for a notch. A soft click.
    With a low rumble, the wall slid aside. Dust rained down, and a rush of cold air spilled from the newly revealed passage.
    Another staircase lay beyond, narrow and steep, carved crudely into the rock, as if someone had forced their way into the darkness with sheer will. Uneven steps led downward, the torchlight barely enough to illuminate the way.
    The cultists did not follow. Only one stepped forward to accompany her. The rest waited like guardians before a threshold they were forbidden to cross.
    Aimée followed hesitantly, her fingers seeking support against the freezing wall. The cold was almost comforting, a contrast to the growing unease that tightened her chest.
    The staircase faded into the darkness, lit only by a faint, deceptive glow that seemed to come from runes etched into the walls. Just enough light to keep her from falling into the abyss.
    At the end, a door awaited. No wood, no metal, just seamless stone, so solid that Aimée wondered how it could ever be moved. But to the side was a lever, as ancient as the temple itself.
    The cultist stepped forward, placed her hand upon it, and paused briefly. Then she pulled it down.
    The stone moved with a heavy rumble. Slowly, the door slid aside, dust fell down, and from the darkness emanated a pale glow. The light crept across the floor, groping along the walls.
    Then Aimée heard the sound, soft, persistent, like pages turning themselves. The sound of knowledge that lived, that read and allowed itself to be read.
    Her fingers instinctively tightened their grip on the fox in her robe.
    The cultist raised a hand and gestured into the room.
    Aimée stood still, her body refused to obey.
    There was no clear thought, only that pull in her chest. This is ridiculous, she told herself and shook her head. It's just a room. But her legs felt heavy, rebellious, as if they refused to cross the threshold.
    She pressed her lips together and closed her eyes briefly. Then she forced her feet forward.
    The floor was made of the same dark stone as the rest of the temple, but here it seemed different: too smooth, too perfect, as if no living thing had ever touched it.
    The room was empty.
    Almost.
    In the center stood a pedestal: simple, unadorned, and yet it dominated the space.
    Upon it lay a book.
    Not just any book. Not the kind of tattered volume one might find in a dusty archive. This book was… different. Its cover was black, blacker than ink. Blacker than a starless sky. Symbols and lines moved across its surface, twisting as soon as Aimée's gaze lingered on them for too long. And it glowed.
    A Black Book.
    Aimée's heart beat faster. She didn't want to get closer, but her gaze was glued to the tome. It drew her in, a call that needed no words.
    Then — a movement.
    Aimée spun around. The door behind her slid shut.
    She was alone.
    A tingling sensation crept over her fingertips as she touched the cover, and it was as if the book recognized her. She forced herself to take a deep breath and opened the cover.
    As though it had only been waiting for her, the book unfolded by itself. Pages spread like wings, smooth as mirrors, traced with flickering green symbols that constantly shifted, broke apart, and reformed. No ordinary book could look like this, feel this alive.
    Her eyes fell on the first line: “The eyes, once bleached by …”
    A drop.
    Aimée paused. Something cold ran down her shoulder, like water. But when she looked, there was nothing there.
    The scripture blurred. Aimée blinked, trying to hold on to the letters. In vain.
    The shadows began to move. They crawled up the walls like ivy, seeped from the ceiling, reshaped themselves. The floor… was it still there?
    Cautiously, Aimée raised a hand, as though any sudden movement could shatter reality for good.
    The floor gave way, turning into murky water that swallowed her without resistance. Her feet found no hold.
    Whispers. Voices. Countless. They brushed against her thoughts, touched and withdrew, only to return again.
    Aimée fell.
    Or was she being pulled?
    Downward.
    Inward.
    The whispering rose. For a moment, she thought she heard words. Names. Stories. But as soon as she tried to grasp them, they fell apart.
    The green letters flickered — and vanished. The pages were blank. No symbols. Only darkness.
    It filled her, wound through her thoughts, wrapped itself around her mind until nothing remained. Until nothing remained.

No up.
No down.

Knowledge even the gods fear.

Apocrypha.

***

Miraak stood still in the darkness that permeated Mora's realm. Books piled up around him, towering into infinity as if they were part of the sky itself. Their pages whispered in a wind that should not have existed, writing names that had long been forgotten.

His fingertips gently brushed her cheek, a touch as fleeting as a breath. And yet… it shook him.

She was human. Warm. Alive. Four millennia of isolation had robbed him of every memory of human closeness. He had forgotten what warmth felt like, life, a pulse beneath the skin. His world was built from knowledge and eternity. From cold.

And now she lay there. Impossible. Inconceivable. So real that it seemed like a cruel joke.

But his body remembered.

Beneath the golden mask, a tear ran down his cheek. A tear that should never have existed. He didn't notice. And Aimée… did not see it.

Perhaps… it was better that way.

***

Time stood still. Or perhaps, for him, it had simply ceased to exist. Miraak looked at her in silence.
    She lay there, so out of place that even Apocrypha seemed to hold its breath. No illusion. No trick of Mora's. Really there. Her skin, softly flushed, defied the cold, greenish light that accompanied the eternal darkness.
    Once more, his fingers brushed her cheek, so gently that he almost believed it was just his imagination.
    And then… she opened her eyes.
    Those eyes.
    Clear, vulnerable, and full of life. A window into a world that was no longer his. Before he realized it, he was lost in them.
    Her gaze — at first confused, drifting between sleep and waking — suddenly sharpened. She blinked, as if trying to decide whether this was a dream. Then she frowned.
    “What…” Her voice sounded sleepy, not quite awake yet. “What… do you think… who you are?”
    Suddenly, she pulled away. The warmth beneath his fingers vanished, and as she sat up, her gaze showed neither fear nor reverence, but fiery indignation.
    “Touching people like that, do you think that's normal?”
    Miraak needed a moment to comprehend the words. He had expected her to scream. To beg. To flee in panic. But none of that happened. Instead, she looked at him as if he were a misbehaving boy caught doing something forbidden.
    “Normal?” he repeated slowly, more to himself than to her. The word felt alien on his tongue. And suddenly, unexpectedly, a laugh rose in him. It was light, warm, strange, a sound that had become so foreign that it startled even him.
    Aimée stared at him, her confusion quickly turning to irritation. “What's so funny?”
    Miraak fell silent. For a moment, he hesitated, uncertain whether to speak the truth. But when he did, his voice was soft and — as Aimée noticed — remarkably human.
    “You.” He tilted his head slightly, as if trying to see her from a different angle. “You stand here, in a world not your own, before me, the First, and have the audacity to question my behavior?”
    Aimée opened her mouth, then closed it again without a word. With one sentence, he had laid bare the absurdity of her situation, and now she wasn't sure whether to be angry or… impressed.
    She took a deep breath. The air was heavy. Not just thick, but oppressive. It pressed down on her, pulled at her.
    As her gaze wandered, she took in the towers of books rising in all directions. Some of them moved as if they were breathing. Pages rustled, whispering words she couldn’t understand, and somewhere in the distance… there was the sound of dripping.
    Aimée forced herself to look back at Miraak, her eyes flashing.
    “And while you sit here in your… library, the people of Solstheim are working themselves to death?” Her voice was sharper than she had intended, but she made no effort to soften it. “What exactly is going on here?”
    Miraak regarded her in silence. When he finally spoke, his words were measured, as though he had to first grasp their meaning.
    “What are you talking about?”
    Aimée scoffed impatiently. “Come on. I've seen it myself. Your Stones! People labor until they collapse, lose their minds.” Her voice echoed between the towers of parchment and paper. “Your magic is holding them captive!”
    Miraak tilted his head, watching her with serious curiosity. “That… should not be,” he said thoughtfully.
    “Oh, please.” Aimée crossed her arms over her chest. “Are you really telling me you don't know anything about this? That you don't care at all about the people who are dying for you?” She gestured broadly into the darkness. “You're the First, aren't you? The great Miraak, whose will shapes everything? And now you want me to believe you have no idea what's happening out there?”
    He returned her gaze. No denial, no protest. But his eyes narrowed.
    “You think I'm lying?”
    His voice was gentle, but behind it lay a challenge. A test.
    Aimée's jaw tensed. She looked up at his mask; smooth, golden, and impenetrable like a mirror. No expression, nothing she could read.
    Damn it.
    She wanted to say yes. Of course. He was Miraak, the traitor. The priest who once rose against the dragons. The man who enslaved people without even being aware of their lives.
    He looked at her intently, as though he already knew what she was thinking.
    Aimée opened her mouth — and hesitated. A moment too long.
    “You're quiet,” Miraak noted casually, but his words were not. “Why?”
    Because I do not know it. The thought bothered her more than she wanted to admit. She crossed her arms tighter, as if that could stifle the stupid tugging in her chest. “I am thinking!”
    Miraak stepped closer.
    “So little faith in your own convictions?”
    She gritted her teeth, holding his gaze. She would not give in. “That has nothing to do with it.”
    “You're angry,” he observed.
    “Should I not be?” Aimée's eyes flashed with fury. “You've marked your entire domain out there with those stones, enslaved people, you've—”
    “Interesting.”
    “What?”
    Miraak tilted his head again, a hint of amusement in his tone. “My domain, you say.”
    Aimée snorted. “That's not what I—”
    “Yes, I think it is.” His voice sounded almost indulgent. “For it is my domain. Solstheim was mine long before your time began. And yet it is you who has come to find me.”
    He let the words settle before continuing.
    “Tell me, Laat Dovahkiin, if it is not my domain, then whose is it?”
    Aimée pressed her lips together. He was toying with her, she knew that. But what bothered her even more was how much it was working.
    “You're evading the question,” she finally said. “It's about the people. About what you're doing to them.”
    “And I ask you,” he replied, utterly calm, “what do you believe I am doing?”
    “Oh, come on!” Aimée shook her head in frustration. “Are you really trying to tell me that you don't know you're controlling them?”
    Silence.
    Then he simply said, “No.”
    “No?” Aimée eyed him in suspicion, searching for signs of a lie, but she couldn't see behind that stupid mask.
    “No,” he repeated firmly. “I do not know that.”
    “They're your Stones!” she retorted, chin lifted defiantly. “Whose work would it be if not yours?”
    The air grew heavier. A rustling stirred through the stacks of books.
    Aimée bit her lip. She hated how indifferent he seemed, as though everything she accused him of was just a footnote in a story written long ago.
    “I lost my connection to the Stones long ago,” Miraak admitted quietly, but with visible reluctance.
    Aimée blinked in confusion. “You're saying you have no idea that people are dying because of your magic?”
    Miraak straightened, and now there was a subtle warning in his voice. “I am saying it is not my magic that causes their deaths.”
    A shiver ran down Aimée's spine. Something stirred in the shadows.
    “But…” She studied him again, more carefully this time, searching in vain for deception. “Then who?”
    Miraak didn't answer right away. His shoulders tensed, barely, but Aimée noticed it nonetheless. When he finally spoke, his voice was taut.
    “That… is a good question.”
    Something in him had changed, a tiny shift in his presence. A hint. A doubt?
    He was thinking. And he did not like where those thoughts were leading.