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Chapter Text

Celia stared at the screen, listened to Martin’s last monologue. With a tightness in her chest she read the words of the quest log window that told her she’d completed the main quest—again. As always when she reached this part of the game she swallowed hard, loath to click Continue as the calm and silent moment would be shattered by High Chancellor Ocato when she did. For the umpteenth time she was rewarded with the title Champion of Cyrodiil. A costly title, every time. Another questline whose ending felt hollow. She sighed deeply, brought her character into position, toggled the first-person perspective and looked up at the dragon form, the avatar of Akatosh, who had defeated the Daedric Prince of Destruction before turning to stone. Another beloved NPC who’d died on her watch and she couldn’t change a thing.

She loved the game, she really did, but she hated the lack of agency, the helplessness when it came to her favorite companions in the game. Damn, she had done everything to save Cyrodiil, and she hated the martyrdom in which Martin vanished from Tamriel—hell, from Nirn, from Mundus even. She hated it because she liked the calm, humble priest who saw the position of the Emperor as a sacrifice he still accepted as his fate to save the world. He would have been happy worshiping Akatosh, leading a quiet life unacknowledged as the heir to the throne. Though he loathed the power that was offered to him, he had surrendered to his fate, and now he had vanished from the face of Tamriel. It left her empty and a little sad.

With a sigh she decided to return to the real world, saved the game and clicked back to the title screen. She quit and switched off the console. Her heart ached when she left her living room and stepped into her bathroom, preparing for bed. She looked in the mirror, her gaze slipping past her reflection into the void. A desperate need coiled inside her, to talk about what the ending had done to her, her thoughts about the way Bethesda had scripted Martin’s death. They always tried to get a rise out of the players, and they were damned good at it. But she didn’t like it. She wanted agency. Was that too much to ask for? Sometimes other games offered several different endings depending on the choices you made.

Yes, she understood the series followed a set lore, and if Oblivion didn’t end with the Septim line broken the events in Skyrim couldn’t happen. The Thalmor couldn’t rise as easily. They would seize on the Empire lying in ashes. It would be easy to manipulate, threaten, and push their campaign in the Empire’s weakened state. This would lead to the Great War, and, eventually, to the Civil War in Skyrim, when those elves would claim Thalmor supremacy.

She didn’t want that to happen at all. The Civil War questline was never her favorite, with arrogant elves patrolling the roads, leading Nord captives. She had always attacked them when she’d played the game. Bethesda hadn’t made the choice easy—Imperials versus Nords—as Ulfric was portrayed as a fucking racist. But the Thalmor were worse still. There were NPCs she liked on both sides of the war, Nords and Imperials alike.

She’d always strayed from this part of the story and concentrated on the many other arcs as she’d hated this part of the canon. Though they had shaped the iconic words at the beginning of the game, the whole situation had always seemed too constructed for her taste unless you played a Nord. Why would they arrest a fellow Imperial who wanted to flee from Skyrim? She had always wondered.

With another sigh that couldn’t rid her of the heavy weight in her chest, she left the bathroom and crawled into bed. No one would discuss that with her. Her family would call her obsessed, maybe addicted again. She tucked herself in her soft blanket and closed her eyes, quite sure she would dream of the questline which had left her hollow.

She woke to the biting smell of mold, rot and smoke. Faint voices echoed in the distance, the jarring clatter of metal on stone grated on her nerves. She inhaled deeply and almost gagged when stale air filled her lungs. Blinking she looked around until her eyes adjusted to the dark. Ah, the expected dream, she thought, while she took in the sturdy, damp stone walls of the dungeon she had entered several times. Slowly she got up and groaned over the strain in her limbs. Never had she experienced such pain in a dream, the idea of being in pain, yes, but that?

Suddenly a snarky voice filtered in from the cell opposite hers, and she sighed as the insults rained down on her: "Pale skin, snotty expression. You're a Breton! The masters of magicka, right? Hmph. You're nothing but a stuck-up harlot with cheap parlor tricks. Go ahead, try your magicka in here. Let's see you make those bars disappear. No? What's the matter? Not so powerful now, are you Breton? You're not leaving this prison 'til they throw your body in the lake. Oh, that's right. You're going to die in here, Breton! You're going..."

“Oh, shut the fuck up, Valen Dreth!” she interrupted his tirade. “I’m not a Breton, you pig!”

Stunned silence followed. That had never happened before, as the game didn’t give her any dialogue options, but now he had indeed shut up and stared at her through the bars.

“What are you then?” he started again. “An Imperial? In the Imperial Prison. I guess they don't play favorites, huh? Your own kinsmen think you're a piece of human trash. How sad. I bet the guards give you ‘special treatment’ before the end. Oh, that's right. You're going to die...”

“I said shut up, you obnoxious piece of shit.”

Silence followed and when she looked his way, he stared at her with narrowed eyes. “By Azura, what are you?”

“None of your business.”

“You’re quite old for a lady, aren’t you, dear?” he started again, insulting her age rather than her race as he couldn’t place her. “Too short, too chubby to be a Nord for sure. So, what did you do? Poison your husband? Beat up little Khajiit kitten?”

She groaned, pressed herself against the bars and looked up the halls. Where were they? They should have already come and interrupt this unnerving NPC in his insults. But the halls were empty. Her breath caught in her throat. What was happening? Did she alter the very beginning of the game in her dreams? How was she supposed to find the hidden passage in her cell if they didn’t come? Could she open it herself? She knew where it was.

The snarky voice continued, but she ignored him. Confused she waited, stared down the empty hall of the Imperial Prison, but nothing moved. Only the ranting of the year-long captive echoed from the rotting vault of the dungeon. She took a deep breath and gagged again over the stale air, the rot, the mold, it all felt too real. No! This was just a dream, and she knew what to do.

“Were they already here?” she asked over Valen’s voice and laughter which stunned him again.

She shook her head and turned away, unnerved by his silence and stare. So, the quest did not proceed as she’d expected. Weird, but that was the nature of dreams, wasn’t it? She decided not to wait. There was nothing holding her here, after all. Thus, she would try to find the hidden passage herself. To her shock it stood already open, black and waiting. With a deep breath that made her gag again she slipped into the underground dungeon to escape the prison—quest flow be damned—she would not rot in here as Varen Dreth had jeered.

The sackcloth shirt and pants chafed her skin when she moved. She’d have sore spots when she finally got rid of them. That thought stopped her in her cautious steps. Dreams didn’t leave sore spots or chafe. With a shake of the head, she pushed the unnerving thought away and advanced into the dungeon she had already passed through several times. There was a torch at the wall she clumsily loosened. The fire immediately lit her way, making each step easier. Suddenly yelling and the clashing of metal on metal echoed through the vault and she stopped. Right, they were attacked several times on their way out of the sewers, she knew that. But things had already altered. They had advanced through the cell before she had woken up. Slowly she crept forward, step by step until she stumbled over something soft on the ground. She froze when she realized there were bodies lying around. This was the scene of the first attack. Amongst the dead she found Captain Renault, the commander of the Blades.

A shudder shook her when she crouched beside the fallen woman and looked into empty eyes staring into the void, cold and unmoving. This wasn’t an in-game depiction—not even in the latest remaster. Those were real frozen eyes. She found the Akaviri katana lying beside the corpse next to the steel short sword. Cautiously she lifted the katana, but realized, she couldn’t handle it. The blade was too long, and she unfamiliar with wielding a weapon like that. She grabbed the steel sword but could hardly lift it from the ground. What was that? Wasn’t she supposed to be able to carry this much more easily? Yet here the weight felt real, biting into her muscles?

Her gaze glided over the mess of bodies and another shudder rippled through her at the thought of looting the corpses. She knew, the player couldn’t take the captain’s armor. Obviously, she wouldn’t be able to wear it if she couldn’t even lift the steel sword. Her eyes fell on a Mythic Dawn agent, and she recoiled at the thought of taking his robes. Yes, she’d done that the first time she played, eager to ditch the scratchy prisoner rags, but... no! Absolutely not! She could not wear the clothes of a dead man, the very robes he had died in.

Another thought caused goosebumps to spread over her arms. The game had already strayed from its normal script. What if the Blades mistook her for a Mythic Dawn assassin? Still, she needed some rudimentary equipment to get through the sewers. A knife, a dagger, anything. She crouched next to another corpse and slowly reached out to pat him down. Bile rose in her throat, but she forced herself to continue. When her fingers brushed a dagger, she quickly took it and retreated. The uncomfortable prisoner outfit had to do for now, no matter how it scraped her skin.

Without a glance back she hurried along the path. Only once she had put some distance between herself and the corpses did she notice that the clash of steel had fallen silent, and that a passage stood open she had never seen before. In the game she had always been forced around this point, but now the way gaped wide before her, dark and waiting. A shortcut. It would spare her the usual skirmishes with skeevers and goblins. She didn’t linger on why her dream had granted her such a detour. Better to take the chance. She tightened her grip on the torch and pressed on.

“Have you seen the prisoner?” a male voice worn by age drifted to her.

“Do you think she followed us? How could she?” another responded.

“I know she did,” the first one sounded weary.

This was Emperor Uriel Septim. She knew the dialogue, had heard it before.

“Please, sire. We can't stay here. We have to go,” the Blade pleaded.

“Not yet. Let me rest a moment longer.”

In the game, he would wait until she caught up with them, but would he in her dreams, too? She followed the voices more quickly now. If she couldn’t carry weapons except for the pathetic dagger she’d found, she would be easy prey for predators of all kinds. The Blades were her best bet of getting out of the sewers, even if she knew where this path led to.

She hurried through the dilapidated pathways, found corpses left and right—rats, goblins, Mythic Dawn cultists—but she did not dare stop and loot. In the distance she spotted the flare of another torch. Her feet carried her forward, every pebble torment under her worn sandals, but when she rounded the corner there they were. Glenroy, the Imperial among them, pleaded with the Emperor to continue on their way.

When she stepped into the light, he lifted his sword and advanced. “Dammit, it's that prisoner again! Kill her, she might be working with the assassins,” he roared, and she dropped the torch in shock.

The heat of the flames scorched her sandals, and she hissed under the pain. What the hell? She’d never felt this real burning in a dream before.

“She is not one of them. She can help us. She must help us,” the Emperor stopped his bodyguards whose stares cut through her like their blades would if they decided she was too great a threat.

“Come closer, child. Don't be afraid. My guardians will not harm you,” the noble-looking old man smiled at her encouragingly. “They cannot understand why I trust you. They've not seen what I've seen. How can I explain? Listen. You know the Nine? How they guide our fates with an invisible hand?”

She hesitated, chewed on her lips while she stared at him. Damn, he looked exactly like in the game, but different too, more real—alive. The realization unnerved her. It was the movement of those people, the fluid motion, no weird chunkiness when they turned around or bowed. He looked straight into her eyes, not through her, like NPCs did.

“I... I don’t think I am a believer,” she stammered and he chuckled.

“Of course you are not, forgive an old man. You are not a citizen of Cyrodiil, not even of Tamriel—or Nirn.”

Oi, this was not what he said in the vanilla game! What the hell? He was supposed to say: “I've served the Nine all my days” and then he would go on about birth signs and fate in big words. But this old man, noble and elegant despite the deep lines carved into his withered face just looked at her with a tired smile.

“In your face, I behold the sun's companion. The dawn of Akatosh's bright glory may banish the coming darkness. With such hope, and with the promise of your aid, my heart must be satisfied,” he continued. “You shall follow me yet for a while, then we must part.”

Yes, this sounded more like him. Baurus moved towards her, and she swallowed hard. He was taller, broader than the game made him out to be. Intimidating didn’t even begin to cover it. She shrank under his menacing stare, but he only offered the torch she had dropped back to her.

“You may as well make yourself useful. Here, carry this torch and stick close.”

Yeah, Sir, thanks, she thought, but didn’t dare mouth off to him. She was not suicidal, not even in her dreams. They proceeded, and suddenly the Emperor clasped her hand and held it fast. She watched him from the corner of her eye. He knew what was coming. Was he afraid? Was he seeking the comfort of a stranger? Was he asking her to lend him strength in his last moments? Or did he try to give her hope? Tears blurred the path before her. She knew they wouldn’t get far. Soon, the final attack would come upon them and cost this lovely old man his life. Was that a tremor in his hand? Did he squeeze her hand because the end was nigh?

She clutched at her rough shirt. How ridiculous they must look, the elegant, noble man holding the hand of the filthy prisoner. The gate that would lead them out of the sewers came into view and with it the inevitable end.

The assassins appeared without warning; they surged in like a red tide, daggers drawn. Baurus pushed her ahead and turned around, already running towards the deadly wave.

“Wait here with the Emperor! Guard him with your life!” he yelled and vanished in the dark tunnel.

Her heart thudded wildly in her throat. She drew her dagger and turned around, her mouth dry, her eyes wide.

“My guards are strong and true, but even the might of the Blades cannot stand against the Power that rises to destroy us,” the calm voice of the Emperor drew her attention back to him. He seemed collected and prepared. “The Prince of Destruction awakes, born anew in blood and fire. These cutthroats are but his mortal pawns. Take my Amulet! Give it to Jauffre! I have a secret son, and Jauffre alone knows where to find him. Find the last of my blood, and close shut the Jaws of Oblivion.”

Those were his words, she thought; they sounded familiar but now that she heard them, she despised them with all her heart. She shook her head as tears spilled from her eyes.

“Can we not defy fate?” she asked, desperate to save this kind man before her.

He smiled. “This is where my journey ends. For you though, the road is long and dangerous. Now, give me your hand. The Amulet of Kings. It is the Empire's sacred emblem of rulership. It must pass to the last of the Dragon's Blood. Keep it safe from the pawns of the Destroyer.”

“I don’t want this to happen,” she cried out, when he pressed the Amulet of Kings, the thick ruby into her hands.

"Stand true, my friend. May your heart be your guide. Remember me, and remember my words. This burden is now yours alone. You hold our future in your hands." 

The next moment a Mythic Dawn assassin appeared from thin air. His arm wound around the Emperor, and he slit his throat in a clean strike. Blood sprayed, hot against her chest. She turned away, but felt the warm, wet liquid seep into her shirt. She sank to her knees, the dagger trembling in her hand. The assassin let the body crumble to the floor, immediately patted the fresh corpse down frantically, lifted his head and stared at her.

“YOU!” he hissed and jumped forward.

She saw the dagger slash down, felt its sharp blade cutting her upper arm and screamed. He grabbed her, but before he could cut her again a sword flashed, and he fell.

Silence descended upon them like a heavy weight. She knelt on the cold stone, stared at the dead old man lying there. Baurus looked at her in disbelief, as if he did not dare turn around and face the horrible truth that waited behind him. The clattering of his sword when it fell to the floor broke the silence. He drew in a sharp breath.

“No...” he whispered. “Talos save us.”

A sob in her throat broke free as he sank to his knees next to the Emperor and lowered his head.

“We've failed. I've failed... The Blades are sworn to protect the Emperor, and now he and all his heirs are dead.”

“He... he knew he would die here today,” she said with a broken voice. “He didn’t even fight it.”

Baurus sighed, carefully turned the body onto its back and froze. “The Amulet, where's the Amulet of Kings? It wasn't on the Emperor's body.”

A deep pain wound itself through her chest when he chose the words he used in the game. Her hand reached up to her arm and pressed against the burning slash there. She didn’t dare wonder if she was dreaming, at this moment. If so, it was a cruel dream, painful, physically and emotionally.

She cleared her throat and opened her hand, revealing the Amulet she’d been clutching as though it were an anchor. Her eyes flicked up to Baurus. “The Emperor gave it to me.”

He stared at her with narrowed eyes. Did he believe she’d stolen it? To him she was only a prisoner. And her holding the Amulet of Kings did not look good.

“Strange. He saw something in you. Trusted you. They say it's the Dragon Blood that flows through the veins of every Septim. They see more than lesser men. The Amulet of Kings is a sacred symbol of the Empire. Most people think of the Red Dragon Crown, but that's just jewelry. The Amulet has power. Only a true heir of the Blood can wear it, they say. He must have given it to you for a reason. Did he say why?”

“He asked me to take it to Jauffre. He said there was another heir.”

“He said that? Nothing I ever heard about. But Jauffre would be the one to know. He's the Grandmaster of my Order. Although you may not think so when you meet him, he lives quietly as a monk at Weynon Priory, near the city of Chorrol.”

For a moment they both fell silent. Baurus turned to the Emperor once again, bowed his head and murmured words like a prayer. She averted her gaze to give him some privacy and the throbbing in her arm drew her attention to the bloody mess there. She stopped breathing as she stared at the gaping jaw of a deep wound, the ripped shirt soaked in crimson. Slowly dread seeped into her mind, her head spinning with the clarity she tried to suppress. No! This could not be. She was dreaming, wasn’t she? So, why did the pain seer through her arm? Was that bone, pale between the torn muscles? The edge of her vision blurred.

“Woah, there! Easy!” a voice near her pulled her back, and she still found herself in the sewers. The dark-skinned, handsome Redguard was directly in front of her, his eyes tight with worry as he held her upright. “You were wounded badly. Forgive my ignorance. I must tend to your injury.”

“I am not dreaming, am I?” she asked, and he furrowed his forehead.

“We need to get out of here. Through that door must be the entrance to the sewers, past the locked gate. That's where we are heading. It's a secret way out of the Imperial City. Or it was supposed to be secret,” he explained. “Will you be able to walk on your own? I can’t leave the Emperor here.” Dazed she nodded and rose with his support. “You are a brave one. I understand what he saw in you now.”

With a lingering glance he made sure she could stand on her own, then he turned to the Emperor and with a whispered forgive me, sire, he lifted his body off the ground.

They made it through the sewers undisturbed. Baurus led, the still Emperor thrown over his shoulder, and she followed. Their journey blurred in her mind, her thoughts pure chaos, her body one big hot mess of aches and bruises. Finally, a gate creaked open and fresh, crisp night air hit her right in the face.

“Just a short passage. We will set up camp nearby, out of sight for any passersby,” Baurus encouraged her.

She nodded silently and followed him along a narrow path, until he cautiously laid down the body he had carried. He turned towards her and looked at her, worry stark in his eyes.

“Come, friend,” he said soothingly and helped her sit down on a rock. “I’ll tend to your wounds now.”

She nodded again and watched as he ripped the cloth of her shirt from her arm. He opened a small satchel at his waist, produced a vial, uncorked it, and poured its red contents over her wound. It sizzled and burned, and she hissed over the very real pain.

“Forgive me, but it will eat you alive if we don’t treat it right,” Baurus explained. He pulled out a second vial, popped it open and handed it to her. “Here! Drink this. It will soothe the pain.”

She did as she was told and gulped down the bitter-sweet liquid, likely a health potion. It tingled on her tongue and warmed her throat from the inside. A hot wave rolled through her body, made her aware of every scrape, every cut and sore spot, before blissful numbness eased the pain.

“Rest now, woman,” she heard Baurus’s gravelly voice.

“Celia,” she sighed. “My name is Celia.”

“Celia,“ he repeated. “Such an Imperial name and still—”

She didn’t hear the rest of his sentence when a deep and all-consuming darkness claimed her.

Chapter Text

Celia woke with a start. Damn, what a weird dream! A soft breeze brushed her nose, carrying a heady scent, which she inhaled deeply. She rolled onto her back and a groan tore from her throat. The ground beneath her was unyielding. Had she fallen out of bed? Ended up sleeping on the floor? It wouldn’t have been the first time after such an intense dream. That would explain it all, wouldn’t it? Even the pain that had felt so real. Though the surface bit into her back, she couldn’t bring herself to move. Exhaustion pinned her down, too heavy to fight.

Suddenly voices drifted towards her, and she groaned again. Stupid workers, always starting at dawn. Since the construction had begun in her street, they had ripped her out of sleep nearly every morning.

“Celia,” a gravelly voice called her name. “Wake up, woman. Time to move.”

What the hell? Her eyes snapped open. A dark-skinned man crouched in front of her, oddly familiar in a way that made her stomach twist.

“Come on, the sun’s about to rise. You must get ready for your journey.”

What? She furrowed her brow, and then the dream rushed back. Her heart stuttered. No! Impossible!

“Where am I?” she rasped.

“Outside the sewers still,” the man answered steadily. “Reinforcement has arrived. We can’t linger here. Too dangerous.”

Her pulse spiked. No. She shoved herself upright and looked around in panic.

“Easy now,” Baurus soothed, steady hands near but not touching. “You’re safe for the moment. But we must keep moving.”

“Tamriel!” she blurted. “I’m still in Tamriel!”

He blinked at her, confused. “Aye. We’re outside the sewers of the Imperial City.”

“The Emperor—”

A sad smile tugged at his lips. He turned his head. Celia followed his gaze and saw the corpse wrapped tightly in clean cloth.

“Let me tend to your wound again. And then you must get ready. We can’t risk being found by whoever attacked us last night.” Perhaps he’d dismissed her words as sleep-dazed rambling, and that was why he ignored her bewildered stammering.

“The Mythic Dawn,” she whispered, and he stopped his hand midair, eyes narrowing on her.

“What have you said?” he asked.

“Mythic Dawn cultists,” she repeated. “Didn’t you recognize their robes? I did not dare snatch one because I feared you would mistake me for one of them.”

His eyes narrowed, suspicion stark on his face. Oi, this was bad. They didn’t know about the Emperor’s assassins yet. How could she have broken the script like that? Baurus already looked at her as if she’d lost her mind when she blurted about Tamriel. Now his gaze weighed her, as if deciding whether she was a threat.

 Her heart hammered, warmth tingled in her chest, coiling through her body, unsettling her. Her arm pulsed, a strangely calming throb, grounding her; a quiet contrast to the suspicion aimed at her. What was that?

“Mythic Dawn?” Baurus broke her out of her confused perception of what was happening to her, his expression turning thoughtful.

Wait! Did he believe her? They were not supposed to know this fact yet. On the other hand, the damage was done. She could just as well roll with it.

“The Emperor mentioned the Prince of Destruction—Mehrunes Dagon. The Mythic Dawn are cultists who worship the Daedric Prince.” She had always wondered why they did not recognize the assassins by their attire, but obviously it was not common knowledge.

He nodded slightly, then shook his head as if to clear it. “You should talk to Jauffre about that. Let me tend to your wound now.” He reached for the makeshift bandage around her arm and loosened it. When his eyes widened, and he whistled through his teeth, her gaze jumped to her arm, the deep cut reduced to a thin scar. He looked into her eyes again and tilted his head. “Who are you?” he asked in a low voice.

She shook her head. “I don’t know,” she answered meekly. “I thought I was dreaming the whole thing and this wound... that it’s already healed... it speaks for a dream, doesn’t it?”

“I wish it was merely a nightmare, Celia,” Baurus whispered, still low and guarded, so his comrades would not hear. “Unfortunately, it all feels real to me. The Emperor is dead. Talos save us all.”

She closed her eyes and exhaled slowly. No dream? Had she really lived through the assassination of the Emperor? Did she wander through Cyrodiil? The pain she’d experienced so far confirmed that. But this was not possible, was it? She couldn’t be in Tamriel. It was nothing more than a game.

“Celia, I don’t know where you’re from. Your name sounds Imperial, but you don’t look like them. You’re no Breton, Elf, or Nord. Nothing about you speaks Redguard, either. There is no race—mortal or Daedra—that matches your looks. Still, you have insights you shouldn’t have.” He paused, reached out, and twirled a strand of her hair around his finger. A look of determination crossed his features. “I know this is a lot to take in all at once. No one's more surprised than me that I'm sending an escaped prisoner, a woman of middle years, off with the Amulet of Kings! But the Emperor trusted you for a reason, and I trust the Emperor. The Amulet of Kings must get to Jauffre at Weynon Priory. He'll know what to do with it. Jauffre should know how to find the heir that the Emperor spoke of. The Amulet must reach Emperor Uriel's heir, so a new Emperor can be crowned!”

Tears pricked her eyes, and she blinked them away. He was right. It didn’t matter if she was dreaming or if this was real. She was here either way. There were not many options left for her. She’d been there when the Emperor had been murdered. He’d entrusted her with the most precious relic the Empire held, though she didn’t feel competent enough to keep it safe. She was no adventurer. The game had not granted her any skills, neither combat nor magical abilities. How was she supposed to go on that quest?

When she looked at the young Blade before her, she realised he had never asked her about her class. She had not been given the opportunity to pick her abilities either. No birth sign, no special skills. She had simply left the sewers with him, injured and exhausted. And now they were sending her off into an adventure she was not ready for.

“Come, my comrades brought fresh clothes and supplies for you,” Baurus prompted. “We must dress you properly and equip you for the task at hand.”

She felt the stares of the Blades on her when Baurus handed her a satchel. They sized her up and down, disbelief stark on their faces. She couldn’t blame them. Their brother-in-arms planned to send this middle-aged woman off alone, on a very important quest as well. They didn’t know about the Amulet of Kings. He had not shared that piece of information with them. They thought she was to deliver a vital message to their Grandmaster.

“No one will suspect a lonely traveling woman your age of carrying the most precious relic of the Empire,” he’d explained in a low voice intended for her ears alone. “You’re safer on your own than in the company of the Blades as long as you stick to the roads.”

Oi, charming he was not, repeatedly harping on her age, she thought. She was not a granny yet. She was a middle-aged woman, still able to move without support. A little bit offended she watched him stuff supplies into her satchel, totally unaware of her soured mood; potions, food, and water. Then he handed her a dagger. It looked nicer than the rusty old weapon she’d looted on her way through the sewers. Finally, he unfolded a parchment and laid it flat on the ground. It showed something familiar, something she was quite acquainted with: the map of Cyrodiil. 

“I will accompany you around the Imperial City,” he explained. “The roads are dangerous here. Wolves and all kinds of vermin gather outside the thick walls. Cassia and Soren will travel with us to keep you safe. When we reach Talos Bridge we must part. Stick to the Black Road when you pass Weye. You should arrive at Weynon Priory in the late afternoon. Never stop, never stray from the road!” 

He followed the way with his gloved finger over the map. When she nodded her understanding he turned away and helped his comrades pack up the camp. Celia folded the map carefully. Her gaze strayed over Lake Rumare, and she could see the eerie glow of the Ayleïd ruin there. In the distance the peaks of the Jerall Mountains speared the sky, majestic and sublime. A shiver raked through her at the sight of them. 

But then her attention was drawn towards the group of Blades draped in heavy armour. They moved silently, didn’t speak at all, their faces grief-stricken, and her own heart hurt again, when she glimpsed the body wrapped in cloth. Four of the Blades carried a makeshift gurney with the still form of the Emperor back up the hill towards the massive walls of the Imperial City. Three stayed with her, heavily armed, to protect her from the wilderness. 

They started up the hill over rough terrain. Her muscles strained under the exertion. How was she supposed to push through a whole day of arduous travels like that? She almost sighed in relief when they finally hit the road which led further up the hill but felt easier. The way was paved after all, no matter how uneven it appeared in comparison to modern streets. 

When they came around a bend Baurus drew his sword and motioned her to stop. Silently he gestured the others to move ahead, while he stood in front of her, shielding her from whatever waited for them there. She couldn’t look past him, his broad frame blocking the view, but snarling and growling vibrated through the air as stomps shook the very stone beneath her feet. The Blades confronted their opponent with fearsome battle cries until the clashing of steel and the roars of pain finally ceased. 

Baurus sheathed his sword and continued; she followed. Her throat tightened as they passed the hulking shape, its coarse grey skin stretched taut over mountains of blood-matted muscle. Its limbs were grotesquely long, ending in fists large enough to smash stone. Pointed ears stood up from the bald, round head. Its wide mouth hung slack to reveal yellowed fangs and tusk-like teeth jutting at odd angles from a heavy jaw. A rank, animal stench clung to it. An Ogre! Bloody hell, how was she supposed to survive a journey through lands that spawned monsters like this, armed with nothing more than a dagger and no skill to wield it, let alone defend herself?

A shudder shook her, and she quickly averted her eyes and followed her guards whom she would part with soon. Could she not keep at least one? Maybe if Baurus lead her to her destination... He could shed the distinct armour and go incognito, couldn’t he? 

Fear of what lay ahead gnawed at her as they skirted the Imperial City. She craned her neck but could barely make out the White-Gold Tower rising above the thick walls. As the sun broke over the horizon, the nickering of horses drifted towards her. At the hill’s crest, stables came into view, with several horses milling in the paddock. Down to the right the massive structure of Talos Bridge stretched over Lake Rumare. A shudder raked through her at the sight. In the game she had always thought the Imperial City majestic from a distance. But here, its sheer size and solidity awed her in a way the screen never had. She briefly stopped and stared.

“The Stables,” Baurus declared. “We will buy you a horse there so that you will reach Weynon Priory swiftly.”

Celia hesitated. “Those are the Chestnut Handy Stables”, she replied as though that said it all, but Baurus just blinked in confusion. “You won’t get a horse there.”

“They are an Imperial stable. Of course we will get a horse there.”

“Oh, believe me, you won’t get a horse out of that Orc, unless it’s roasted on a spit,” she said with a laugh. That was common knowledge… wasn’t it?

Baurus shook his head but continued on their path confidently. “Go on ahead, past the stables. Wait for us in one of the indentations in the city wall.”

She shrugged. Let him see for himself. Leaving the road, she walked close to the city wall, then froze. A man lurked in the shadows, black-robed, watching her. His eyes locked on her when she approached, and she hesitated, shaking her head before he could call her over. He was one of two drug dealers in the whole of Cyrodiil: Shady Sam. In the game she had thought him nothing more than a little quirk tucked away in the shadows. But now, with his icy-blue stare lingering on her... he was no harmless NPC. He was a real man with poisons at his belt, and she wanted no part of him. She hurried on, turning only after two deep recesses stood between them, and let out a shaky breath, relieved he hadn’t followed.

She saw the three Blades approaching the stables and inhaled deeply. If Baurus really thought he could buy a horse here, he was in for a surprise. Of course he wouldn’t know. Guarding the Emperor day and night, he’d never needed to haggle at stables. Curious how the negotiations would play out, she edged closer to the cabin.

Baurus knocked, and soon the door opened, and a female Orc appeared and grunted, “What do you want?”

“Good day, ma’am. We are in dire need of a horse and—”

“We don’t sell horses,” she cut him off dismissively, and turned away.

Before she could slam the door in his face, Baurus’s hand shot out, and he stared at her in disbelief. “I said, we are in dire need of a horse. The swiftest you have.”

The Orc’s tusks bared in a grimace. “And I said, we don’t sell horses.”

“You do now,” he replied, voice like steel. “Or do you really mean to meddle in a Blade’s mission?” He held out a pouch of gold in a silent command.

For a moment Celia half-expected the Orc to bite him. Then, with a hiss through her teeth, she snatched the pouch and stomped out of the cabin. “Oh, you entitled Imperial scum,” she muttered as she vanished from Celia’s view.

Celia pressed a hand to her mouth to stifle the snicker. None of the Blades were Imperial—Redguard, Nord, and Breton all—but the authority of their armour was Imperial enough.

“No, not the old nag, the black one,” she heard Baurus protest and sighed in relief. 

At least she wouldn’t be saddled with the slow, useless horse the game had once given her. Riding, at last something she was capable of, she thought when Baurus led a beautiful black horse around the cabin, shaking his head in disbelief.

“Blades, ha. Pompous milk-drinkers, the lot of you,” the Orc spat behind their backs and slammed the door of the cabin behind her.

Finally, Baurus looked up and headed for her, the horse trotting at his side. Warmth spread through her chest at the thought that he had just spared this beast’s life. And a beautiful one it was. When he reached her, he handed over the reins. 

“How’d it go?” Celia asked, stroking the horse’s neck and feigning innocence, just to fuel his exasperation, but he only shook his head. “You’ve clearly never tried to buy a horse here before. Rumour has it the stew is delicious, though.”

“Unbelievable,” he muttered under his breath but then his expression sobered. “It is time, Celia, our paths separate here.”

She took a deep breath. “Are you sure, none of you can accompany me? Not even in normal citizens’ clothing?”

For a moment he looked surprised, but then his eyes softened with pity and warmth. “Forgive me, but you are safer on your own. Believe me. Our enemies will keep their eyes on us. Come, let me help you.” 

He offered his hands to help her into the saddle, and she obliged. The horse pranced slightly as she settled onto the creaking leather. Baurus lifted the reins over the beast’s head and handed them to her, but he held them a moment longer and leaned forward. 

“Cross the bridge at a slow pace. Once you’ve passed through Weye, ride swiftly. Don’t stop and don’t look back. If you run into trouble, spur the horse on. It is strong and will outrun all threats. If fate brought you to us, I trust it will carry you through.” 

She bit her lip but nodded slightly. Goosebumps prickled her arms, a shudder raking through her limbs. Fate. Was that truly what had carried her here? An Elder Scroll, maybe? Had they foretold her arrival, or did she shatter the tightly scripted plot? The horse nickered nervously beneath her. Only one way to find out. If she didn’t wake up soon, she would travel through the wilderness and pursue the quest she had completed so often already. For real this time.

She turned the horse and trotted down the road without looking back. “Here goes nothing,” she muttered, urging the beast towards the looming, colossal bridge, the immovable threshold that would cast her out into a fate yet unknown.

Chapter Text

Talos Bridge stretched across the water in sweeping arches, proud and unyielding, its stone blocks broad enough to carry a marching legion. She lifted her head in awe at the imposing structure, steering her horse through the first gate-like arch, careful not to jostle the other travellers. She held her breath as the stallion trotted slowly onto the bridge. Never had she felt so small before the sheer majesty of stone and craft. Her head tilted to the right, gaze sweeping over Lake Rumare and the Jerall Mountains in the distance.

She heard people talking, greeting one another, and looked around. Dressed in a plain tunic and trousers much like the rest, she didn’t stand out among the merchants and travellers. Some were on foot, others on horseback, a few in wagons. A guard passed her, followed by two comrades, grim-faced, their eyes raking the crowd as if searching for someone. Yet, they paid her no mind. Just another commoner about her daily work.

Did they already know? Had word of the Emperor’s death already spread? His sons had been murdered. That much they knew. Was the fate of Uriel Septim still unsure? She swallowed against the lump that formed in her throat at the memory of the kind old man and the brutal way he had been assassinated right before her eyes. The Amulet of Kings seemed to burn a hole into her side, where her satchel swung. The burden within dragged at her. Whenever eyes landed on her, her heart insisted they knew—she’d been there, she carried it. Every instinct screamed for her to run, yet she only swayed to the rhythm of the horse’s movements.

She advanced the second arch and the stream of people slowed her down. Forced to halt for free passage, she turned and looked back. There it was: the White-Gold Tower, gleaming orange in the early sun, splendour and fortress-like might that made her feel very small indeed. Yet, the tinge of dawn illuminating the grey masonry stole her breath. Like a shadow of doom it swallowed the city’s massive crown, whose sturdy walls had not kept the Emperor and his sons safe. Not the tower, nor the city’s defences, nor the hidden sewer passage, not even the might of the Blades. The orange light devouring the city was a warning of the apocalypse looming over them all.

The oblivious stream of citizens moved on, sweeping her with them. She passed through the narrow throat of the second arch undisturbed and advanced across the bridge. Another set of braziers still blazed, though the sun already cast its eerie light over the horizon. As she neared the last arch, the flames’ heat caressed her, strangely comforting. The warmth clung to her skin long after she passed the fire, seeping deeper, coiling low in her chest, an insistent throb she could not shake. Bewildered she traced the foreign grounding heat she’d felt again and again now. It embraced her like a companion guiding her away from her lingering fear.

She sat a little straighter as the warmth steadied her spine. A sudden determination filled her, the closer she drew to the third arch, the bridge’s end in sight. She would do it. She would complete the quest. The same quest she had played through several times. And Baurus was right: the horse would outrun any threat, so long as she stuck to the road. No cross-field riding. NPCs travelled between cities and usually reached their destination unharmed. She would do the same. The roads were patrolled; she could always seek protection from one of the many Imperial Guards.

No sooner had this thought entered her mind than a group of heavily armoured Legion soldiers passed her, faces grim as well. She met the gaze of one of them, and he stared and stopped. Her cheeks flushed when she understood his reasons. He couldn’t place her, just like Valen Dreth and Baurus before. Not keen for attention, she grabbed the edge of her cowl, bowed in greeting, and kept her head down.

“Well met,” she mumbled, hoping the familiar words would mask the strangeness he saw in her.

Oi, don’t turn around, just ride on. She didn’t dare peek over her shoulder. Like a normal citizen she continued through the third arch. When no one called her to halt, she let the air rush from her lungs. Weye came into view: nothing more than a house and an inn. Just as she remembered from the game. She rode past without slowing, eyes fixed on the waystone where the Black Road split from the Gold Road; placards pointed Chorrol and Bruma to the northwest and Skingrad and Kvatch to the southwest. Her gaze lingered on the names for a while. Kvatch. The city would fall as soon as she headed there. At first, she’d thought the attack was triggered by the progression of the main quest, that Kvatch would fall the moment the player reached Weynon Priory. In her longing for choice, she’d tried to head to Kvatch early during one of her walkthroughs, only to find the city already burning. Frustrated, she’d fallen back into the intended order of the main quest, as Martin had not even been in the Chapel. She shook her head. So much for player choice, she thought.

For a while she kept west on the Black Road towards Chorrol, the Imperial City behind her. Careful not to take the wrong turn, she stopped at the next waystone where the road dipped. The horse snorted and pranced when they halted in the middle of the intersection. Celia let her gaze wander from one wooden side post to the other, patted the horse’s neck soothingly. Her gaze fixed on one city and one city alone: Kvatch. The carved letters seemed to smoulder within the wood, as though the sign itself carried the heat of the fires that would soon consume it.

 She knew what would happen if she headed towards Weynon Priory. The steps were always the same. No matter if she went there directly after the tutorial or travelled over the map looking for side quests. She would talk to Jauffre, hand over the Amulet of Kings, and he would send her on the search for Martin, Uriel Septim’s secret son. From there, the tragedy always began to roll. Kvatch would fall, the Priory would be raided by the Mythic Dawn, the Amulet of Kings taken. She had followed that script too many times to count, each step unfolding like a prophecy etched in stone. Yet the more she thought of it, the more a dangerous defiance stirred in her. An idea crept in, insistent and... intriguing. Following it would upend the very foundations of the questline. What if she never triggered the attack on the Priory? What if she never showed up there, in the first place? Her eyes were glued to the wooden sign. Kvatch.

But could she? Uriel Septim had looked straight into her and spoken as though he knew her place in what was to come, when he’d sent her on that mission. What if turning aside meant failing what he had seen in her? On the other hand, she’d already diverged from the set script, hadn’t she? Small things, yes, like unsettling Valen Dreth, leaving the sewers in Baurus’s company and being escorted to the Chestnut Handy Stables. None of this ever happened in-game. What if she did not take the Amulet to Jauffre but straight to Uriel’s secret son himself? She bit her lip, uncertain. What if, indeed? What would happen? Was she able to alter the course of the main quest or would such violation doom them all?

However, if she was not dreaming, Martin would be in the Chapel. He wouldn’t suddenly spawn out of thin air, just because she appeared. No. He would lead a normal life as a priest in the service of Akatosh, very much flesh and blood, like herself. Another thought crept into her mind. If this was real, he wouldn’t be protected as an essential NPC. If he fell, he would stay down. And he was in severe danger. Her stomach turned at the image of the Chapel under siege, Martin cut down among the faithful with no reset to save him. And it would be under siege and soon. Even if she could not prevent the attack on Kvatch, she could still keep the Amulet safe.

Anxious, she opened her satchel, pulled out the map of Cyrodiil and traced the route she would take with her finger, following the Gold Road south to Skingrad. There she could pause overnight, stay at an inn and continue the next morning. Her fingertip circled the city, the parchment rough beneath her touch. If Baurus thought she could make it to Chorrol until late afternoon, she should be able to reach Skingrad before nightfall. Her gaze fell on the waystone again, the wooden signpost and the names carved into them. Warmth spread through her chest the more she considered the possibility. When the sight of the sign pointing to Chorrol chilled her, she stuffed the map back into her satchel. With newfound resolve she clicked her tongue and spurred the horse on—southbound onto the Gold Road towards Skingrad.

For perhaps an hour she felt good about her decision, excited even, swaying atop the horse through the mountainous terrain. The Imperial City to her left sat calmly in the middle of Lake Rumare, the water’s smooth surface glinting in the sunlight. The eerie orange gloom of dawn was gone, too like the fiery jaws of the Oblivion Gates. Soon they would open all over Cyrodiil making travel treacherous. She hadn’t encountered any threats yet. But with each intersection leading back towards the Imperial City, back towards her original destination, doubt crept in. Her senses sharpened. Every bird’s cry, every deer’s grunt, every wolf’s howl made her flinch. After she crossed the wooden bridge, the open landscape gave way to a hilly forest, the road leading her between its slopes. The path wound up and down, and escape lay only in pressing forward or turning back. At the crest of yet another ridge, her hackles rose, and her shoulders hunched with unease. The horse neighed nervously and pranced a few steps, then threw the head as if sensing a lurking danger. She cooed soothingly, patted its neck, but her eyes darted around. The road lay before her empty, the bushes still. No rustling, no noise that didn’t belong. Still, something stirred her mount and made her instincts scream: run. Cautiously she rode on, tense now, eyes shifting left and right

And then she saw it. There, a little further off the road in the brush, stood the shrine of Clavicus Vile. A statue true to the Daedric Prince’s likeness, and beside it the massive bulk of his hound Barbas.

“Well, well, well... what have we here?” a rough voice barked. She froze and looked around. The sound reverberated inside her skull, as though the Daedric hound himself had placed it there. She heard him sniffing and growling. “Smells like you tumbled in from… not Nirn, nor Oblivion. Now that’s curious.”

Her breath came in shallow bursts as she rode on, holding the rein of her horse tightly to keep the pace. She needed to maintain the mount’s stamina for a real threat, so she decided to ignore the chilling presence that followed her. The horse snorted and nickered as if it sensed the Daedric eyes on them.

Shivering, she pressed on. Then a grunt broke the eerie silence. She halted the horse and stared down the path. Her heart stopped when she spotted the very real threat ahead. There, where the road forked into two branches, a bear lingered on the left and an ogre on the right, munching on a deer. She looked back.

“Wrong, wrong, wrong. That’s what you smell like. Out of place, out of time. And yet you move, and the world shifts with you. Delightful.”

Barbas’s mocking words sent a shudder through her limbs. Her heart hammered against her ribs. Without thinking, she pressed her calves into the horse’s flanks, biting back a cry of distress that might alert the beasts ahead. The steed reared, but then it surged forward as if sensing survival came only through escape. She heard the barking laugh of the Daedric hound behind her.

“There she goes!” he called after her. “Run, little stray! Scatter chaos in your wake! No fleeing it now, girl. It clings to you.”

Pure terror coursed through her, while the barking laugh of the hound faded in the distance. They closed in on the enemies quickly. She pulled the rein left and the horse obeyed. Better the bear than the brute, who could crush them both with one swing of his massive fists. The hooves thundered on the stone road, the rhythm drumming in her skull. The bear roared, the ogre growled, but the steed surged past them in a black blur.

“Heya!” Celia yelled to keep the horse running.

The mount grunted under the strain but hurried forward. She bent low over its neck to duck the branches of low-hanging trees, clutching reins and mane alike. They rushed along the forest road like maniacs. The trees blurred in her vision. Eventually the horse slowed to a canter, grunting and snorting before it couldn’t hold the pace anymore. Celia turned around, but it seemed no foes followed their flight unlike in the game where they did not give up that easily. She sighed in relief and halted the horse, slid down and wound her arms around its neck.

“Thank you,” she cooed. “Thank you, thank you, thank you!”

The horse snorted in response, turned his head and grabbed her satchel with his snout. She chuckled and opened it, rummaged through it for one of the apples, Baurus had packed in there. She fed it to the stallion and patted his neck while he chewed.

“You saved us,” she said in a low voice. “Braver than I am.” The steed tried to sink its snout into her satchel again. “Let’s see what we’ve got here.”

She took out the waterskin. Her own throat burned after the strain, but she decided he had earned it more than she had. Cupping her hand, she managed to offer a slow drip of water to the horse.

“You know, we’re buddies now, don’t you? I need a name for you.” She hummed lowly while she tried to come up with a fitting one. “I should name you Baurus as he brought us together, but I am not sure, he’d appreciate that. So, what about Ghost? It’s a mirror of how you sped past like a wraith.” The horse snorted again and nudged her gently. “Ghost it is,” she whispered and pressed a kiss to his forehead.

After naming her brave companion she sat down on a boulder and rested. As she didn’t have any water left for herself she bit into an apple and hoped the juice would keep her somewhat hydrated. Ghost plucked at the grass on the side of the road when she spotted a figure on horseback descending the steep slope ahead. He wore typical Imperial armour: a Legion soldier. She sighed, pulled the hood deeper into her face as if shielding herself from the sun.

“Well met, citizen” he greeted when he advanced. “I hope you're faring well in these difficult times.”

“Good day, sir,” she responded, her head lowered, and bit into her apple.

He stopped his horse before her and leaned forward. “You seem distressed. How can I help a fellow citizen of the Empire?”

“No... no... I’m fine,” she stuttered.

“Are you travelling alone?”

Oi, why was he so insistent? Was he already suspecting her? “I’ve got my horse,” she replied, and instantly wanted to slap herself for the foolish answer.

He chuckled, turned towards Ghost, then back to her. “A fine steed you have there. But I see, your water bag is empty.”

Bloody hell, move on already, she thought, and at once felt guilty for it. He wasn’t interrogating her, he was only concerned, attentive as any decent soul would be. He wasn’t blurting empty lines from some set disposition; no, he truly wondered why he’d found a lonely woman on the road.

“I have business in Skingrad,” she explained. “But the road was blocked by a bear and an ogre. My brave horse sped past and saved us both.” Better go with the truth if he was headed that way. She wouldn’t want him to run into the threat unprepared.

“These are difficult times,” he said solemnly. “Tell me, are you injured? Do you need anything? This humble Legion soldier is at your service.”

She smiled, touched by his concern. “If... if you had a gulp of water for me. I gave mine to my horse.”

“The brave beast,” he answered and loosened a waterskin from his waist. “Here you go, citizen. Keep it. My patrol is almost over. I will scout out the threat you reported. Will you be good on your own?”

“Yes,” she blurted out, took the water bag from his hands. “Thank you, kind sir.”

He smiled, took up his reins again. “It isn’t far to Skingrad. You should be safe on this road. I already cleared it of filth.”

With that he urged his horse forward and slowly proceeded into the woods. Celia watched him vanish behind the next bend, then she took a swig from the bag. The water soothed the burning in her throat. Seemed not all Imperial Legion soldiers and Guards were grim and suspicious.

“Come on, Ghost. Let’s move on. I want to reach Skingrad before nightfall.”

She got up, took the reins and lifted herself up onto the saddle. It creaked under her weight, and she felt the fatigue in her limbs when the horse slowly started up the hill. Her body begged for respite, but her will held fast—Skingrad still lay ahead.

Chapter Text

The road climbed steeply up the hill, leaving the forest in the valley behind. Ghost’s swaying steps almost lulled her into sleep, her exhaustion weighing her down. Only the fear of falling out of the saddle kept her awake. Halfway up the hill, she made out a faint bluish glow, barely visible in broad daylight. Curious, she steered Ghost towards it. Her heart jumped when she recognised an Ayleid well. Oi, so they really did exist? Why then had the Legion soldier not used it? The light made it obvious it was charged. She dismounted and stepped closer. The familiar crystalline chime rang out, sharp and piercing in the still daylight air. The bluish, ethereal flames appeared pale yet unmistakable. Fascinated, she circled it, then cautiously ascended the time-worn stairs of the Ayleid structure. 

She had no use for its buff as she wielded no magical powers… but curiosity overruled caution, and she stepped closer to the centre. A light tingling washed over her, pulling her in. She held her breath, and without thinking stretched out her arms. Warmth radiated from the well, beckoning her closer. The air thickened, prickling over her skin. A white light flared, heat shot from the centre and hit her square in the chest. A gasp tore from her throat and her knees buckled. She couldn’t rise, couldn’t move as a slow surge coiled from her core, coursing like liquid fire through her veins. It seeped deeper still, into places she hadn’t known could respond, until her whole body thrummed with alien power. A greenish-blue light burst across her vision, the shrill crystalline chime filling her ears, her heartbeat stuttering in its wake. Then, as suddenly as it came, the flood receded, leaving only a prickling shimmer racing up and down her spine, alive with unfamiliar energy. Inhaling deeply, she stood up on shaking knees.

“What the hell,” she blurted, turned around, and found Ghost rearing and neighing, his forehooves punching the air. When he landed back on all four legs, he threw his head proudly and snorted, all power and elegance. “By the Nine!” she yelled, then laughed at her own choice of words when she realised what had happened. “That’s amazing!”

The well had buffed her mount too, unlike in the game, where it only ever granted the player a Magicka boost. Its power now filled them both, erasing the fatigue she’d felt before. She didn’t know what kind of force it was. It energised her; perhaps it was simply that: pure energy. But she felt indeed amazing. She stepped up to her horse, stroked his velvety black coat. His body thrummed with the effect the well had granted them. 

“Let’s go to Skingrad, Ghost,” she declared, and her beautiful steed nickered in response. 

All the way up the steep road, Celia smiled to herself. Why, she couldn’t even say. She’d been strung so tight throughout the whole journey, but now she felt almost light. They reached the crest of the hill, and she inhaled deeply. There it was: Skingrad. The massive arch with its double towers marked the bridge towards Skingrad Castle; beyond lay the Chapel of Julianos and the keep itself, all illuminated by the orange light of dusk. She faltered. Dusk? Impossible! She’d been hours from sunset. How come the sun was already dipping low to the west of the city?

“Dammit,” she cursed under her breath. “Seems like the well held us longer than I thought. We must hurry now, Ghost. I don’t want to be on the road when the night creeps in.”

How? How could that have happened? Hadn’t the Legion soldier returned from his patrol? The thought shocked her to the core. Had the bear or ogre gotten to him? She shook her head to force the image of his smashed body lying on the forest path from her mind. No, he hadn’t sounded as though he’d wanted to engage in a fight, but rather check if the beasts lingered on the road. But how then had time slipped past so quickly? Had the well… stolen those hours from her? It didn’t matter. The road sloped down from here, winding around some bends until Skingrad. She had no time to spare if she wanted to make it before it got dark. 

“Do you think you can hurry a bit?” she asked, and spurred Ghost into a light canter. It was a pace he should be able to maintain long enough to reach the ravine that led towards the east gate. 

Near a cave, goblin corpses lay scattered at the hill’s base. The filth the Legion soldier had talked about. He had indeed cleared the road for her. Relieved, she rode on. The sun dipped lower by the minute, flooding the area in eerie light. Usually, she enjoyed sunsets and sunrises, but here, the tinge resembled the dirty orange-red filter cast over the screen when you rode past an Oblivion Gate in the game. It was a stark reminder of what awaited her in Kvatch, and would then sweep across Cyrodiil. With a shake of her head, she banished that thought. Time to plan the next step of her journey: where she would spend the night. Skingrad had two inns: the Two Sisters Lodge and the West Weald Inn. It didn’t matter where she stayed. It was only for one night before she continued her journey.

 A sudden thought made her freeze: she had no gold at all, not a single coin. Baurus had prepared her only for a day’s travel, believing she would arrive at Weynon Priory the same day. Goddammit, couldn’t just one thing ever run smoothly? She needed gold for the inn and the stables. Ghost would not be allowed inside city borders. In the twilight before her, the entrance to the ravine yawned between the two hills on which Skingrad stood. Deep shadows already darkened the path leading to the east gate. Desperate for a solution, she opened her satchel to look for anything she could maybe sell and thus raise some coin. 

Suddenly a snarl split the air, and the next moment she was ripped from the saddle and crashed hard onto the ground. She heard Ghost neigh furiously, rearing up and stomping his forehooves several times, but a vicious snarl snapped her attention back to the all-too-real danger before her. Bloodshot eyes with ghostly white irises stared at her. Pale grey skin stretched tight over sharp cheekbones, dark bluish lips curling back to reveal pointed fangs: a vampire. For a second she froze when he gripped her chin and forced her head to the side, baring her neck to him. She thrashed in his grasp, but he overpowered her easily. There was nothing she could do but hope the shrillness of her screams would deafen and paralyse him. She had no such luck. Already she could feel the tip of his fangs on her neck, and she fought harder. No! This would not end like that. She would not fall as vampire fodder shortly before she reached the safety of the city walls. She would not rot here on the road to Skingrad like the goblin corpses she’d just passed. Heat rushed through her veins, burning in her terror and rage. It fuelled her struggle, and she bucked wildly under the vampire’s hold.

“By the Lord of Lies, stop resisting, pathetic mortal!” the vampire snarled as she kept thrashing. “I just wanted a sip, but now we’ll take it all.”

The heat surged through her body, now almost unbearable. She gasped under the wave and her vision blurred. Her breath caught in her throat, and bright light blinded her. Her pulse throbbed in her ears.

“What, in the Spheres of Oblivion, is that?” someone yelled, though the roaring of her blood muffled the sound.

Suddenly the weight pinning her down vanished; the heat drained from her body, and she blinked rapidly. Oi, what was happening? She heard snarling, pushed herself up, and saw a brutal fight erupting before her eyes. Ghost reared up, neighing furiously, and smashed his hooves into the head of a woman, who fell to the floor and lay there unmoving. A tall, shadowy figure stabbed his sword into another man’s belly, turned around, and ripped the third vampire’s throat in a fluid motion. The bodies lay crumpled, their menace gone in an instant. 

Ghost reared up again, striking the air with his hooves, neighing threateningly as though warning the stranger not to come closer. The man lifted his hands in a defensive gesture.

“Calm down, boy,” he rumbled in a dark, sonorous voice. “We fought those vermin together. I mean your lady no harm.”

He did not approach but waited patiently, until Ghost believed he would not strike. At last the horse stopped neighing, snorting menacingly instead, his nostrils flaring wide. He pranced before her, still shielding her from a possible assault, her brave steed.

“Are you unharmed?” the man asked, turning his gaze from the horse to her. “He didn’t bite you, did he?”

Awe and disbelief raked her gaze over him. Her heart stuttered, and she drew in a sharp breath when she recognised him. Dressed in an Imperial noble’s attire—a fine fur-rimmed black and burgundy coat over an intricate brocade tunic, an ornate amulet resting against his chest, and gold-trimmed shoes—there was no mistaking his rank. His salt-and-pepper hair was swept back, revealing aristocratic features. There was a marble-like pallor to his skin, carved sharply over cheekbones and shadowed beneath his bloodshot eyes. He was a vampire, yes, but not any vampire. This was Janus Hassildor, Count of Skingrad. What was he doing outside the castle? In the game he never even left his chambers. 

Her eyes shot back to his, the white irises ringed with red, unsettling in their intensity. She had found him intriguing as an NPC from the moment she had first encountered him. Frustrated with the little screen time the game granted him, she’d become a vampire herself if only to trigger the “Vampire Cure” quest. And now he stood before her, in flesh and blood staring at her... 

Oh, he was waiting for her answer. She cleared her throat and lifted her hand to her neck. “No... I believe not.”

A small smile ghosted across his face. He glanced at the horse again. “Would you be so kind as to let me help the lady up, noble steed?” he asked, his voice sending a shiver through her body.

“Noble steed,” she repeated, staring at her still nervous mount, who watched Janus Hassildor cautiously but let him pass. “And brave.”

“So it would seem. He turned on the predators the instant he lost his precious charge, never once considering flight as his kind should. You have a rare bond with your mount.”

“Bond? We’ve only met,” she blurted, regretting it instantly as his eyes narrowed on her.

But he only knelt beside her with effortless grace and reached out. His scent washed over her, unexpectedly fresh and floral. Her breath hitched, her eyes widening as he touched her hand, the same hand still gripping her neck tighter than was comfortable.

“I won’t harm you,” he assured her, mistaking her reaction for fear.

Nothing was further from the truth. Her turmoil was born of something else entirely. He was handsome, more handsome than the game had ever made him. His features were striking. Her heart thudded in her chest, no doubt loud enough for a vampire to hear. Oi, don’t fangirl out on him, Celia, she scolded herself.

“Please, let me see your neck, my lady. I would assure myself he did not nick you.”

He peeled her hand from her neck with gentle fingers, held it in his and inspected her skin for scratches, before lifting his gaze to hers again, and she nearly swooned.

“Are you feeling dizzy,” he asked, concern written on his face. “You struck the ground with force. Did you hit your head?”

Get a grip, girl! “No... no I am fine, just... shaken.”

He produced a vial from his coat, uncorked it. “Drink this. We won’t have those feral beasts infect you with the curse.”

“What is that?” she asked, but accepted the vial, which held a pale red liquid.

“A potion to mend diseases. Even if he did not bite you, he could have passed it on. I will not allow this fate to fall upon you.”

Porphyric Hemophilia. Of course he wanted to prevent the curse of vampirism, given his own fate, and his wife’s comatose state. That thought sobered her and muted her excitement. Yes, he was married, and the game had shown how much he loved his wife. She sipped the potion, guilt gnawing at her consciousness.

“Why were you still outside the city walls in the darkness?” he asked when he took the empty vial from her hands.

“Technically it wasn’t yet dark,” she responded and wanted to slap herself immediately.

“Semantics.” He chuckled, rose, and held out a hand to her.

Her cheeks flushed as he helped her to her feet, his gaze still fixed on hers. “I was held up on the road to Skingrad and ran late.”

“Travelling has become ever more dangerous these days. I heard a guard report a bear and an ogre lurking on the road. He said he’d encountered a woman who had escaped their grasp. Was that you?”

She sighed in relief to hear the soldier was unharmed. At least one thing that had gone right. “Yes, that would be me,” she mumbled.

“The guard returned hours ago. Where have you been all this time?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” she replied. “There was this Ayleid well. I touched it, and... it sounds strange, but it felt like only seconds. Yet…” her voice faded when his eyes narrowed on her again.

“An Ayleid well?” he asked and shook his head. “Where? I know of no Ayleid well in the Skingrad area. I was not even aware they still existed.”

She stared at him in surprise. Were these not common knowledge? It had stood there, plain for anyone to see, not even concealed by boulders or trees. How could the Count of Skingrad himself not know of those ancient structures that granted such useful buffs? He was said to be a magnificent mage. The Magicka boost would come in handy for him, wouldn’t it? 

“Where did you find it?” he asked, his voice low, his stare intent.

She raised her hand without breaking eye contact, as though compelled to hold his gaze. “It lies directly off the road from the crest of the hill down to the forest,” she explained, but her voice sounded strange in her own ears, distant, mechanical. She blinked her eyes, shook her head and looked at him again. “Did you... did you just use your Vampire’s Seduction on me? Compel me to answer?”

He retreated slightly, taken aback. “How do you know of those matters?”

“Did you?” she asked furious now that he had tricked her into compliance. “I would have told you without you tampering with my head, sir.”

Ghost suddenly shoved between them, ears pinned, as though roused by the sharpness in her voice. Determined to protect her from the predator he pushed the count backwards with his head and snorted menacingly.

Janus Hassildor lifted his hands in surrender. “Forgive me, please. I meant no offence.” 

They stood in silence for a moment, and she saw a genuine look of guilt flitting over his face. His features twisted in self-disgust, and sympathy for the troubled vampire overcame her rage.

“So they are not visible for everyone?” she asked, dropping the matter of him using his vampire powers on her. 

“Ayleid wells are but an ancient myth,” he explained, lifted his hand and petted the still agitated horse absently. “And yet you claim to have seen one, and drawn power from it.”

“I thought they were spread all over Tamriel,” she said under her breath, baffled. 

His intense gaze snapped back to hers. “That’s curious,” he observed, his voice low and piercing. 

She froze at his words. “What did you say?” she whispered in terror as the barking laughter of the Daedric hound echoed in her head. 

Smells like you tumbled in from… not Nirn, nor Oblivion. Now that’s curious. Darkness clouded her vision, and smouldering eyes burned from the black pit into her soul. Wrong, wrong, wrong. That’s what you smell like. Out of place, out of time. And yet you move, and the world shifts with you. Delightful. The weight of those words crushed her. Out of place, out of time. This was her. She did not belong here. It was a video-game world, and she had always steered its scripted history from the outside. And yet you move, and the world shifts with you. She was about to alter the set course of events and it was wrong. Scatter chaos in your wake! No fleeing it now, girl. It clings to you. Could it be? Would she bring chaos upon this world, wherever she went?

“Come back to me.” A voice tore her from the trance; she blinked, though the darkness clung.

The ground gave way beneath her, and suddenly she was adrift. Her head thudded against a solid wall, and a steady thumping pulsed in her ears. Was that her pulse, or... A wet nose nudged her, blew hot breath into her ear, and she opened her eyes wide, found a black horse snout in her face.

“Ghost!” she cried, lifted her hand and pushed him away.

“Thank the Divines, you are back,” a deep voice rumbled close, and she found her head resting against a hard chest draped in velvety fabric. Fur tickled her cheek. “I thought I lost you for a moment.”

She looked up into a man’s face, and as the fog of the illusion cleared she realised it was Count Janus Hassildor, who held her in his arms, as though ready to carry her straight to Skingrad. Her face flushed as blood rushed into her cheeks.

“I... I am sorry,” she stammered, embarrassed by the strange episode. “I... thank you, kind sir... I think I can stand on my own now.”

His eyes roamed over her face as though he was looking for signs of her collapsing again. Then he lowered her carefully to her feet. “Mount your horse, my lady. You will join me in my castle tonight. I believe, we have much to discuss.”

“Your castle?” she asked, and almost choked on the question as a lump formed in her throat.

He bowed slightly. “Let me introduce myself. My name is Janus Hassildor. I am the Count of Skingrad.”

I know, she thought, but kept it to herself. “I am Celia,” she simply replied.

He pointed towards Ghost without a word, a gesture so commanding she knew she could not refuse. Silently she climbed up onto the saddle.

“You’ll be my guest tonight. I will make sure your horse will be taken care of,” he assured her, took her reins and led her towards the ravine ahead.

It seemed she would spend the night in the Castle of Skingrad.

Chapter Text

Celia sat at the long table in the dining hall of Skingrad Castle. And a hall it truly was, all arches and rough, cold stone. Chandeliers hung from the ceiling, while metal candleholders lined the walls, each adorned with long, slender red candles. The high table and its flanking wings embraced a thick, beautiful red carpet at the centre of the hall, the arrangement recalling the solemn splendour of a banquet. This fact alone seemed odd to her, for the Count rarely socialised, if at all. Janus Hassildor had been seated at the centre of the high table when the Argonian steward had led her in. She had to stop herself from gawking at the female reptiloid, all fluid grace and elegance, so much more alive than any animation she had ever seen in the game. Shaking herself out of her admiration, she’d finally noticed the Count. The seating arrangement had felt odd; he had saved her from the attackers and held her in his arms not an hour earlier. He immediately slid his chair to the corner near hers, as though he wanted to close the awkward gap his staff had created. Then he had wined and dined her, without ever touching food himself, keeping the conversation to general small talk. But when the eager-looking servants had cleared the table, he had dismissed them for the night, save for the occasional guard casting a glance into the dining room to check on the Count.

As soon as they’d been left alone, he’d asked her to tell him her story, and she had. Why she trusted him, she couldn’t even say. It was the knowledge that he’d never opposed the White-Gold Tower, that he’d never grasped for power beyond his county. She remembered that, when asked about Chancellor Ocato in-game, he had pitied the Altmer the burden of ruling an Empire without an Emperor. Maybe it was that he’d come to her rescue and stayed to assure himself she was unharmed. But maybe it was just the hours she’d spent in-game with him, as he’d been her favourite NPC. He seemed loyal and true, a man of integrity. Tonight compassion had been added to the list of what made him unforgettable... and swoon-worthy. A handsome man a little older than herself with unsettling eyes that spoke of danger. Which red-blooded woman would not drool? 

She recounted the sewers: the Emperor’s death, the mission he had entrusted to her, the Blades’ faith, and her own doubts. She spoke vaguely of more pressing matters, omitting the Amulet and her hidden knowledge. At last, she ended with the vampire attack. Janus Hassildor leaned back in his chair, studying her, his mind working behind his calm exterior. The candlelight caught in his strange eyes.

“I don’t know why I was in prison in the first place,” she added softly, a little embarrassed that he had unknowingly welcomed a prisoner into his castle. “I woke up there, without any memory of what had come before. I can’t even imagine what I might have done. I am not very brave or reckless, you know?”

At that, he snorted softly. “I beg to differ,” came his response in a deep rumble. But then he sighed deeply. “So the Emperor is dead. That is… an unfortunate twist of fate.”

The words struck, awakening the memory of the brutal attack. She pressed her lips into a thin line, closed her eyes and breathed through the grief for the kind old man who had seen something in her. He let the silence linger, and when she opened her eyes again she found him studying her curiously.

“And beyond these walls? What power seized you so abruptly?”

She swallowed against the lump forming in her throat. “On my way here, I passed the shrine of Clavicus Vile.” His brows lifted at the mention of the Daedric Prince. “Barbas spoke to me and your words reminded me of what he’d said. He called me curious, wrong, out of place, out of time. He said chaos clung to me, and that I could not flee it.”

She shook her head, for she could say no more without revealing how right he was. She did not hail from Nirn.

“Clavicus Vile, the Daedric Prince of Trickery and Promises.” He studied her intently, his eyes never leaving hers, as though gauging her reaction. “He may spread mischief, but the hound sees more than his master ever will. Barbas noticing you is the greater danger.” 

“What do you mean?” she asked, dread coiling in her chest.

 But the Count just shook his head. “I have a suspicion. Yet some truths, spoken too lightly, may do more harm than good. I will consult my tomes before I risk words with such weight. I advise you to stay away from that place.”

She blinked in confusion and her gut twisted. What did he see in her? Why did he look at her almost... intrigued? She drew in a deep breath through the nose and averted her eyes, staring at the red carpet. Was she missing something? Was there any lore she’d overlooked? A book she hadn’t read close enough?

“What...” She faltered, cleared her throat. “What makes you think Barbas was not simply mocking me? Scaring the pathetic human riding past?”

He looked at her in surprise and chuckled, then lifted his hand, only one finger raised, as if he was about to count down a list. “The Emperor saw you in his dreams and the Blade was right; the Septim bloodline always saw deeper than the average person. A Daedric creature, Clavicus Vile’s hound no less, takes an interest in a mere passer-by, though he is usually occupied with saving his master from his own mischief. You found an Ayleid well, where none had ever been seen before, and drew power from it. You formed a bond with your horse in a single day. And you disintegrated a vampire with a magic I cannot name.”

He held his hand a moment longer, all five fingers raised, as if to let the points sink in.

“Wait... what?” she blurted. “I disintegrated... you and Ghost killed the vampires not me.”

“Your horse struck down one, I ended two. The fourth was your doing.”

“Fourth? There was a fourth vampire? I thought... I thought there’d been only three.”

“You, dear lady, summoned pure daylight, burning your attacker to ash. The light dazed the other vampires, the power, raw and strong, blinded them.”

Oi, that was weird. She stared at him in disbelief. She could not recall doing anything except scream and thrash. She’d thought her end had come, had seen herself already rotting on the road to Skingrad, her adventure ending before it even began. She closed her eyes and replayed the attack in her head. She had heard them snarl, had heard the vampire mock and curse her. She furrowed her brow. The fight had seemed laggy, she realised. When she’d pushed off the ground the man had vanished; she’d thought he’d rushed the Count. Her horse had just reared up and struck the female vampire, who’d looked thoroughly disoriented. 

“It must have been the Ayleid well. Maybe the energy I’d gathered there unleashed in my struggle.”

“No, my lady. That was no trick of an Ayleid well. You pulled the day itself into night. I know magelight, flame, every spell our kind has ever devised to mimic them. This was none of those. It was true daylight, summoned where it had no right to be, chaotic by its nature. The vampire who held you down was burned to ash in its brilliance. The others were stunned, their eyes seared by the force of it. Even your steed’s blow struck home only because the vampire was already reeling. I alone came out unscathed, for I had been far enough away to shield myself from your magic.”

Dumbstruck she stared at him. That... was not possible. She did not wield magic. There was no Magicka coursing through her; she would not even know what it felt like. How could she have summoned light, daylight at that? She couldn’t. That was the simple truth. She was just an average gamer, wielding a controller and sometimes testing a game’s limits. But not this.

“I can see genuine confusion in your eyes. You didn’t know you’d used this unknown kind of magic, did you?” He looked at her with concern, and her breath hitched.

“No,” she responded softly.

He nodded as if in thought, then he reached out and took her hand. His fingers closed around hers, and her heartbeat accelerated at the welcome touch. It felt comforting, as if she were no longer alone on her strange journey. But then she remembered he had a wife, and her conscience scolded her that this was wrong. She hesitantly drew her hand from his and lowered her eyes.

“It is not right that I monopolise your attention,” she said, her heart heavy. “You have a wife to tend to.”

His brow furrowed in confusion, then pain shadowed his features. “I had a wife once,” he said, his voice suddenly rough. “I lost her years ago to the curse.”

“She refused to consume blood and fell into a coma,” she whispered, more to herself than to him. But when his eyes narrowed on her suspiciously, she froze. She shouldn’t have said that. No one knew of his wife’s condition. Her cheeks flushed. “There... were rumours. I assumed...” When she realised his gaze turned cold on her, she closed her eyes. “I am sorry.”

“No one but my most trusted confidante knows about my wife’s tragic story,” he said in a low voice, his timbre deep enough to border on a growl. “As far as I can remember, this has not been you.”

“That is correct.” She swallowed hard. “I... I will no longer impose on your hospitality. Forgive my loose tongue.” With those words she rose quickly and made for the exit of the dining hall.

“How do you know she refused blood, yet not that she died decades ago?”

What? She opened her eyes wide and cautiously tilted her head back towards him. He slowly rose. 

“Barbas was right. You are a curious one. And I will solve the mystery of you.” In the next breath, he stood before her, blocking the wooden door. “For your own safety and for the safety of my people, you will stay in the castle until I have consulted my tomes. I shall deliver you to your chamber myself.”

Hearing him lock the guest room door behind her, she sighed. Great, Celia. That went really well, you dunce. How could she have talked about his wife at all? She shook her head, crossed the room, and sank onto the foot of the bed. Sitting there, she stared into the void. She should learn to hold her tongue. After all, spreading meta-knowledge was dangerous. The compassion and intrigue in his eyes had cooled on her at once. Way to go. You’ve just ruined your shot at the one ally who might have stood by you.

Another thought struck her, baffling in itself. He’d said his wife had passed away decades ago, but that couldn’t be right. In the game, Rona Hassildor’s death occurred in the quest Vampire Cure, in the year 3E 433 during the Oblivion Crisis, which meant, soon in the game’s lore. How could she already be dead? For decades, at that? And what about the Ayleid wells, unseen and considered mere myth? Was Tamriel different from what she believed she knew? Celia pressed her fingers against her temples, a headache forming. She was a prisoner now in the very place she’d thought safe, her plan to leave the city at dawn thwarted. But she needed to reach Kvatch. She had not delivered the Amulet of Kings to Jauffre. Martin had no idea what was about to happen. Or was the city already under attack? She needed to get the Amulet to him as quickly as possible.

The Count had made it clear he had no intention of letting her leave. Would he if he knew what was at stake? Could she trust him with the real reason she’d come to Skingrad? Well, the truth was rather mundane: simply to rest for the night. That was what she should do, given what lay ahead of her. But she needed a plan first. Escaping under cover of darkness, when Count Hassildor was at his strongest, seemed futile. He’d been so fast she hadn’t even registered the movement. No, she had better chances of success during the day. But how could she get out of the room? He’d locked the door before leaving. Determined to find a way, she opened her satchel and rummaged through it. Baurus had packed it with her safety in mind; perhaps he’d stashed something useful there. She took out each vial and read its label. Suddenly, her eyes widened and her heart accelerated. Yes! That! Oh, thank you, Baurus, she thought. Thank you for your foresight, and for keeping me as safe as possible.

She woke early the next morning, somewhat rested, but still nervous. Her sleep had been uneasy with the prospect of escape. Even so, she prepared herself when the first daylight broke through the curtains. Surely, she would be summoned to the dining hall, or someone would bring her breakfast. This was her chance to slip out of her room. She only had to time it correctly leave the castle before the effect of the potion wore off, or the guards were alerted to her escape. Therefore, she crouched beneath the door and waited. When a key rattled in the lock, she hastily gulped down the potion. A weird tingling sensation prickled over her skin and she muffled the surprised sound in her throat, when her hand disappeared before her eyes in an instant, leaving only a faint liquid outline. Already the door swung open, and she froze when a maid stepped in, a tray of food in both hands.

“Good morning, dear lady,’ the maid said, kicking the door shut behind her. 

Celia’s hand shot out and stopped it from closing; she slipped into the hall and ran. Oh, the castle looked exactly as it did in the game, so she knew which doors led to freedom. No time to waste, she hurried, not caring if anyone noticed the faint, liquid ripple of her outline, as she slipped into the courtyard. There she crouched to catch her breath, her heart racing and blood pulsing in her ears. No guards here, thank god! She silently sneaked up to the gate. The effect of the Chameleon potion wore off, when she pushed against the heavy wood. Voices from the far end spurred her on. She stepped outside onto the bridge that led to the city.

When she was nearly at the end, two guards appeared at the gateway. They were patrolling the path between the castle and the city. Celia had no time to debate whether to run or play it smooth, so she smiled at them and bowed, the cowl of her coat slipping lower over her face.

“Well met,” she mumbled, and walked on at a normal pace as though she were going about her daily business.

No one called out to halt her. The men did not so much as look at her. She glanced back at them, then quickened her pace to enter the city and vanish in the crowd. She slipped through the bustle without delay and reached the west gate, where a throng of people came and went. Like any common citizen, she walked among them and had almost made it outside when a harsh voice yelled after her.

“Stop right there, criminal scum!”

She froze and turned her head slowly, only to see a hooded figure charging towards the gate, shoving people aside. Several guards were hot on his tail, swords drawn. Those at the entrance unsheathed their weapons and closed in. As if in slow motion, Celia saw the hooded man’s dark eyes fix on her, a smug sneer coiling at the corners of his mouth, and he headed towards her with sudden speed. In a breath, his arm wound around her waist. He pulled her into his body, and cold steel pressed against her neck. 

“Stop—” he snarled in a deep rumble, “or the maid’s life is forfeit!”

The guards came to an abrupt halt, almost tumbling over each other. “Let the poor woman go, filthy murderer!” one of them yelled.

“I will, as soon as I am safe on my way. Follow me and she will pay the price.”

His deep, silky voice reverberated against her back, and she wondered why it sounded familiar. Slowly he edged back with her through the wide gate. Celia’s gaze darted around. The people of Skingrad looked at her in horrified fascination.

“Close the gate behind us!” he commanded, waiting for the guards to comply.

They stared at him with murder in their eyes, and he pressed the dagger even tighter against her neck. A gasp escaped her, and he chuckled.

“Yes,” he whispered. “Help them along. Whimper a little, play the damsel in distress.”

The guards followed them, tense and alert, their swords trained on her abductor.

“Don’t come closer, or I’ll spill her blood,” he warned, and they immediately fell back. “Close the gates! Now!”

“If you spill my blood they will be upon you in seconds,” she whispered.

“Hold your tongue, woman,” he growled for her ears only.

She didn’t dare swallow while the sharp blade scraped against her neck. For a split second, she considered dropping herself like a dead weight, but her self-defense classes had always warned: never resist when a weapon is involved. He seemed determined to escape no matter the cost, so she remained still. The deep rumble of the gate tore her from her thoughts, and she watched in horror as it closed. They left her in this psychopath’s grasp. As soon as the heavy wooden gate shut with a final thud, the dagger lifted from her neck. A gloved hand seized her wrist and dragged her to the Grateful Pass Stables. The Altmer caretaker retreated when the black-robed man headed straight for the paddock. Ghost nickered at the sight of her and approached, eyeing the man warily.

“Mount your horse,” her abductor snapped, and shoved her forward. “Hurry, they’re coming through the east gate. I want to be gone before they make it here.”

She obeyed and swung onto the saddle. Just for a moment, she considered spurring Ghost into another flight, but then an eerie black horse spawned next to her out of thin air, its eyes glowing red and smoke coiling around its coat. She swallowed a gasp as recognition coursed through her, watching the man mount the horse with ease. He seized her reins and urged the beast forward, dragging Ghost with him. Her heart raced as she stared at him in horrified awe. It was HIM. The most charismatic NPC in the game; in real Tamriel, presumably the most dangerous of them all. A Speaker for the Black Hand, Lucien Lachance, and his mare Shadowmere.

He followed the Gold Road as if eager to put distance between them and Skingrad. Then he left the paved path, leading her into broken terrain, south into rolling hills dotted with woods and little streams. Only when Ghost began to grunt and stumble frequently did he slow the pace, stopping at last in a shaded hollow. She stayed in the saddle, watching him warily. He slid from his phantom horse, which showed no signs of strain unlike her poor mount. His gaze settled on her, and he looked at her in silence until a small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. He gave a mocking bow and a silent laugh.

“Well, thank you, kind lady, for the safe escape. You could not have shown up at a better time.”

She remained silent, afraid her loose tongue could get her into severe trouble with this one, if she slipped and let her meta-knowledge show, such as knowing his name. He stepped forward and held out a black-gloved hand to her.

“Come, grant your poor mount a rest,” he sneered. “It is truly a loyal beast, just as the Count remarked.”

Her eyes widened at the insinuation that he had been there during the vampire attack the night before. When she did not move, he took her hand, a more symbolic gesture than real aid, and waited until she cautiously dismounted on her own. Ghost snorted and stamped nervously. She slowly slipped her hand from the assassin’s grip, keeping her eyes on him, while she tried to calm her agitated horse.

“Let him have some water, and come sit with me. Shadowmere will see to it that he is fine,” he suggested and gestured towards a small boulder. 

His eyes never left hers as she cautiously stepped around him and sat, fingers laced in her lap. Her gaze flicked over him before she averted her eyes. He wore the typical robe of the Black Hand, its cowl drawn deep into his face. His relaxed posture screamed menace, his smile the mark of supreme self-assurance.

“I assume you know who I am, given that your defiance fell silent on our flight.”

She cleared her throat, unsure if this was a loaded question. Should she reply or keep her mouth shut? Which of those possible reactions was the less dangerous one?

“The… the horse gave it away,” she whispered.

“Yes, I believe so. You are fortunate she revealed herself to you. Few can claim to have seen this magnificent mount.” He turned to Shadowmere and looked at her affectionately.  When his attention returned to her, his intent gaze made her hackles rise. “I am Lucien Lachance, a Speaker for the Dark Brotherhood. And you... you are a rather unique phenomenon.”

He tilted his head, studying her curiously, as though she intrigued him. She wasn’t sure she wanted his attention. In the game he had been one of the most charismatic characters, and she’d enjoyed his dialogues for the spectacular dubbing. Yet coming face to face with him was an entirely different story. He stood before her in flesh and blood, very much the master assassin the game had made him out to be. And she...

He chuckled and sat down beside her in a disconcertingly casual manner. “You look at me as though I were about to send you to our Dread Father, when in truth I believe he has sent you to us instead.”

“What?” she asked in horror.

“I saw you summon pure chaos, such as only a herald of the Void could command. It was magnificent. You are Sithis’ gift to us, and thus you belong to us.”

She looked at him bewildered. “You just pressed a dagger to my neck.”

“To scare off those pesky guards, not to hurt you.” She furrowed her brow in disbelief, and he chuckled. “They would never risk the life of a citizen, bound as they are by their ridiculous honour. You were safe with me.”

“You abducted me,” she protested, then shrank under his amused gaze.

“Weren’t you sneaking out of the castle, my child? I believe, I helped you escape from my dear friend’s overbearing drive for understanding.”

She closed her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose between thumb and finger. “Friend?”

“Oh, nothing that need concern you.” He rose in a fluid motion and walked towards the horses. “Now I bid you farewell. Pursue whatever business brought you here. But know that the Dark Brotherhood is following your progress, Child of Sithis.”

“You… you’re just leaving me here in the wilderness?”

“The Gold Road lies to the north. I trust you will find the way.”

With those words he mounted his demon horse, gave a slight bow, and in the next breath was gone. Ghost lifted his head from the small rivulet of water and gazed at her. 

“Don’t ask,” she sighed. “I’m just as confused as you.”

Chapter Text

When Ghost had recovered from the strenuous escape, Celia cautiously led him on foot, keeping the sun on her right shoulder to orient herself northward. Her gaze swept the surroundings, but she made out no threat. In the game this area swarmed with enemies on the road and across the fields alike; bears, spriggans, trolls and bandits lurking, ready to ambush unsuspecting travellers. Yet here nothing hinted at danger. She stopped for a moment to take it all in. Birds chirped in the early morning sun, and the occasional grunt of a deer echoed through the mountainous terrain. She inhaled the floral breeze, a trace of the Abecean Sea wafting up from the distant coast. Cyrodiil presented itself at its most peaceful. The stillness around her, an absurd contrast to the chaos in her mind, mocked her.

What the hell was this dream? This was only her third day in this world, if she counted the night in the sewers. Yet so much had happened, and most of it made no sense. Both Janus Hassildor and Lucien Lachance had spoken of chaos she’d unleashed during the vampire attack. Was that what Barbas had meant when he’d said it clung to her? It clung indeed, when she allowed the thought that this was not a dream. The more time passed, the more convinced she became it was real. Dreams never held such stillness, such persistence. But was Lucien Lachance right when he’d called her a herald of the void? No. That could not be. She was not part of this canon, of the Elder Scrolls universe. How could she possibly be a gift of Sithis? He, like Count Hassildor, hadn’t been able to place the magic, so he’d interpreted it through his cultist beliefs. She groaned at the thought that she had attracted the Dark Brotherhood’s attention, of all things. This was bad, really bad. They were not a faction she wanted to be tied to. Sure, playing the questline had been fun, except for the gruesome ending, but facing them now was not what she desired.

Finally, they reached the Gold Road. She swung into the saddle and looked around. It stretched before her in a hilly course, empty and calm, with no Legion soldiers or bandits in sight. She sent a short prayer to the Nine, because they were responsible for Tamriel, after all, and headed southwest towards Kvatch. Time to focus and plan ahead. If it was under siege, how was she supposed to get inside the city walls and search for Martin in the chapel? There would be an Oblivion Gate to close first. But she couldn’t enter it herself like the Hero of Kvatch, because she was no hero. Equipped only with a dagger, she was no match for the Daedric forces. She could offer knowledge of how to close the damned things, though. Would that be enough? And how should she approach Martin? Would he even believe her, or think she’d lost her mind? Well, she still had the Amulet of Kings, and could use it as a last straw.

Ghost’s snort ripped her out of her spiralling. She looked up and gasped, when she took in the scenery. There on top of the hill stood Kvatch, majestic and beautiful and... untouched. No scorched buildings, no eerie orange glow that indicated a Daedric invasion. Her heart beat a little faster when she stared at the skyline of the city, the Chapel, her destination, spearing the sky. Her gaze slowly swept over the surroundings, taking in the rugged landscape adorned with colourful flowers. Columbine in red and yellow, flax in red, yellow and blue, bergamot in purple and pink. There on the other side of the road, the mountainous terrain sloped down, and she could see Anvil lying there peacefully.

“Wow, Ghost,” she breathed, awestruck. “This is beautiful. And look! Kvatch is still standing. Come on, we have no time to lose.” With that, they set off at a comfortable canter. The road wound uphill towards the massive city, looking just as impressive as it did in Elder Scrolls Online, in the Dark Brotherhood DLC, of all things. She almost snorted at the irony. “You know, if this was Elder Scrolls Online there’d be a stable just inside the walls, the Mane and Muzzle. I wonder if it still exists nowadays,” she told Ghost who snorted, trotting on. “I have no money, though. Maybe I should hide you outside the city. It might keep you safe if an Oblivion Gate opened. On the other hand, you’d be easy prey for predators.”

Swaying on her companion’s back, she looked into her satchel. “I could sell potions to raise some coin.” She took out one vial at a time and checked the handwritten labels. A small leather pouch caught between her fingers, and she drew it out in astonishment. “Wait, what is this?” she wondered, loosening the knot of the cord. Inside lay a handful of gold coins. “Baurus!” she exclaimed. He really had provided her with everything she needed for the journey. Her heart warmed for the Blade who could have been suspicious yet had chosen to trust her.

Hopefully she would live up to his expectations, even though she hadn’t gone to the Priory as intended. She pushed the creeping guilt back as they neared the city gates. Two guards stood watch on either side, their eyes on her as she stashed the pouch back in her satchel.

“Well met,” she greeted kindly.

“Good day, citizen,” one of them replied. “Please dismount and lead your horse to the stable directly left of the gate. The Mane and Muzzle caretakers will tend to your steed.”

“Of course.” She immediately obliged as the good citizen she was, and the guards opened the gate for her.

Ghost’s hooves clattered on the cobbled ground when she led him inside. She looked around, and her heart quickened. There it was, the chapel, right ahead. No obstacle in sight. She could get to Martin without a fight. But first she needed to take Ghost to the stables. After dropping him off and cuddling him for a while, she turned towards the Chapel of Akatosh. Her heart thudded painfully at the prospect of what awaited her beyond the threshold as she sought the Emperor’s heir. Would he even believe her? She had no idea. A snout nudged her, and she smiled at Ghost.

“You’re right, friend, there’s only one way to find out.”

Standing here, staring up at the tower, would give her no answers. She drew a deep breath to calm her fluttering nerves before heading for the chapel. At the door she stopped again, then pulled it open and slipped in. Her eyes needed a moment to adjust to the dimmer light. It looked just as she’d expected: stained-glass windows, wooden benches, an altar, and commoners milling about in search of the priests’ comforting words. She stepped forward, stopped at the two stairs leading down into the nave, and looked around shyly. A faint breeze blew her hair, but it vanished as quickly as it came. Well, this felt odd.

“May I help you, traveller?” an older man asked. He was a priest, in the typical dark grey robes of his order.

“I... I am looking for Brother Martin,” she replied.

“He is occupied with service to Akatosh. May I be of help?”

“That is kind, but I must speak with him personally.”

His eyes took her in suspiciously. “Well, child, you may sit here and wait.”

“I have pressing matters that can’t wait,” she insisted.

Though he smiled, it never touched his eyes as he gestured to the benches. Oh, damn, what should she do now? She could sit here and wait, but how much time did they have until the Daedra began their invasion? She saw the people happily talking, oblivious to the horrors soon to come upon them. They would suffer, many even die. For some, these could be their final moments.

“Please, it is of the utmost importance,” she blurted, her voice echoing through the chapel. Goosebumps spread over her arms, a shudder racked her as she looked at the people who were unaware they were about to take their last breaths. “I need to talk to Martin. It’s a matter of life and death.”

“Please, lower your voice. This is a place of meditation and worship.” The priest furrowed his brow and pressed his lips together in annoyance.

“We might be able to save most, maybe all of them, if you just let me talk to him.” She gestured around herself, and people looked at her, bewildered, whispering among themselves.

“Hush, you madwoman! Stop your gibbering. I will not let you scare the good citizens of Kvatch. Leave, or I will call the guards!”

“Yeah, well, they should be worried if a Gate of Oblivion opens and Mehrunes Dagon unleashes his hordes upon Kvatch.”

“You try my patience. Leave now, or be removed!”

“What is this ruckus all about?” A familiar voice interrupted her pleading with the priest. She turned to see a young man in the same dark grey robes, brown hair falling to his shoulders, icy-blue eyes shifting between her and his fellow brother.

“Don’t concern yourself, this woman will be leaving at once.”

“Martin,” she whispered, her eyes glued to the man, who regarded her with suspicion.

He was a handsome young man; the game hadn’t done the NPCs justice. Maybe seeing them as living, breathing humans made them more appealing. Martin seemed tired, though, his eyes weary, exhausted, as if life had already scarred him despite his young age.

“Do I know you?” he asked, a bewildered expression flickering over his features.

“Not yet, but I need to talk to you. Kvatch is in grave danger. So are you.”

“Danger, you say,” he replied calmly.

“Ignore this madwoman, spouting nonsense about Daedra and Oblivion Gates. I’ll have her removed.”

Martin’s eyes never left hers, even as the other priest tried to lead her away. “Explain yourself,” he said, brow furrowed.

“It is Mehrunes Dagon. An Oblivion Gate will open and Daedra will attack, killing most of the people. Kvatch needs to be evacuated now.”

“Mehrunes Dagon,” Martin repeated, but he didn’t seem convinced. “The Daedra cannot enter the mortal world. It is protected by magical barriers.”

“The Emperor is dead, the Dragonfires in the Temple of the One are dark, and thus the barrier has fallen,” she explained.

“I will get the guards,” the other priest protested and hurried off.

Oi, she didn’t have much time to convince Martin of her story. In the game it was always easy; everybody eventually believed the player, no matter how far-fetched the tale. But the expression on Martin’s face suggested doubt.

“The Emperor... dead?” he repeated, disbelief written all over his face.

“The news will spread soon. But then it might be too late for Kvatch...” she pressed on. He sighed and shook his head slightly. “And you,” she added softly, “I only want to save as many as possible.”

“If you came to me to save people, you seek the wrong man. What good is a priest?”

“The Count will not hear me out. Not even your fellow brother believes me. Please, there are lives at stake.”

Martin shook his head. “Who are you? What do you really want with me? Are you one of Sanguine’s minions? Here to torment me?”

“I want to save the citizens of Kvatch. There is a threat brewing, whether you believe me or not.”

“Guards, there! Remove this madwoman from the Chapel of Akatosh.” The other priest pointed at her, flanked by two of the city watch. “She is frightening the good people of Kvatch.”

Celia’s eyes widened as the heavily armed men stepped forward. “Come, lass, it’s time to leave,” one of them said gruffly.

“Martin, please!” she begged as they took her by the upper arms and dragged her away. “Please, believe me! An Oblivion Gate will open and Daedra will burn the city and slaughter its people.”

“Shut your mouth, woman!” the other guard demanded, his brow furrowed in annoyance.

“Please! I only want to save them!”

“Let her talk! Let me hear her out!” Martin called, but the men did not notice and led her away.

She sagged in their grip like dead weight, resisting every step. They both cursed, fingers digging tighter into her arms as they hauled her up the steps towards the heavy doors, her feet trailing helplessly behind. Pain shot through her limbs, but she only looked back at Martin, who stood frozen.

“Let go of me!” she begged. “Please!”

They did not listen, and when her eyes fell on the doors she froze. They would throw her out of the city. She would fail the Emperor, and she would fail Baurus, who had sent her to Jauffre in the first place. Martin would fall, Kvatch would burn and all Cyrodiil would be lost. Why was everything going wrong? Why had she failed as soon as she’d stepped into this bloody game? This was not how things were meant to go. She was supposed to become the Hero of Kvatch, goddammit! Furious and at the end of her patience, she squeezed her eyes shut and screamed in frustration.

“What... by the Nine!” Martin’s voice rang in her ears. “What have you done? What kind of magic is that?”

She opened her eyes and looked around. The men who’d dragged her away, the priest, the people in the chapel stood frozen mid-movement, their faces set in stone. Celia gasped, tried to slip her arm out of the grip that held her, but the fingers, rigid and unyielding, would not let go.

“I... that wasn’t me. I don’t wield any magic,” she explained, but as she took in the chaos surrounding her, she knew that it was not a believable reply. “Or... at least I don’t control any,” she amended.

Martin’s steps echoed in the eerily still chapel as he approached her warily. “Who are you?”

“I am Celia. I came to warn Kvatch of the looming attack. It will happen, and soon.”

“So you said, but how could you know unless you were sent by the Daedra themselves?”

“My story is odd. I know what this looks like, but I don’t serve the Daedra. I am here because Uriel Septim himself sent me.”

“Uriel Septim? The Emperor?”

“I was there when he died. He sent me to you, to his secret son. You are his sole heir, after his sons were all murdered.”

Martin squeezed his eyes shut, lifting a hand as though to ward her words off, overwhelmed by the flood of information she dumped on him. She wasn’t sure how much time she had until this weird spell that had caught them would wear off. What had she even cast? Barbas’ taunt rang in her ear: Out of place, out of time. And yet you move, and the world shifts with you. Was that it? Had she cast them out of time? Was that the reason why everybody seemed frozen? Had she maybe stopped the natural flow of time? But why was Martin moving then? Was it the Dragonblood?

“You think the Emperor is my father? No, you must have the wrong man. I am a priest of Akatosh. My father was a farmer.”

“He told me you were in danger and I should find you.” She knew this wasn’t the truth. Well, not exactly. He hadn’t been as precise as she claimed, but technically he had sent her to Martin.

“You spoke to the Emperor before he died? And he told you to find me?”

“You are the last living heir. He was assassinated by the Mythic Dawn in a carefully laid plot. They serve Mehrunes Dagon. With the Emperor dead and the Dragonfires dark, he can break the veil between Oblivion and Nirn and invade Cyrodiil. You are the only obstacle left. If you ascend to the throne and light the Dragonfires again, you will block the way he so desperately works towards. They will come for you, and destroy Kvatch in their wake.”

Martin looked at her, bewildered. She wasn’t sure he believed her. His eyes were wide, his forehead creased. At least he was listening. She had to convince him in the little time left.

“He gave me something for you. Proof that I am speaking the truth. I would show it to you, but they still have me in their grasp.”

He regarded her for a moment, his gaze falling on the guards’ hold on her. Determined, he stepped forward and pried their fingers loose. She slipped away as soon as she could and rubbed her forearms, certain they would bruise.

“What proof do you have?” Martin asked, stepping closer so that she had to tilt her head back to meet his eyes.

Wordlessly, she opened her satchel and dug deep until her fingers closed around the Amulet of Kings. Hot to the touch, it glowed softly when she drew it out.

“Your father gave it to me and asked me to bring it to you.” The ruby reflected in Martin’s icy-blue eyes, tinting them purple. He stumbled back with a gasp.

“Is that... is that the Amulet of Kings?” he asked, staring at it awestruck. “You said, he gave it to you?”

She held it out to him. “It is yours to wear.”

“I don’t know... it is strange. I should be wary of your intentions. You come in here, say Kvatch would fall, its citizens would be slaughtered, and you offer me an amulet, wrapped in an unbelievable story. You wield magic unheard of. I can feel its power, yet you claim you’re not with the Daedra. Everything around you screams Daedra schemes. Yet...” He shook his head and looked into her eyes. “I feel no malice. It is strange, but I think you might actually be telling the truth.”

“I know my story sounds weird,” she admitted. “Believe me, I know. But I am desperate. All I want is to save the people, before it is too late. To get you to safety before the hordes of Oblivion reach you.”

“I hope I will not regret this,” Martin murmured to himself. “But I will try to convince the Count of your warnings.”

“Thank the Nine,” she sighed, but had no time to wonder how naturally the words had escaped her lips. All her energy drained away, and she sank to her knees, her sight fading into darkness. Arms caught her before she hit the floor.

“By the Nine! What sorcery is this?” she heard a shout ring out, followed by bewildered gasps and cries.

“Stay back,” Martin called, his tone commanding. “This woman is blessed. I saw the truth she was warning us about. We must speak with the Count at once.”

Oi, he truly was the heir to the throne, she thought with a smile. The rough fabric of his robes rubbed against her cheek as he held her. All the voices drifted away when a deep exhaustion took hold of her. A barking laugh filled her mind and her hackles rose. There she is, chaos incarnate, wrapping time itself around her finger. This is turning out more entertaining than I thought. A shiver went down her spine at the words of the Daedric hound. What was he talking about?

“Please, don’t let me regret this.” The soft, warm voice at her ear drowned out Barbas’ amused laugh.

You won’t. Believe me, she thought, relieved that at least one thing had finally gone right.

Chapter Text

Celia stayed in the background, listening as Martin tried to convince Count Ormellius Goldwine of the impending attack on Kvatch. He seemed well aware of how to present the threat and explain his knowledge in order to sway the older man.

“You said you dreamt of the attack?” the Count asked, uncertainty in his voice about how much prophecy a priest’s dream would hold.

“I dreamt it again and again, my lord. So, when this woman came to the Chapel of Akatosh, worried about the very same dream, I knew it was a warning.”

The lie did not come easily. Celia appreciated that he preferred honesty, yet she knew they had to convince the Count quickly to save the citizens of Kvatch. Goldwine paced up and down in the great hall of his castle, his hands folded behind his back. Then he looked at her, regarding her thoughtfully.

“You, woman, come closer!” he demanded. Celia lowered her head and stepped forward. Luckily the light was dim so he might not notice her foreign features, nor that she did not fit any race living in Cyrodiil. His guards had already given her strange looks. “Tell me about your dream.”

She cleared her throat. “It came every night for a month,” she began softly. “A great jaw of Oblivion opened right outside the city walls, fiery, scorching the soil. Hordes of Daedra flooded out and breached the gates. I saw Kvatch burn and citizens die under the overwhelming forces pouring from the gate.”

The Count drew in a sharp breath through his nose. “And you believe it is a warning?”

“I did not at first, but when the nightmares returned night after night, ever more fearsome, I travelled here for aid in the Chapel of Akatosh.”

After that, a debate erupted between captains of the watch and the Count. They argued about the implications. Some thought a vision alone was too vague to base an evacuation of a city like Kvatch on. Others, though, feared the consequences if they ignored it.

“I would not consider evacuation had only one person reported those dreams,” the Count finally declared. “But here stand two people who have never met before. A priest of Akatosh, at that.  We must trust that the Nine guide us in this matter. I will not risk a single soul if such a warning is granted us. We will begin evacuating Kvatch at once.”

With that, they were dismissed, and the city watch took over. Martin led her back to the Chapel of Akatosh where he spoke to the people, sending them home to pack their most essential belongings and heed the guards’ commands. Only after the last citizen had left did he descend to the undercroft to pack his satchel.

Celia sat on one of the benches and looked around the Chapel. It was beautiful and calm, eerily so. Again, she felt a whisper of air stir her hair, and she shuddered. What was that? Was it Barbas’s presence? Was it some Daedric Prince watching her? Or was it a power still unknown? An unsettling thought crossed her mind. The breeze had come before time itself had faltered earlier. Was that a faint sign of the magic trailing her? The one she could not control? Was she therefore dangerous to the people who had thrown her worried glances? She sighed heavily. No. She would never hurt anyone. Both times she’d unleashed the power, she’d been desperate. As long as she kept her cool, no one would be harmed by that weird magic.

Martin appeared, leading the other priests out of the undercroft. He instructed them to help the citizens, to support and reassure them that everything would be fine. Then his gaze landed on her. She got up from where she had sat and rubbed her palms nervously against her trousers. He approached her with purpose.

“We need to speak in detail soon, but now I must aid the citizens of Kvatch. You will stick by my side.”

“I need to get my horse first. He is still in the stables.” Martin looked at her in surprise. “He is my companion. He has already defended me more than once. I will not leave him behind. He can help carry older and weaker people from the city.”

He regarded her for a moment, then nodded towards the doors. “So be it, let’s retrieve your friend.”

Ghost greeted her exuberantly as though relieved to see her. She petted him, stroking his neck before wrapping her arms around him and pressing her cheek to his warm coat. He snorted and rubbed his head against her shoulder as soon as she let him go. 

“I missed you, my hero,” she told him affectionately. “We have important work to do now, to help the people of Kvatch.” 

With that she took the reins and led him out of the paddock. Martin stared at her, gave Ghost a glance, then fixed his eyes back on her. Whatever was on his mind, he did not share it. Silently he led the way to the watch and asked how they could help. From then on, Celia was busy making several trips to the encampment outside the city, carrying older people and children there. In the game, you never saw children, though they were certainly mentioned. Skyrim improved this little quirk. But as the developers were well aware of some players’ twisted sense of humour, they’d made it impossible to hurt them. No magic, no weapon, not even the Thu’um could touch them. Here, though, they were the most vulnerable. Ghost was gentle with them, allowing several to ride on his back at the same time. Martin talked to them, held their hands when they were afraid of the large horse, and the trust they placed in him showed how valued the calm priest was among the citizens.

When they headed back to the city again, she breathed a little easier, relieved the evacuation had run smoothly so far. However, when they came around the last bend and saw another group of people escorted out through the gate, her hackles rose. She stopped, trying to find what had made her shudder. It was a change in the air, a heated breeze, and an odd tinge in the sky that alerted her. She swung into the saddle and spurred Ghost on.

“Hurry!” she yelled, looking around frantically. “The Gate! It is opening!”

She had just finished her sentence when a deep rumbling shook the earth, and the air outside the city walls ripped in two like a silk veil. Blazing flames burst out of nowhere, the ground split, and a blinding orange light flashed from the centre. The stench of sulphur and scorched soil rushed in with the heat. People screamed, guards yelled, and the crowd erupted in panic. Celia stared at the abomination that seared the air around her.

“No!” she cried. “No, we were almost done!”

Ghost reared and neighed. She tried to calm him, then her gaze fell on Martin who stood frozen, eyes wide, staring at the blazing Oblivion Gate. Martin! The target of this attack. She had to get him out of here, before the Daedra spotted him, or the panicked people trampled him down. She turned Ghost around and urged him towards the shocked man, his face aglow with the peril that awaited him.

“Martin!” she yelled, bending down, reaching for him. “Come here!” Looking confused, he seized her hand and vaulted onto the horse behind her. “Hold on to me!” she cried as Ghost leapt forward before the first Daedra saw them flee.

She did not stop until they reached the encampment. There she looked back for the first time, as people pointed at the orange-lit sky. They shouted; children crying in fear. Damn, the game had not prepared her for this. That title screen with the knight before the burning Oblivion Gate had looked epic to her once, but seeing it now… menacing and otherworldly, it froze the blood in her veins. What Mehrunes Dagon’s plane was like beyond that gate, she didn’t dare imagine: burning corpses suspended from demonic towers, impaled bodies everywhere. That alone would be enough to scar her. Nothing she wanted to see for real.

“There! They are coming!” someone shouted, and they all stared at the three riders racing towards the camp.

It was Count Goldwine with two captains of the watch hurrying beside him. They stopped the horses and the older man looked around, his forehead furrowed with worry.

“An Oblivion Gate opened before we completed the evacuation,” he explained over the crowd. “But we managed to escort the last group of citizens back into the Chapel of Akatosh. The good men of the watch defend the city gates against the Daedra, but it is only a matter of time before they break through. We have sent messengers to call for Legion reinforcements.”

The people gasped and shouted questions at the Count. Were they safe in the encampment? Would the Daedra come after them there? Some wanted to leave for Anvil or Skingrad. Ghost got nervous and pranced around, and Celia tried to soothe him.

“The onslaught of Daedra will not cease until the gate is closed!” she finally shouted over the panicked crowd.

The Count’s eyes met hers, and recognition flickered across his face. He raised a hand and pointed at her. “You!” he called. “Come here!”

Oi, this was bad, she thought. She should have kept her trap shut. But when she looked back, Martin stared at the Count with furrowed brows before he dismounted. She slipped from Ghost’s back as she did not dare ride him through the agitated crowd. Instead, she gripped the reins tightly and led him towards the Count. The captains of the watch studied her intently. When she reached him, she curtseyed to maintain the image of a humble citizen.

“What do you know about Oblivion Gates?” he asked brusquely.

She didn’t take it personally; he was under enormous pressure, worried for his people still inside the city walls. “They lead to Mehrunes Dagon’s plane in Oblivion,” she explained matter-of-factly. “It is a realm of rock, lava, fire, and destruction. The gate is maintained by a Sigil Stone in a tower. It will collapse as soon as the source of its power is deactivated.”

“This sounds as if you’ve visited this realm before.”

There it was again, the suspicion that she was a worshipper of the Daedric Prince. Could it get any worse?  “In my dreams, I travelled there. It is a realm of torture, a nightmare of unimaginable horrors,” she answered, not entirely a lie, as her walkthroughs now seemed like dreams to her in this strange new reality.

“So, you know where to find this Sigil Stone,” the Count said, his eyes narrowing on her thoughtfully.

Suddenly hands gripped her shoulders and pulled her back. “You can’t send her in there alone. She is only a common woman, in her middle years and no warrior,” Martin protested calmly. 

Oi, what was it with young men always harping on her age? She swallowed the sting of offence, reminding herself he only wanted to save her from the catastrophe that lurked in the Count’s mind.

“By the Divines, not alone, no. But she can aid the men and lead them to the Sigil Stone. They will have better chances of success if someone who seems to know this realm supports them.” 

A shudder raked through her and tears sprang to her eyes. No! She was not ready for this. She’d only wanted to save Kvatch, find Martin, and be on her way to Weynon Priory by now. She’d had no intention of entering an Oblivion Gate herself, armed with a pathetic dagger she could not even wield.

“I... I am not a hero, not a fighter,” she stammered nervously. “I am not equipped for what awaits behind this gate.”

“You will be protected by my men. They will not let harm befall you. But in order to save the citizens in the chapel, to stop the Daedric invasion of Cyrodiil, we must close this gate. And you are our best chance of success.”

“Then I will come with her,” Martin said.

“No!” She whirled around and looked at him pleadingly. “You must not risk yourself in a foolish mission like that. You are Nirn’s only hope. Go to Weynon Priory and search for Jauffre,” she hissed, for his ears alone. “This is the path meant for you. I...” She swallowed hard, looked back at the Count. “I will do what I came for and save Kvatch.”

Martin shook his head. “Celia! You are not a warrior.”

“But I know where to find the Sigil Stone. And there is still this weird chaotic magic clinging to me, remember? It will keep me safe,” she tried to reassure him with more certainty than she felt. “This is my quest now. I think our paths part here. Thank you for listening to me.” 

A pained expression crossed his features. His hands squeezed her shoulders. “You said you are no hero. But I believe you are.” She looked up into his icy-blue eyes, which held her gaze with warmth. “Be careful, Celia. And come back unharmed. May Akatosh protect you.”

Surrounded by burly, heavily armed city watch, she approached the blazing Oblivion Gate a short while later. Her knees went weak, but she tried to ignore the dread that crept up the closer they came. They’d slain all Daedra on their way. Scamp and Clannfear corpses lay scattered along the path. Finally, they stood before the gate, and she could see the blurred outline of a massive tower. The guards stepped through with determined, grim faces, weapons drawn.

“Here goes nothing,” she breathed, and the next moment she stumbled onto the other side of the flame-rimmed arch. 

“By the Nine!” the guard next to her gasped when he looked around.

Yes... that was it. Mehrunes Dagon’s plane, the Deadlands, with partly collapsed spiked towers and broken bridges scattered across islands in a vast lava sea. Her lungs burned with the acrid air of smoke, molten rock and scorched bodies. A guard retched at the stench, and they all pulled up fabric over their noses and mouths. Three towers loomed behind a massive stone gate, piercing the heavy red storm-laden sky.

“What is this cursed place?” one of the men exclaimed in horror as he stared at severed heads impaled on pikes. 

“The Deadlands,” she answered softly, as if afraid to summon the Daedric Prince by speaking the name too loudly. “A place of destruction, fire, torture, and death.”

“By the Divines, let’s destroy this Sigil Stone and be done with it. This realm is not for mortals. So, woman, where do we go?”

“My name is Celia,” she explained. She would not die an anonymous woman here. “The Sigil Stone is in the main tower, the one in the middle. But bridges lead to the wings there.” In the game, she’d needed to kill the Dremora with the key, but otherwise the first Oblivion Gate had been rather straightforward. She gestured to the path on the left and the men headed there without question. “Be careful. There might be Dremora, Clannfear or Scamps lurking on the way.”

Cautiously they moved towards a broken bridge. Unable to cross, they followed the path right, leading up a hill. A group of Scamps ambushed them there. One of the guards shoved her back, and the men fought with furious precision. Celia pressed herself against a boulder and stared at the slaughter. The Daedric beasts hurled fire, but the men raised their shields, and the Scamps soon fell, pierced by arrows. She closed her eyes, because the battle was far more brutal than the game had ever shown. Then her hand touched a dry, rough surface that felt like... She opened her eyes and stared at the sturdy, brown strands. Bloodgrass! Immediately she unsheathed her dagger, cut them into smaller chunks, stashing them quickly in her satchel.

“What are you doing there?” one of the men asked when they returned to her.

“This is Bloodgrass, an alchemy ingredient. I am not skilled in that school, but I am sure some alchemists might be eager to get their hands on it. You can only find it in Oblivion, you know.” They looked at her in surprise. “Don’t worry, I will not delay our progression; I will simply collect on the way.”

They looked at the stumps and shook their heads, determined not to show how much her hoarding amused them. Even with the pouch of gold coins, she was still far from wealthy. She needed this opportunity to earn some money for herself, if she made it out alive, of course. So she collected more Bloodgrass, Spiddal Plants and Harrada Roots whenever she could. Finally, they arrived at the door leading to the central tower. The men pried it open, and they slipped inside. The fiery spiral shot upward before their eyes, marking the place as the anchor of the Oblivion Gate.

“This is it. We must ascend the tower to reach the Sigil Stone. But be careful, it is full of traps and Daedric creatures.”

“Traps?” one of the men asked. “Like what?”

“Spears shooting out of the walls, impaling everyone who walks past. Fire traps that explode when you approach. Things like that.”

“You sound like you’ve been here before,” another guard said, eyeing her with suspicion.

She couldn’t blame him. Her descriptions were rather detailed. “Not in person,” she explained, which wasn’t even a lie. “But the nightmares were awfully precise. They showed all the horrors of this place.”

Moving slowly, the group circled the central column. The men fought off more Scamps. They pried open another door and crept cautiously up the steep corridor. The battle cry of a Dremora mage rang out. He summoned more creatures, but he fell soon after.

“What in Akatosh’s name is that?” a guard exclaimed in horror.

“This... is a flesh bag,” Celia replied and shuddered at the sight of the meaty sack. She’d always thought they were gross in the game. The real thing though... made bile rise in her throat. “The Daedra stash their loot in there. Potions, lockpicks, weapons, you name it.”

They all looked at the bag in disbelief. Celia stepped up to it, gripped the top and pulled it open. A vile, rotten stench filled her nostrils and she gagged. She squeezed her lips shut, held her breath, and shoved her arm into the slick sack. Her hand closed around the handle of a weapon, surprisingly light, and pulled it out. It was a dagger glowing softly blue. A hum prickled up her arm, and with a gasp she let it fall. It clattered to the ground and lay still. She looked at the men, who stared at her in disgusted fascination.

“It hummed in my hand,” she said quickly, trying to justify her reaction.

“It is enchanted,” one of the warriors explained. He picked it up from the ground, moved it around in his hand. “It could be useful. Keep it. Whatever enchantment it holds can save your life.” With a nod, he held it out to her, the handle first.

She took it reluctantly, letting the soft hum prickle up her arm. It felt lighter than the dagger Baurus had given her. Yes, maybe she could actually stab and slice with this one. When she looked up, all the men were still staring at her.

“What is it?” she asked.

“I can’t believe she put her hand in that disgusting thing,” one man mumbled, turning away to look around the room. 

The others agreed and headed straight for the door at the far end. Only the soldier who’d given the dagger back to her smiled, clapped her shoulder, and nudged her forward to follow his comrades.

They ascended the tower slowly, fighting whenever a Dremora or Scamp jumped them. They returned to the main room and made it around the balcony to the next set of doors. A group of Scamps immediately charged, but before they reached them, spears shot from the walls, impaled the beasts, and withdrew. The limp bodies collapsed to the floor, bloodied and dead.

“Akatosh protect us!” the guard at the front exclaimed. “This could have been me. I did not see those spears.”

Even more cautious than before, they stepped around the column to avoid the deadly trap, only to find the next door locked. Celia sighed and looked with dread at the door in the outer wall. 

“We must cross the bridge to the other tower,” she explained. “The Sigil Keeper may be patrolling there.”

“The Sigil Keeper?”

“A higher Dremora, most likely. Not as single-minded as the Scamps. In other words, the commander of this gate.”

The men pried the door open, and a blast of hot wind whirled in. Beyond lay a long, high stone bridge with no railing or balustrade. It allowed only a single file.

The one at the front turned to his comrades. “You two, stay here with the lady. Protect her from whatever may lurk in the darkness,” he said. “The rest, follow me. We’ll retrieve the key.”

Celia watched them cross the bridge slowly, eyes fixed straight ahead. They never looked down, their goal firmly in sight. She bent forward to glance over the edge, but the man who had given her the dagger grabbed her arm and pulled her back.

“Don’t!” he said.

She sank back against the wall and waited. Her mind spun one gruesome scenario after another about what awaited the men in the other tower. She remembered a corpse crusher there, at least if this place was true to the game. The thought of them all impaled on its pikes made her shudder.

“There they are,” the soldier next to her sighed in relief. “And they freed a captive, too.”

One of them carried an older man, pale and broken, dressed only in sackcloth, over the bridge. Her respect for the warriors rose immensely. They all made it back safely, but the fight must have been hard, for none of them was unharmed. Marked with slashes, they seemed exhausted. Celia opened her satchel and took out the vials she carried. They could mend some of the wounds by sharing the potions. They spared one for the old man, so that he could at least walk on his own. He murmured his thanks but said nothing more. His eyes were dull, as if he’d lost his will to live. His time as a Daedric captive had clearly taken its toll, leaving the poor man deeply traumatised. Celia offered him her arm to support him on the way. She was no use in a fight, so she could at least help the poor man. In the game, he had been there too, a captive in an iron cage. He had explained the Sigil Stone mechanics and told the player to leave him behind and close the Oblivion Gate instead. She had always been frustrated that she could not save him, had run up and down the tower several times in search of a lever to open the cage, to no avail. But the guards had managed to free him, and they had taken him with them. A strange sense of closure settled over Celia when he allowed her to aid him forward.

One of the men who had stayed with her took the lead. He opened the door, and they continued their ascent of the tower. They followed the steep corridor upward and emerged onto a higher balcony of the main room. The fiery spiral roared in her ears. They were close now. She saw the bony stairs leading even higher. The soldiers fought another wave of foes, and she led the old man up the bumpy steps. Bodies tumbled over the edge into the fiery abyss, but to her relief only Daedra found their end there. On the next floor they were met by a group of Dremora mages led by a warrior in heavy armour swinging a massive weapon. The Daedra rushed forward to meet them. The men fought with fearsome resolve, unyielding.

“There!” The old man pointed at a round platform at the edge of the balcony, marked with a rune painted in blood.

“Fall back!” she called to the men. “To me! To me!”

The platform would carry them another floor up and leave the group of Dremora behind. If they made it, they could rush up the last dragon-wing slope to the Sigil Stone, destroy it, and bring down the anchor of the gate. She led the man forward, worrying about how to trigger it. In the game she had pressed a button to activate it. She turned to see the warriors slowly falling back, fending off spells and blows, shielding them from harm.

“On the platform!” she cried, holding the unsteady man close so that he would not fall to his death in the fiery spiral. 

The soldiers hesitated for a moment, but gathered around them, and she stamped down on the rune. In the next second, they were hurled upward. She heard the gasps of the men, and then they all stumbled onto the upper balcony.

“There it is!” she shouted and pointed up the red dragon-wing slope. 

They hurried towards it. One of the guards carried the older man as they ran. When they reached the top they all stared at the glowing Sigil Stone, slowly turning before them.

“What now?” one of them asked.

She shook her head. “I don’t know,” she admitted. In the game, she pressed a button, and the gate collapsed. But what was she supposed to do here?

“What? You’re meant to be the expert!”

“I only knew where it was, not how to deactivate it.”

Another wave of enemies surged forward with battle cries. The men raised their shields and weapons to ward them off.

“Figure it out!” one of them yelled and charged into the oncoming fight.

Oi, why her? Desperate for a solution, she stepped forward, stared at the Sigil Stone, and stretched out her hand. Heat scorched her fingertips and she yanked it back immediately. Damn! What was she supposed to do?

“Use your powers,” the old man said calmly.

“What powers?” she shot back. “I don’t have any powers. I’m an ordinary woman.”

“You bear plenty, child. Let it loose.”

She looked at the man, baffled by his words. “I don’t bear anything. I am not meant to be a hero. I fail at every corner, I mess up, and everything I touch turns into chaos.”

“Yes, that!” he said with a weak smile.

She furrowed her brow in confusion, wondering if she’d heard correctly. Wrong, wrong, wrong. Out of place, out of time. And yet you move, and the world shifts with you. Barbas’s voice rang in her mind and she turned towards the Sigil Stone with wide eyes. If that was what his words meant, she would make it happen. She would shift the world of Oblivion by touching this goddamn Sigil Stone, and either close the gate or die trying. She reached for it, her heart nearly jumping out of her chest. The heat scorched her fingers, seared her palms. The pain was so sharp she gasped. A scream echoed far away, muffled, yet piercing all the same. The last thing she realised was that it was her voice cutting through the roaring of the Sigil Stone.

The world around her blazed brightly, and then went dark.

Chapter Text

Voices drifted to her from far away, muffled but unmistakable. The sounds of heavy work kept her from slipping back to sleep for a few more minutes. Were those construction workers at it again? She tried to roll onto her back, groaning at the protest of her stiff, aching limbs.

“Don’t move, you madwoman,” warned a soft male voice, warm and caring.

She blinked her eyes open and saw the brown-haired man with icy-blue gaze, pouring water into a goblet before coming over to her. She stared at him in disbelief. But then the recent events came rushing back, and her pulse quickened, rising so sharply she almost choked. 

“We made it out?” she asked, a faint croak edging her words.

“Barely,” he answered and sat down on the bed where she lay.

“What happened?”

Martin set the goblet down, stretched out his hand and brushed a strand of her unruly hair back. A shadow moved over his face as though haunted by the memory. 

“Come, drink a bit first, and I will recount what happened last night.” He helped her sit upright and handed the goblet to her. The cold water soothed her sore throat as she sipped. “We fought through the night,” he finally began, his voice soft. “The city watch would not relent until they freed the citizens trapped in the chapel. But the Daedra pressed us hard. For each fallen beast, three more seemed to pour from the gate. Even so, the city caught fire. We managed to quench the worst of it before it spread.”

His gaze drifted through the dimly lit chamber, as if the fire still raged before his eyes. “We waited for you to return, for some signs you were alive. Only in the early hours did we hear the rumbling. The gate lit up, flames flaring, and then it collapsed upon itself, leaving scorched earth and broken stone.”

Martin looked back at her, his face betraying the worry he’d felt for her. “The guards were scattered, battered but conscious. Even the poor old man still breathed. But you—” his voice caught for a moment, and he swallowed, his eyes racing through the room, never finding anywhere to rest. “—you lay as if lifeless. They carried you here in panic, demanding we save you.”

The moment she touched the Sigil Stone rushed back to her. The pain overwhelming, unlike anything she had ever experienced.

Martin cleared his throat. “They call you a hero, Celia. Their tales are already spreading throughout the city. Brave, unwavering... even in the face of horrors that would have broken most. They claim they would not have succeeded without you at their side.”

“I’m no hero,” she replied quickly. “They cleared our way through the tower. They rescued the old man. I only touched the Sigil Stone.”

Martin’s lips curved at the corners. “Much too humble for her own good,” he murmured. “Word of your deeds has already crossed the city’s borders. I am sure they will call you by an honorific soon. And rightly so.”

She felt her cheeks burn as a blush crept up. “Why are you still here?” she asked, eager to turn the focus away from herself. “I sent you to Weynon Priory to talk to Jauffre. Yet here you are, with the Amulet of Kings. You almost handed them what they sought on a silver platter.”

He chuckled at that. “And here she scolds me like a little boy.”

“The Mythic Dawn are after you and the Amulet of Kings. They could have easily killed you and taken the Amulet. Why did you stay here?”

“The citizens of Kvatch needed me,” he replied simply. “I could not leave them in the chaos of the attack. I am still a priest, after all. And for the Amulet...” He averted his eyes, and now it was his turn to flush. “I made sure it was not with me in the same place.”

She looked at him in confusion. “What? Where is it? You can’t just hide it somewhere.”

“I believe it is safe for now.” He got up and lifted a folded bundle from the small wooden table. “They brought fresh clothes for you,” he explained, not mentioning the Amulet any further. “I’ll be upstairs, helping with the repairs on the chapel. You should get dressed. There are people who want to meet you.”

“Who?” she asked as he slowly walked to the door. “And where is the Amulet? Martin!”

He closed the door without a word, leaving her alone. Oh, this infuriating man! What did he mean, it was safe for now? She threw the linen blanket back and moved to swing her legs out of bed, but stiffness in her limbs reminded her of last night’s ordeal. Instead of gracefully slipping from the pallet, she groaned and leaned on the nearby chair. Hobbling, she made her way towards the bundle of clothes. Damn, she was too old for stunts like that. They’d sent her a clean, intricately stitched tunic, padded with leather at the shoulders and chest, as though they expected her to need the extra armour. The trousers reminded her of riding breeches, the knees and seat also reinforced for durability. Laced boots completed her outfit. Grabbing her satchel, she made for the door, running her fingers through the tangled mess of her unruly, chin-length hair. Maybe she could pick up a brush from one of the vendors in Kvatch. 

She stopped at the door, the handle in hand, and took a deep breath. Kvatch. It still stood strong. A little battered, but still inhabitable. She’d thwarted the Mythic Dawn’s attack, their attempt to find Martin and erase the last of the Septim heirs. The Amulet of Kings had not fallen into their hands. She had changed the course of events and thus diverged from the canon path of the main quest. What would happen now? Was Weynon Priory still their destination? It sure was, as Jauffre was the only one who knew of the illegitimate son of Uriel Septim, who he was and where he lived. He alone could vouch for Martin.

Silently she closed the door behind her as she stepped from the little chamber in the undercroft. She turned. The next moment, a hand covered her mouth, an arm wound around her waist, and she was pulled back against a large body.

“There she is, the child of the Void,” a deep, velvety voice rumbled in her ear. “You unleashed chaos beyond my wildest imagination, carrying it even into Oblivion itself, thwarting its bold strike on Cyrodiil. Hundreds of Daedra... dead. Not even I can claim such an achievement for myself.” She didn’t dare fight his hold; she stayed perfectly still. Goosebumps spread across her skin as his voice rolled through her, carrying an almost soothing lilt. “Your progress pleases me, daughter of Sithis. I am eager to witness you bringing our Dread Father’s chaos into this world.” She shuddered as Lucien Lachance pressed a kiss to her temple, the gesture disturbingly tender. Then his velvet tone shifted into a predator’s purr: “Watch your back, little prey. You are lucky I am not of the Thieves Guild, with the treasures in your satchel.”

The next moment his hand slipped from her mouth and with only a rustle of his robe, he was gone. Shakily, she sank back against the wall. She still felt the press of his gloved hand, the weight of his arm around her waist. His smooth gentleness jarred her more than any threat ever could. He might not mean her harm, but his keen interest, perhaps even obsession, hardly felt healthy. Damn him for reminding her how easily he could get to her, though she’d considered those halls safe. She rubbed the back of her hand against her mouth as if she could wipe the memory away. Get a grip, girl, there are people waiting for you. They should not see her shaken. Again she brushed her fingers through her hair, then looked at the stairs leading into the nave of the chapel and headed up.

As soon as she emerged from the undercroft, a hush fell over the people working here. Wide eyes stared at her, and more than once she heard whispers behind clasped hands: the brave woman, she came to warn us, she knew of the attack, she saved us all, the Hero of Kvatch. Uncomfortable under the attention, she turned around, determined to leave the chapel and hide in the daily bustle of the city, when purposeful steps neared her. Count Goldwine approached, several captains of the watch at his heels. 

“There she is,” he exclaimed, stopping right before her. She curtseyed shyly. “I heard the reports of the guards. You saved the good citizens of Kvatch, not only with words but with your courage as well. We are forever in your debt, dear lady.” He bowed his head as if to underscore his praise.

“I only did what I came for,” she replied softly.

The Count chuckled. “You were right, Brother Martin, she is a humble woman; but honour to whom honour is due. Had it not been for you, last night might have marked the end of Kvatch. Not even the allies who rushed to our side could have prevented its fall. I wish to celebrate our victory, and I’d like to invite you to my banquet tonight.”

“Oh!” She looked up in surprise. “I... I... feel honoured,” she stammered. “But I must proceed on my journey. I still have urgent matters to attend to.” Her gaze fell on Martin who watched her with warmth in his eyes and a slight smile on his face.

“See, old friend, I told you. You can’t hold an adventurer against her will,” a familiar voice called out. “I tried that once, but she slipped away.”

Steps sounded behind her, nearing the nave from the doors of the chapel. Her eyes widened and she froze. Oi, what was he doing here? Icy chills crept down her spine and she didn’t dare turn around.

“Now I see why you escaped my castle, Celia. You had urgent matters to attend to,” he threw her words back at her, his steps drawing nearer.

“C... Count Hassildor,” she croaked, her throat suddenly dry. She slowly turned and found him standing behind her, dressed in a travel coat, the hood pulled low over his head to shield him from the sun and curious stares alike. “How... lovely to see you again.”

“I am sure it is,” he replied, taking her hand and lifting it to his lips to kiss her knuckles. “I was sick with worry when word of your abduction reached me.” He held her hand in his, his grip fast, unyielding as though he would not let her slip away again. “But I can see you escaped your captor.”

“For now,” she mumbled, catching the slight tug at the corners of his mouth. Wait! Did he know what she was alluding to? What did this almost-smile mean? She narrowed her eyes on him. “He let me go as soon as he deemed himself safe, just as he’d said,” she explained and watched him closely, but the Count had donned his polite mask again.

She glanced at Martin, who stood aside with arms crossed, head tilted as he watched her. Oh damn, these Tamriel men drove her crazy. All their secret agendas, silent assessments, suspicions; she just wanted to be on her way, far from all this, to drop Martin off at Weynon Priory and hand the responsibility to the Blades. She tried to pull back her hand, but Count Hassildor still held it firmly in his.

“Yes, this was refreshing. And now that we all know we are well and unharmed, I need to prepare for my journey. There are things to buy, supplies to stock up, the usual,” she babbled on, forcing a smile to mask the nervousness his nearness stirred.

He drew her closer, lifted her hand to his lips again. “I need a private word with you,” he whispered, for her ears alone. “I may have found vital knowledge you need before you travel those lands. Return to Skingrad with me.”

“I wish you a safe journey back to your city,” she replied in a normal voice for everyone to hear. “Thank you for coming to Kvatch’s aid. You are a true ally.” With those words she reclaimed control over her hand, and he let her, making it appear perfectly natural. She curtseyed again, then hurried out of the chapel. As the heavy doors fell shut, she leaned against them, drawing several calming breaths.

“He is not the only one who wishes to have a word with you,” came the voice of the soft-spoken priest next to her. The sneaky bastard had left the chapel through a different exit.

“Aye,” she replied. “But we can talk on our way to Weynon Priory. Now you need to show me where I can get a brush.”

Martin led her to the local shops. First, she stopped at the alchemist. The man was thrilled at the prospect of buying everything she offered. Word had spread that she’d been collecting ingredients in the middle of the fiercest fights, which sounded a bit exaggerated to her ears. She opened her satchel, grabbed a fistful of Bloodgrass strands and placed them on the scales. The eyes of the vendor gleamed at the otherworldly plants. Again she pushed her hand into the bag, but paused as her fingers tangled in a delicate metal chain. Confused, she opened it wider, peeked in, and her eyes widened at the soft red glow. She looked up at Martin in shock; he shook his head slightly, and she pressed her lips shut. He had not! No! Cautious now, she fished out the ingredients without touching the Amulet again. Oh, young man, you are in for it, she promised herself.

When they left the shop, she immediately turned her reproachful gaze on Martin, who seemed rather occupied with the bustle in the streets.

“You did not!” she hissed at him.

“Hush, Celia, this is not a conversation we should have here.”

“Still, you really did not! Are you out of your mind?”

He chuckled softly. Chuckled! Furious, she puffed out air and marched on to buy supplies, every step sharp with irritation. Not even the fact that the pouch Baurus had given her was now too small to hold all her coins could soften her mood. He’d seriously put the Amulet of Kings into her satchel. Oh, those Tamriel men drove her crazy. Whether he’d done it before or after the gate, she didn’t know, but he owed her answers now.

When they went to the stables to rent a horse for Martin, she sensed a shift in his mood. His calm smiles towards people had given way to brooding as he stroked Ghost, lost in thought, and barely glanced at the steed she picked for him. Only when they returned to the chapel did he speak.

“Give me a few minutes to pack my satchel.” He looked up at the damaged tower, sadness clouding his eyes. “I must say my goodbyes as well.”

“Of course.” She stepped back. “I won’t interfere with your business here. Meet me at the stable when you’re ready. I’ll be waiting with the horses.”

She sat on the wooden fence, keeping herself busy petting Ghost, who shielded her from the curious and grateful people of Kvatch. Whenever they spotted her, some approached with thanks and admiration, while others only whispered, not daring to come closer. Soon, she pulled the cowl of her coat over her head and hid behind Ghost. When she groomed him with the rough brushes the stables offered, he humoured her, content to stand as her shield.

“You are good with horses,” came the familiar soft, calm voice. Martin stood at the paddock, satchel slung across his dark grey priest robes. “They trust you and this one seems to be utterly smitten with you.”

“He’s my boy,” she replied, patting Ghost’s strong neck fondly. “A fine and brave companion. I couldn’t wish for a better friend.”

“He seems to think the same about his rider.” When she looked at Martin, she caught the faint smile, though his eyes still brimmed with sadness.

They saddled the horses and led them to the city gate. The guards greeted them, opened it wide, and wished them safe travels. In silence, they descended the winding hill to the Gold Road. They halted at the crossroads between Kvatch, Anvil, and Skingrad, and looked back. The city, which she had only ever seen in ruins, now stood proud and strong in the noon sun. She squinted at the bright light. Nothing remained of the eerie orange tinge from the Oblivion Gate that had loomed before the city. She turned around and urged Ghost to follow the road. Damn, she had wanted to confront Martin with that Amulet stunt, but how could she, seeing how his heart ached for the city he’d called home. He rode towards an unknown fate, unprepared for what awaited him. She remembered his first clumsy speech to the Blades in the game when they arrived at Cloud Ruler Temple. How awkward everything felt for him, the attention, the reverence of the Blades hailing him as the Emperor. No, she could not scold him now.

“You are deep in thought, it seems,” he said, breaking the long silence as his gaze drifted over the landscape.

“I... I wanted to scold you,” she admitted. “But I can’t when you look so sad.”

He turned a surprised gaze on her. “You are a curious one.”

She snorted with a wry smile. “I heard that before.”

“So full of compassion and... secrets.”

She pressed her lips into a tight line, knowing what would follow. But he had a right to ask. She’d overwhelmed him with her demands the night before, leaving no time to explain further. In her attempt to make him believe her, she’d dumped the whole load on him. At least, she owed him a proper explanation.

“As I said, you are the secret son of Emperor Uriel Septim. When you were born, he asked Jauffre, the Grandmaster of the Blades, to take you somewhere safe and never speak of your existence to anyone. He inquired about you frequently, though. As a Dragonblood, he saw fate unfold in his dreams, as you may have experienced yourself. Thus, he knew that one day this moment would come. He said he could not see beyond his own death, but he spoke of fate and tasked me with finding you. You are his last remaining heir, as the Mythic Dawn not only murdered him but also killed all his sons except you.” She paused, granting him time to let that sink in. They swayed next to each other on their horses. “The Mythic Dawn are cultists who worship Mehrunes Dagon. They want to collapse the veil between Nirn and Oblivion so that the Prince of Destruction can conquer Tamriel and leave ruin in his wake. That’s why you must light the Dragonfires again in the Temple of the One, to re-establish the barrier that keeps Oblivion from Nirn.”

Martin nodded, deep in thought, then looked at her again. “But who are you?” he asked. “Which role do you play in all this?”

“I... he said I was destined to find you and aid you on your way.”

“Why? Why were you there when he died?”

She cleared her throat and a flush made her cheeks burn. “I... was a captive in the cell that held a secret passage from the Imperial Prison to the sewers. The Blades tried to sneak him out of the city that way. And I followed.”

His eyes bored into her, but she didn’t dare look back. “Why?” he asked simply.

“I don’t know,” she answered, shoulders lifting helplessly. “I woke up with no memory of how I got there or what I’d done. I can’t even imagine what I might have done.” 

They rode on in silence. Would he still come with her after that? Or would he turn back? Would he still trust her? How could he, knowing she was a prisoner? Her explanation sounded like flimsy evasions at best. But how could she explain why she’d been there? Hey, I come from outside this realm, where your life is but a game. I was somehow transported into it and dumped into the Imperial Prison as some kind of tutorial. Yeah, Celia, this would go over well. On the other hand... she dared look at him and found him studying her.

“I am not a criminal, Martin,” she blurted out. 

“You think I judge you when I am only trying to understand the mystery you are. You say you were but a mere prisoner in the right cell at the right time. But the Emperor saw more in you. You know things you shouldn’t know, a foreign magic surrounds you, yet you are not with the Daedra. Nothing about you speaks malice or deceit. I only see compassion and a profound desire to help.” 

She closed her eyes and sighed. Oh, how she wished she could tell him. But how? It would explain everything: why she knew things a common citizen would never know; why she could name those responsible for the plot against the Empire; why she could predict what would happen next. At least one person in this godforsaken mess would listen without distrust and suspicion. Another thought crossed her mind. She’d already massively diverged from the canon. The Amulet of Kings was not lost to the Mythic Dawn. They wouldn’t need to investigate to find the Shrine of Mehrunes Dagon. They could easily obtain the Mysterium Xarxes to learn the ritual that would open a portal to Mankar Camoran’s Paradise. But who should she tell all this? They always looked at her with suspicion whenever she did. Too many stories had taught her that secrets among heroes only ever helped villains rise. Maybe she shouldn’t make the same mistake. She drew a deep breath and looked at Martin. He waited patiently, as if he knew she was debating with herself. 

“You ask the right questions, and you deserve answers. I only fear you won’t believe me.” He stayed silent, and it made her feel uncomfortable. “I am not from here. You may have noticed my foreign features. I was told there was no race that matched my looks.” She paused and averted her gaze, his scrutiny prickling across her skin. “The reason is that I am not of Tamriel.”

“That is what I suspected,” he said. “Where are you from? Akavir?”

“What? No!” she blurted, staring at him in shock. “I am not from Tamriel, not from Akavir, nor any other continent on Nirn. I am not from this universe, this plane, whatever you want to call it. I come from a place outside all of this. Mundus and Oblivion are just tales in my world. That’s why I know so much. I’ve heard this tale so many times. And then... I woke up at its beginning like in a dream, but now I’m living it for real.”

Martin stayed silent, his eyes fixed on hers, as though trying to see inside her. “What do you say, then?” he finally asked. “Have you come from the Gray Maybe?”

She furrowed her brow, sifting through the confusing Elder Scrolls mythology, then shook her head. “I am not et’Ada. I am an ordinary woman, no spiritual being. Just... not from here.”

“That explains the unknown magic,” Martin murmured.

“Actually, it doesn’t. There is no magic where I come from,” she countered. “People don’t swing swords, wear armour, or cast spells. Those things only happen in stories where I come from. We call it fantasy. Tamriel, the realm of the Elder Scrolls, is a tale.”

They rode in silence for a while before Martin squinted ahead. “I am sorry about the Amulet, Celia,” he began again. What? That was it? He simply accepted her explanation and moved on? “I... couldn’t take it. It frightened me, everything it stood for, so I put it back into your satchel.”

Wait! Did he mean... “Before or after I entered the Oblivion Gate?” she asked. Damn, the whole ordeal gave her whiplash.

His cheeks flushed. “There was no time to take it back before you entered the gate.”

“You let me carry it into the Deadlands?” 

He sighed deeply. “I see now it wasn’t the best decision. But when I was alone in my chamber and held it in my hands, I got scared. I shouldn’t have done that, sending you with the Empire’s sacred relic into Oblivion. Call me a coward. I deserve it.”

She closed her eyes, shaking her head. A wave of sympathy washed through her for this man she had overrun with the sudden changes to his life. “No, you don’t,” she relented softly. “You were overwhelmed, that’s all. Just, please, take it back.”

“I know I ask much of you, but I would have you keep it. No one expects you to have it. I believe it is safer in your care for the time being.”

Oi, she’d hoped she was done carrying the dangerous burden. But he was right. No one would assume she held the Amulet. Not even she had known he’d slipped it back. Only Lucien Lachance seemed to be aware of it, but she pushed that thought from her mind. It was safer in her satchel than around Martin’s neck. They rode on, following the Gold Road, as the sun moved westward. In the distance she could make out the outlines of a city. Maybe they could rest there and continue their journey early the next morning.

“I hope you are aware we cannot simply pass Skingrad; there is no way to avoid it,” Martin said, his attention on the skyline too. She turned to him in confusion, wondering why he had mentioned it. His gaze shifted to her and the corners of his mouth lifted slightly. “I understand you have provoked the Count’s keen interest. Maybe we should consider staying the night and continuing towards Weynon Priory tomorrow morning. I’m sure we will not get past unnoticed.”

She groaned aloud. He was right. Count Janus Hassildor had made it clear in no uncertain terms he wanted to talk. Though she had told him, rather rudely, that she wouldn’t, talk he would.

Chapter Text

They arrived at the Grateful Pass Stables just before dusk. Celia had pulled her cowl over her head to avoid the scrutiny of the Skingrad people, who’d seen her abduction by none other than Lucien Lachance, Speaker for the Dark Brotherhood himself. Still, the stablehand seemed to recognize Ghost, as his Elven eyes widened at her before darting to Martin. She guessed he couldn’t make sense of her being in the company of a priest, and so he turned to what he did best: tending the horses.

“Are you going to tell me what happened here? The Count said something about an abduction?”

She sighed. “Someone tried to escape the city and chose me as leverage to fend off the guards. But he let me go as soon as he felt safe from the chase.”

Martin shook his head, smiling. “Others would be scarred by such an event, but you talk about it as if it were a minor nuisance.”

He had no idea about how scarring this experience had been and still was. Her eyes scanned the surroundings, and she wondered if the assassin was lurking in the shadows somewhere nearby. 

“Let’s find a place for the night. I suggest the Two Sisters Lodge,” she murmured, uneasy now to be in the open. “They serve hearty, rough Orc-made meals. Hardly a place for nobility; ideal to lie low.”

“Lead the way,” he said with a smirk.

“Just to make it clear,” she explained, as they entered through the West Gate. “We’ll rent one room. I’m no fighter, and you’re a priest. We need to have each other’s backs.”

“I may not be a warrior, Celia, but I am not defenceless,” he countered.

Yeah, I know, she thought, but didn’t want to hint at knowledge about his past. No need to put a strain on their delicate trust by mentioning Sanguine. “Let’s go!”

They turned right from the central path up to the south part of the city. The alley led straight to the inn. Still, she couldn’t shake the feeling of eyes on them. Damn, Lucien Lachance and his predatory mind games. No matter how much she tried to tell herself they were safe, the prickling told her they were being followed, and she felt like the paranoid Bosmer Glarthir who had tangled her in his conspiracy quest in the game. 

“We are being followed,” Martin whispered. 

“It is only a short way. The inn is just up the hill on the right.”

They kept going, and Celia tried not to betray her unease in the stiffness of her movements. A few more steps would bring them to the Two Sisters Lodge. They’d almost made it when a man blocked their path. He wore nondescript clothes, a linen tunic, dark trousers, boots, and a coat not unlike Celia’s. He had the cowl drawn deep into his face.

“Well met, travellers,” he greeted them politely, yet his voice grated on her. “Welcome to Skingrad. I see you have arrived safely.”

“We did, indeed,” Celia replied, surprised at the coldness in her own voice. “And I’d much appreciate it if it stayed this way.”

The eyes of the man widened under the cowl in surprise over her bluntness. His gaze shifted to Martin, who held a faint shimmer of prepared magic in his palms. The stranger stepped back and lifted his hands in defence.

“I mean you no harm,” he insisted. “I am just a messenger. A mutual friend wishes to invite you to dinner and has tasked me with accompanying you to him.”

“You and your comrades?” Martin asked as several figures emerged from the surrounding alleys.

“He wishes to ensure your safety after the events of your last visit.”

He sure did, this sneaky bastard, she thought. “Tell our mutual friend we’ll be there. We only need to rent a room for the night.” 

“That won’t be necessary. As I said, your safety is your friend’s priority.”

Her eyes narrowed at the messenger as she wondered whether this was merely an escorting squad or Count Hassildor taking her captive again. “Will you drag us there if we don’t comply?”

The man stared at her. He clearly hadn’t reckoned with her reaction. “This is not an arrest,” he spluttered, taken off guard.

“Oh, I could have mistaken it for one: you were lying in wait for us, watching our every move, and now you surround us as if you wanted to prevent us from bolting.”

“Celia, it will be fine,” Martin said soothingly, resting his hand on her shoulder. “Lead the way, dear sir.”

Damn, she was sick of the Tamrielic men manipulating her into compliance. She did not want to jump at the Count’s every whim. “He locked me up in the guest room last time,” she hissed when the dark figures closed in around them in an indistinct mass. 

“It will be fine,” Martin repeated in a low voice.

They guided them through the city to the path across the bridge to the castle gates. In the courtyard, the Argonian steward awaited them and bowed. “Good evening, travellers,” she greeted politely. “I am pleased to see you again unharmed, dear lady.” Then she turned to Martin. “My name is Hal-Liurz. Come, we’ve prepared dinner for you. You must be hungry after the journey here.”

The warmth of the greeting caught Celia off guard. She’d thought the Argonian would be clipped, offended maybe, that Celia had slipped away under her care. But she didn’t sense any hostility, so she followed the woman into the castle. Again, she couldn’t take her eyes off this graceful reptilian figure. It was one thing seeing them in the game, even in the rather detailed and realistic trailers of Elder Scrolls Online; the reality before her was another matter. The game couldn’t convey the restrained power coiling through the scaled body, the slightly swaying strong tail, the talons that promised pain with every strike. Soon, they arrived at the doors to the dining hall. The guards opened them, letting the group enter. Hal-Liurz stepped aside and bowed.

“Your guests, my lord,” she announced.

Celia’s gaze zeroed in on the regal man seated at the head of the banquet table. This time, though, he had already moved to the corner, maybe to avoid the awkward distance the staff had created last time. He stood, a faint smirk on his face as though he knew Celia was furious, and it amused him.

“Celia, Brother Martin, welcome to my castle.”

A hot wave of anger rolled through her. First he locked her in that guest room, then he approached her in front of half the citizens of Kvatch, had her escorted to the castle, making it clear refusal wasn’t an option, and now played the polite host. She was sick of being intimidated and toyed with by those men. Lucien Lachance and Janus Hassildor could go to hell… or Oblivion, for that matter.

“You call that welcome, Count Hassildor?” she replied in a pleasant voice, brimming with false politeness. “Strange hospitality, abducting us from the streets like that. I thought this was more… the Dark Brotherhood’s style, yes?”

The Count faltered, eyes gone wide. “Abducting?” he repeated in surprise, then the smirk returned. “My dear lady. You wound me. Though I admit, you do so delightfully. Yet allow me to be plain. Had I snatched you off the street like the Dark Brotherhood, you would not be here to scold me so sweetly. Come then, grant me the courtesy of your company at table. We have much to speak of.”

She narrowed her eyes at him, but Martin rested his hand on her lower back and gently nudged her towards the chairs where a place had been set for them. “Let’s listen to what he has to say,” he murmured, smirking at the curse she sighed under her breath.

“Damned Tamriel men!”

Only when she sat down did the Count lower himself back into his chair. As last time, he did not speak right away, but let his staff serve them delicious food. She should get the recipes from the cooks and collect them. Thus, she could maybe write a cookbook about Tamrielic food when she returned… if she returned. The thought struck so hard she nearly choked on her bread, a sick rush pooling in her stomach and making her nauseous. Way to ruin a classy dinner, Celia. She laid the cutlery down and sipped some water. Don’t think that way. You will return… eventually.

Unsettled, she looked up and found the Count studying her with interest. “So, what are the matters you were so desperate to speak of, Count Hassildor?” she asked, trying to mask the sudden unease plaguing her. His gaze flicked to Martin before returning to her. “You can speak freely in Martin’s presence. I have nothing to hide from him.”

“That is…” An odd look crossed his face. “Rather interesting, I would say.” His attention fell back on the quiet man, and he studied him with curiosity. “So, did she confide in you, a priest of Akatosh, about the magic she wields?”

“I don’t wield anything. It clings to me,” she corrected him.

“I saw the magic that surrounds her, indeed,” Martin replied.

“What did she summon, then?” 

Martin’s gaze settled on her, as if unsure whether to answer. She breathed deeply and nodded. There was no harm in telling the Count. He had seen the magic in action himself. He knew about Barbas’s unsettling words. His urge to talk to her stemmed from his findings in his tomes, she suspected.

“She stopped time around us,” Martin said. “Had she not slipped from the guards’ grasp, I think no one would have realised they were frozen.”

The Count’s eyes widened, then narrowed at the priest. “Do I understand you correctly? She froze time around her, but you walked freely?”

“Yes.”

The Count rubbed his chin in thought. “That is interesting.” He rose and strode towards the doors of the dining hall. “Follow me, please,” he called back to them.

Celia resisted the urge to do just that and stayed seated. “No!” she shot back. The Count stopped with the handle in his hand, turned around and looked at her, puzzled. “You don’t get to snatch us from the street, summon us here, dish out commands, and leave us in the dark. You just don’t.”

A smirk tugged at the corners of his mouth, then he bowed his head. “Forgive me, dear lady,” he said in his deep, resonant voice. “I lost your trust when I… took you captive. I am aware of this. I will explain everything, I promise. Please allow me this one trial before I tell you what I have found.”

“What trial?”

“The Ayleid well. You said it stood near Skingrad. Please show it to me.”

She chewed on her lip, trying to identify his agenda. But Martin decided to engage in just that moment, while she stared the Count down. “An Ayleid well? I thought they were mere myth.”

“They were until our lovely chaos, Celia, drew power from one,” Janus Hassildor replied.

At that, Martin’s gaze fixed on her with open curiosity and intrigue, so she sighed and decided to humour them, showing them where she’d seen the Ayleid well on her way to Skingrad.

Some time later, they rode to the crest of the hill, where the path dipped towards the woods. She could see the well clearly in the darkness, its bright light casting its surroundings in the same bluish glow found in Ayleid ruins.

“There it is.” She pointed in its direction, and Martin gasped in surprise. So he saw it too. That relieved her a little because it made her less of a freak. 

Count Hassildor squinted, but he shook his head. “Let us move closer.” He turned to the guards who accompanied them. “Secure the surroundings, but stay back,” he commanded, and they spread out.

Celia urged Ghost to a slow walk. He snorted, threw his head and pranced a little when they neared the well and the crystalline chime pierced the calm night. She stroked his neck and cooed soothingly before sliding from the saddle to approach the well. 

“This is it,” she announced. “And it has recharged. It is active again.”

“Where?” Janus Hassildor asked, looking around, his gaze never resting on the well.

“Right here, I am standing before it.”

“By Akatosh,” Martin gasped and dismounted. “I’ve never seen anything like that.”

“Can you see it as well?” the Count asked in surprise.

“Yes,” Martin said, his voice tinged with awe. “It is beautiful… ancient.”

Celia turned from the men to the well. Yes, the bluish light flickered with a magical glow in the night, illuminating the rough stone in a timeless aura. It had drawn her in during the day, but now it called to her with an irresistible allure. She couldn’t resist its beckoning and stretched out her hands, slipping them into the heat that radiated from the core of the well. So different from the scorching burn of the Sigil Stone, this warmth comforted her, tingling up her arms.

“Celia!” a vaguely familiar voice called from far away.

The next moment, a gentle hand closed around her wrist, turning her towards the man whose icy-blue gaze was filled with worry. She knew him… but from where? He laced his fingers with hers. Her memory was foggy. Yes, she knew him. She was sure now. 

“Come, Celia, it’s time to go,” he said softly, pulling her away from the comforting warmth of the well. 

She looked back, but he wrapped an arm around her shoulders and guided her firmly away. The farther he led her from its core, the more her soul stretched thin, until it suddenly snapped free from the lure, and she found herself on the moonlit road towards Skingrad. Her body was brimming with energy and a smile crept over her face. Ghost reared when he saw her, elegant and powerful as he had been the last time she touched the Ayleid well.

“Celia!” Janus Hassildor rushed towards her, cupped her face in his hands, worry written across his features. “Are you unharmed?”

“Yes,” she answered as though it were natural. “I feel amazing.”

He blew out a breath. “I am sorry, I asked this of you. I shouldn’t have. Had I known, I never would have.” His eyes roamed her face, until he was finally convinced she was fine. Only then did he let her go. “However, now it is clear why you lost hours to the well.”

“What do you mean?”

“You were gone for over—”

“Gone? I was right there,” she interrupted him and pointed at the well, still glowing but dimmer now.

“The moment you neared the well you disappeared for my eyes. Only he could see you.” He looked at Martin, who stood next to her, still staring at the well in deep thought. “When he tried to get you back he vanished from view the moment he reached the stairs. You were gone for nearly an hour.”

“An hour?” she blurted in surprise. “It was mere seconds.”

The Count looked around, then offered her his arm. “This matches what I found in my research. Come, let us sit. I will explain how this fits together.” She hesitated only a little, then accepted his invitation and let him usher her to a boulder where they could sit. “Follow us, Brother Martin. You appear to be quite an interesting piece of the puzzle as well.”

When they had settled, the Count started sharing his findings. “All the proof we have collected so far suggests that you are not part of Mundus—”

“I know,” she cut in softly. 

“—and that you are not the first one in this position. In the time of the Second Era, there was the Soulless One, who walked Nirn and cast down Molag Bal’s Planemeld. In the latter days of this Empire, there rose the Champion who unmasked Jagar Tharn’s treachery. Then came the stranger who warped the fate of the Iliac Bay. After them the Nerevarine of Morrowind defied gods and vanished into Akavir. And now you stand here, a new anomaly, another disruption in Mundus’s design.”

Celia paused at that. The Vestige, the Agent, the Hero of Daggerfall, the Nerevarine, and now… her. Oi, he was talking about all the player characters in the series. She stared at him. “We all came from the same place, the same world outside Mundus or Oblivion. We knew Tamriel as a story, and then came to live it,” she murmured, deliberately not mentioning they all had played the game. She couldn’t tell those men they were mere NPCs in her world, for here they stood, undeniably real. 

“Yes, this may well be true,” he agreed.

“We don’t belong, so we all bring chaos, just as Barbas predicted.” Martin’s brows furrowed at the mention of the Daedric hound. “I am not with the Daedra. He took an interest in me when I passed his master’s shrine and has commented on my journey ever since. So, how did I come here? I went to bed after I pl… listened to the stories again and the next thing I knew, I was standing in the Imperial Prison with Valen Dreth throwing insults at me.”

“As for how you might have come here…” He fell silent for a moment, pressed his lips together. “You said Mehrunes Dagon is plotting again with the Mythic Dawn. They are already advanced in their plan. By darkening the Dragonfires through the assassination of the Emperor and his heirs, they thinned the barriers between Oblivion and Nirn. The Gate before Kvatch was proof of how far they had already come. And remember, we are dealing with the Daedric Prince of Destruction, of fire, earthquakes and floods, but also of ambition, change, and revolution. If he has stirred, then perhaps it summoned you, for you may be of the eleventh force as well. I can’t say what kind of chaos, but all the heroes who emerged and vanished again had the power to bend prophecy. If that is chaos, then yes, it clings to you. ”

Damn, he dipped into the Elder Scrolls myths. They had always confused Celia, contrasting stories and beliefs, each race holding to its own theory. “Lucien Lachance believes I am an echo of Sithis,” she murmured, dropping the name as she assumed the Count knew who had taken her captive.

“Does he, now?” Count Hassildor smirked, entirely unsurprised.

“Who?” Martin asked, his eyes roaming from her to the vampire, who seemed rather amused.

“He is a Speaker for the Dark Brotherhood and abducted our dear Celia as a decoy for his safe escape.”

“He witnessed the vampire attack,” she added and watched the Count closely for his reaction. Again, he did not seem surprised.

“If we assume you stand outside our physical reality, and the wells do as well, and if we take into account that they bestow energy upon you, then I dare say they too belong to the eleventh force. Thus, you can see them, even draw power from them.”

“Why could I enter the well, but not interact with it?” Martin asked, still staring at the soft glow of the ancient structure.

“I haven’t understood that yet. What your role will be in all this, only time will tell. There seems to be a special bond between you two, though.” A warm smile spread over his features when his eyes found hers. “Our sweet Celia proved to be remarkably skilled in forming bonds.” He looked at Ghost prancing around the well, restless while the other horses grazed calmly. Slowly the Count rose from the ground and gestured to the guards, who returned immediately, eyes still scanning the surroundings. “Let’s ride for Skingrad. You should rest before you… attend to your urgent matters tomorrow,” he said with a smirk. 

Oh, this insufferable bastard. Celia rolled her eyes, moved to get up, when Martin held out his hand for her to grasp. “Thank you for your kind offer,” he said to the Count, thus accepting his invitation to rest at the castle. “I haven’t had a good night’s sleep since the attack on Kvatch.”

She huffed and stomped towards Ghost, the Count’s low chuckle faintly reaching her ear.

Chapter Text

Oh, gift to the Bloody Ones! Chaos burns within you, stasis steadies you. You dare hold the hand of time itself. Well, that’s a trick worth watching. Startled, Celia opened her eyes as the barking laugh of the Daedric hound echoed in her head. Damn this mutt for his intrusions. She had finally fallen asleep after pushing back the night’s new and disturbing revelations. It had taken a while to calm down in the face of what she’d learned, only to be woken by the hound’s mockery. Martin had questioned her extensively about the encounter, worry written on his face, but since she had not spoken to the Daedric Prince himself, nor did she wish to, he dropped the matter.

She couldn’t blame him for his concern. He was deeply scarred by his dealings with Sanguine. A realm of debauchery might seem harmless compared to other planes such as Molag Bal’s Coldharbour or Mehrunes Dagon’s Deadlands. But that was only if you looked at the surface. Hedonistic behaviour appeared like a fun free-love hippy party… until it was not. None of the Daedric Princes were ever nice; in the end they all brought evil to the mortals. Some were just better at hiding it than others. They didn’t care for anyone but themselves, and they pursued their desires and plans ruthlessly, exploiting, torturing and revelling in the suffering they left in their wake.

She looked over at Martin, curled on his side, sleeping peacefully. His soft snores were the only sound in the room, now that Barbas’s bark had finally faded. He had experienced deep trauma at the hands of Sanguine, and just as he had got his life in order again, she had stumbled into it and was ripping it apart. He would sacrifice himself in the end, as an avatar of Akatosh, to save Cyrodiil and all of Tamriel from Mehrunes Dagon. Destruction would follow even so, the Thalmor’s shadow a mockery of his grand sacrifice as the Empire crumbled. She hated that. 

Feeling uneasy, she slipped out of bed and stepped onto the balcony overlooking the moonlit gardens of Skingrad Castle. How could she do that to him? How could she lead him straight into that horrible fate? An idea, hopeful yet frightening, stirred in her mind. Count Hassildor had placed her with past heroes, who, as she assumed, had been players shaping the fate of Tamriel. What if they had all brought chaos, destined to bend prophecies? What if the games she knew had been different before those players had been cast into this universe? Wasn’t the Warp in the West proof of that? What else but chaos had the Agent stirred with that stunt? Could she bend the scripted tale, too? The Prisoner, the player, was the epitome of the free mind. She remembered the developer and loremaster describing the Prisoner as the one who could “achieve CHIM, break free from linear fate, and change the world.” And that appeared true as she had already diverged from the main quest when she’d decided keeping the Amulet and seeking Martin instead of delivering it to Jauffre. Had he meant that? Single players changing the course of the game? But how could she do that? The power of chaos seemed to cling to her more than she controlled it, and it was no reliable force to base an adventure on. She couldn’t run into danger and trust chaos to save her ass. What if she died here? Would she wake up in her world or be dead for good?

“You are brooding when you should sleep.” Janus Hassildor’s familiar, sonorous voice rose from the gardens below. “Or is it the power from the well that keeps you up?”

Of course he was up; his hours began when the citizens went to bed. Darkness was his natural friend. “I… woke to Barbas mocking me again,” she answered honestly. Her earlier indignation faded as she remembered his tragedy, how he had accepted loss and grief to give his beloved wife the rest she craved. It softened her towards the insufferable man, standing beneath the balcony with the air of a solemn hero. “And I can’t stop thinking about your revelations. Me, chaos…” She shook her head. “I despise disorder. At home, I have very distinct systems, and I get nervous when I don’t find things where they should be. Does that sound like chaos to you?”

He chuckled softly. “You narrow it down to one aspect of what you might embody. We always try to put reality into clear words, yet no words can capture what it truly means. Our minds are too limited to grasp the greater concepts that shape existence. It all ultimately leads back to the Is and Is-Not, dreaming side by side.”

“Oi, the mythic lore has always confused me,” she muttered, and he laughed softly. They fell silent for some time and her mind raced through all the information she had gathered about the vague and contradictory Elder Scrolls mythology. “I just wonder where I stand? Do I represent good or evil? Maybe I am dangerous to the people of Cyrodiil? What if I truly unleash chaos upon the land? It would play into Mehrunes Dagon’s hands. I don’t want that.”

Suddenly a breeze whirled her hair and the next moment the Count stood before her on the balcony. “Chaos and change are not inherently evil. Chaos unsettles the stagnant, but it also breathes life where there was none. Mehrunes Dagon embodies the destructive side of chaos, yes, but that is only one face of change. The other is creation.”

“I haven’t created anything yet, just…” She shook her head, remembering the vampire attack and how she had disintegrated the one who’d jumped her. 

He stepped even closer, cupped her face, and lifted it to him. His unsettling eyes, their gaze intense, sent goosebumps prickling across her skin. “I have experienced my share of corruption enough to know it when I see it. It is not in you. It may cling to you, but it bends to the heart that carries it. You are not a danger, Celia. You are extraordinary.”

A tear slipped down her cheek at his words. The tender way he brushed it away with his thumb struck her heart. No, she could not allow herself to soften towards him. He had imprisoned her after all. “And yet you went cold on me, locked me up in that room when I let slip what I knew about your wife’s fate.”

He sighed and pressed his lips into a tight line. “I had not been as certain then as I am now. I wanted to be sure. From what I had seen, you could have been a danger not only to Skingrad but to all of Cyrodiil with that kind of foresight. I thought it would be safest not to let you wander around. But now, knowing you may have come from beyond our realm…” He trailed off and just stared at her.

“In our tales you still seek a vampire cure for your wife and you task the Hero of Kvatch to find it for you, because you cannot venture out,” she explained, and a small smile flickered across his face.

“I found it years ago and freed my wife of her torment,” he whispered.

“It is confusing, seeing everything I once considered a story become real. Some things are the same, others have already diverged from what I knew.”

“This may be because of the chaos surrounding you. It reshapes the tale as you walk this plane.” They fell silent for some time. His hand still rested on her cheek, and she did not want to step away from his touch. “I am sorry, Celia,” he said at last in a low voice. “The years as Count of Skingrad, hiding my true nature, have hardened me. I might react harshly sometimes. Please forgive me.”

She looked into his eyes but perceived no deception. No, he did not use his Vampire Seduction on her. She’d felt that once and broken free. His eyes, still intense, held warmth and a deeply ingrained pain. With a sigh, she bowed her head, and he let her. His hand fell away from her cheek.

“I do,” she replied. “Forgive you, I mean. And I am sorry too, for intruding on this private affair.”

“Oh, watch us being all civil.” He laughed softly, and she couldn’t help but smile.

But then another question invaded her mind just as she thought she could relax in his presence. “There is something else that has been troubling me, though,” she continued, watching him closely to gauge his reaction. “You did not seem surprised about Lucien Lachance’s view of me.”

“Because I am not,” he replied, the smile slowly fading from his face.

“So, you knew he had taken me hostage.”

“Yes.”

“How so? What did he do in Skingrad?”

At that, his face twisted, as though he didn’t want to delve into those matters. “I will answer this question as a token of my sincere apology. But please, heed this with care. It is delicate knowledge. He dealt with an unfortunate situation for me.” 

Her brows shot up in surprise. “You performed the Black Sacrament on someone?”

“No,” he chuckled. “No, I did not. It was more of a favour. Vampires had settled in a nearby cave. I have no tolerance for those vile creatures in my city.” She gasped as the implication of his words dawned on her. Was he actually referring to the quest Information at a Price, the one about the Bloodcrust Cavern? “It was the very same vampires that attacked you. That is why I was there to stop them. I was hunting them. However, they had already lured a group of vampire hunters here. They prowled around the castle. I can’t get involved in these matters. Lucien…” he trailed off, looking uncomfortable.

“You contacted the Dark Brotherhood?”

“I am not sure what is worse, your imagination or the truth,” he murmured. “There was no contract with the Dark Brotherhood. Lucien acted on his own as a favour… to our friendship.” She gasped again and stared at him, stunned. “He chose to deal with the problem in his way. Unfortunately, a latecomer among the hunters alerted the guards.”

“You are friends with Lucien Lachance?” she asked, still reeling from that revelation. “The Speaker for the Black Hand?”

“So it would seem,” he admitted in a low voice.

“The one who is stalking me now, playing mind games with me and making sure I never feel safe?”

“You don’t need to fear him, Celia. He believes you are a daughter of Sithis. He will do everything in his power to protect you, even against his own kin.”

“Is that why he picked me? There were many others he could have taken. But he saw me and chose me deliberately, didn’t he?”

“I haven’t talked to him since, but I believe he did, yes. He was intrigued by your display of power. The chaos drew him in. I knew he would approach you eventually, hence my attempt to keep you off the roads.” 

“So you tell me I must live with his shadow following me?”

“I fear there is nothing that could throw him off your trail.”

“Wonderful!” she breathed, and a faint whimper escaped her throat.

Count Hassildor set his hand against her cheek again and tilted her face up to him. His gaze bore into her. “Celia, believe me when I say you have nothing to fear from him. You are sacred to him. I swear it. But if it soothes your mind, I will give you a weapon of your choice from my armoury.”

“Oh…” She faltered as she remembered the dagger she had taken from Oblivion. “I found a dagger in the Deadlands. It is enchanted. You are said to be a formidable mage. Will you be able to identify it?”

He let his hands drop and nodded. “Show it to me.”

She slipped into the room and fetched the weapon from her satchel. The magic prickled up her arm again when she touched it. Cautious not to wake Martin, she tiptoed back to the balcony and handed the dagger over to Count Hassildor.

“Elven craft, and doubly enchanted. Such work was more common in Morrowind, but here in Cyrodiil it is a rarity.”

“What does it do?” 

“Absorb Magicka and Absorb Health, both on strike. A cruel design, draining body and power alike.” He handed it back to her. “Fine craftsmanship, but wield it with care. Keep it close. It may save your life one day.”

She stood with the dagger in her hand, staring at it. A soft glow, neither fully blue nor red, rippled across the blade. Its magic called to her, prickling up her arm as a soft hum filled the air. “I should… try to get some sleep. I have a long journey ahead of me.”

He took her hand and brushed it with his lips, the courtesy of a lord who had not forgotten chivalry, and oh, he wore it well. “When you leave tomorrow, I will not be with you. Yet mark this: I am no enemy of yours. Whatever endeavour you set your mind to, know that I am your ally.”

“Thank you, Count Hassildor,” she murmured, suddenly shy under his intense gaze. She cautiously slipped her hand from his and withdrew into the room, glancing back at him. He smiled, and in the next moment he was gone.

Bright sunshine on her face made her groan. Hadn’t she closed the curtains before she’d crawled into bed? The dip of the mattress reminded her of her new reality. Damn, when would she wake up and immediately know where she was? 

“Will you open your eyes or must I kindly ask the guards to carry you to your horse?” a warm, slightly amused voice reached her.

“Shut up!” she grumbled, blinking at him. There he sat, the heir to the throne in his plain priest robes, grinning at her.

“You are rather amusing in the morning. Twice now I’ve seen you wake, and both times you were in a bad mood.” She groaned and pushed her stiff body upright. “Did the Count keep you awake too long, my lady?” he needled. 

“What do you mean?” she asked, her voice rough.

“Celia, please, don’t play dumb. Did you think I wouldn’t hear you talking on the balcony?”

She groaned again. “Get off my bed,” she grumbled, unwilling to discuss last night’s encounter.

Martin obliged but still grinned at her. “He seemed rather smitten, I would say.”

Celia moved her legs out of bed, sat there for a moment until she finally got up. She snatched her satchel from the nearby table and fumbled for the brush she had bought in Kvatch. Martin watched her taming her unruly bob with a tilted head. Oh, there was a lot going on behind those kind, icy-blue eyes, but he chose instead to provoke her with his needling grin. She was fine with it, as they would have enough time on their hands for a deep conversation during the journey, free of hidden ears behind walls. There was an unspoken agreement between them to wait until they left the castle.

Hal-Liurz was waiting in the hall. She’d prepared supplies, which guards carried to the Grateful Pass Stables. There the Argonian steward bowed and wished them safe travels.

“Before you depart, my lord bids you accept this token of his friendship. He said it would guard you on your way.”

Celia stared at the small case the steward handed her. “Thank you,” she mumbled. “Please pass on my gratitude to Count Hassildor.”

She put it in her satchel and mounted Ghost, then they started their journey around the city. Curiosity overcame her, and she opened the package. Inside she found a beautiful amulet in the form of a delicate flower of gold with a single white stone at its centre. She gasped and touched it with her fingers. Martin, riding next to her, inspected it with furrowed brows.

“It is enchanted,” he said, still staring at it. “An Amulet of Protection. It will shield you and resist magic. A useful and powerful gift.”

Celia’s heart warmed at that. He had taken her worry seriously and equipped her with something that would make her feel a little safer. She smiled, but when she wanted to put it on, Martin’s hand held hers.

“Do you trust him, Celia?” he asked, his face still thoughtful.

“What?” She looked at him in confusion.

“I know what you were talking about. You told him more than anyone else. How much do you trust him?”

“I believed him when he said he was no enemy,” she replied cautiously.

“If you are sure about that, you can wear the amulet. It carries the protection on the surface, yes, but he wove another spell into it, a scrying enchantment, foreign to the magic used here. With it, he can find you anywhere.”

Celia faltered and stared at the amulet. “You mean, he… is watching me?” She bit her lip, as hurt made her heart ache. Torn between stuffing it back into her satchel or throwing it into the wilderness, she clenched it in her fist, the prickling magic vibrating in her palm.

“He knew I would see it,” Martin went on, closing his hand over hers as if he wanted to prevent an impulsive decision. “This is his way of telling us both that he protects you, and that his eyes remain on you.”

Oh, this sneaky, insufferable man. With a huff she slipped the amulet over her head and rode sulking, while the future Emperor of Cyrodiil kept pace beside her, smiling silently.

Chapter Text

It had taken them all morning to travel through the woods. The forest was damp, rich with the heady scent of moss and leaves and crisp air. Fog was rising between the trees as water dripped from the thick canopy. It must have rained after she’d gone back to bed, but now the sun peeked through, drying the wet roads. The horses’ hooves clopped against the stones in a comforting rhythm, broken only by the grunts and cries of early wildlife. The flutter of wings and the spray of dew betrayed birds taking off from the branches above them. Their morning songs mingled with the steady creak of saddles swaying to the horses’ pace. It could have been peaceful, if they hadn’t had to talk about last night’s revelations. Here in the wilderness, there were no unwelcome ears, save for the occasional Legion patrol or a rare wanderer passing by.

Celia had been tense when they’d neared the shrine of Clavicus Vile. Her eyes fixed on the road ahead; she hadn’t dared glance towards it at all. But the hound had stayed silent, and Martin had done his best to distract her, discussing what they had learned in Skingrad. She wasn’t sure how much of the future she should share. Should she tell him about his fate? That the story turned grim? What he would do to save the Empire? His ultimate sacrifice? All those questions plagued her, as he reflected on Janus Hassildor’s views of the former heroes of Tamriel and her place among them.

“The tale doesn’t force itself upon you. It bends with your choices. I wonder if they change course in your world too, whether people tell them differently depending on your decisions,” he mused. “This sounds like absolute chaos, doesn’t it? But the Warp in the West showed that it isn’t always a bad thing.”

She sighed. “The real chaos for me feels different from how people perceive it,” she began hesitantly. “It’s what I know of the story’s plot.” Martin’s eyes widened in surprise. “I got into trouble with Count Hassildor because I knew something no one should know. I fear I’ll let things slip again and cause chaos that way.”

“The future, you’re talking about future events. You knew, a gate would open and not from dreams but from the tales.”

“Yes, and I don’t know how much I can let slip. Baurus, the Blade who was with the Emperor that night of his death, sent me to bring the Amulet to Jauffre in Weynon Priory. But I knew Kvatch would fall if I did. I knew the Amulet would get stolen by the Mythic Dawn. That’s why I altered the story and went to Kvatch. The Blades will be furious with me. Maybe they think I ran with the Amulet.”

“You… came, though you knew it was dangerous,” Martin murmured. “To keep the Amulet, save the city and… me.”

“I wasn’t sure whether Kvatch might already be under siege, as it is in our tales, no matter… what.” Oi, she’d almost let slip that the player couldn’t change the script there. A brief glance at Martin made her freeze. 

His gaze held warmth, admiration, even. “You risked everything… for strangers, for me.”

“I don’t know about that. I only wanted to…” She screamed as an arrow missed her by a hair’s breadth.

Ghost reared, neighing, ready to bolt. A group of heavily armed bandits burst from the thicket, helmets concealing their faces.

“Dismount at once!” one of them yelled. Every weapon was drawn, the bowman nocking another arrow and aiming it at them. “Hand over your coin, or bleed for it!” Slowly, Martin slid from his horse. Celia followed suit, her heart pounding painfully against her ribs.

“Fine horses you’ve got there,” another man sneered as he stepped nearer. The moment he reached for the reins, Ghost pushed him back with his head, reared and struck him with his forehooves. The bandit went down with a thud as the horse hammered him into the earth.

Time seemed to stand still as the group of marauders froze in shock, watching her brave steed ensure the man would never rise again. Then everything erupted at once. The bowman pointed his weapon at Ghost. Icy-blue magic crackled through the air and froze him on the spot. The third bandit charged forward with a battle roar, but Martin hit him with another frost spell and the man was hurled back by the might of the impact. 

“You will regret that!” someone shouted, and then they all ran at them at once. Celia stumbled back, reached into her satchel and closed her hand around the handle of the dagger. The magic hummed and prickled in her palm as she drew it out. Martin unleashed a carpet of icy shards from both hands that rolled towards the incoming wave of bandits. She stood paralysed, unable to grasp their numbers. They stumbled, their charge instantly slowed as the spell hit them. Something hissed past; she felt its whistle brush her cheek and ducked on instinct. Ghost neighed and reared again, as the arrow struck his flank, blood oozing down his leg. 

“NO!” Celia screamed, but her horse charged forward in rage.

Martin flattened another bandit with his terrifying magic, hurling him through the air, smashing him against a tree. Ghost leapt clear of the frost-carpeted ground and barrelled straight into the trapped thugs.

“Why don’t you just die?” someone yelled.

Celia whirled around as a hand grabbed her shoulder, and stabbed the dagger forward with a scream. Wide eyes stared at her from behind the helmet before the bandit staggered back, swaying like a drunk. A surge of power coursed up her arm and ripped through her body. Her vision blurred as she watched the man sink to his knees, stunned and confused. The dagger! It had robbed him of life and strength at the same time. Another arrow hissed past, grazing the air by her face. The power of the enchantment poured into her, burned in her veins, boiling her blood. Too much! Far too much! She needed it gone, needed to get rid of it. So she pressed her eyes shut and screamed. The heat roared out of her, surging from her mouth, from every fibre of her body. The searing force in her mounted and mounted, clawing for release. She couldn’t hold it as it stretched her thin short of shattering.

“Celia!” A gentle hand touched her shoulder and she felt instant relief, the pressure snapping loose at once, the fire ebbing to warmth. She could breathe again under the steadying presence that cooled her veins. “Stop, please,” Martin said softly.

She opened her eyes, the chaos around her registering as a frozen picture, as though the world seemed to hold its breath. Swirls of wind surrounded them, hurling the bandits into a tangle of weapons and limbs, as if caught in a tornado. Ghost stood outside it all, mid-turn, eyes wide in fury, ready to attack again.

“What…”

“Let it go,” Martin repeated, his icy-blue eyes fixed on her, full of plea. “You defeated them. They will no longer be a danger to us.”

“H… How?”

He pulled her in, wrapped his arms around her. “Calm down. You’re safe now. We’re safe.”

Deep breaths, she told herself. Draw in air, release it slowly. No matter what had happened, she needed to calm down. With each gulp of air, with his warmth steadying her, her body relaxed and her fear retreated. Clattering weapons and groans told her the storm had passed as bodies thudded to the ground. Martin loosened one arm and sent another carpet of frost towards the bandits, writhing on the forest road. Suddenly, thunder of hooves shook the earth. No! They couldn’t take any more attackers. 

“Stop right there, criminal scum!” an authoritative voice called, and she froze, not daring to turn towards the newcomers. Blades scraped against metal as weapons were pulled from their sheaths. “It’s all over now, lawbreaker, your spree is at an end!” She almost snorted at the iconic lines, she’d heard several times from Imperial Guards before, but all that escaped her lips was a whimper. 

“Celia!” Martin’s calm voice came to her ear. “Be at ease! The Legion is here.”

She tilted her head slightly to look past him and caught sight of several Legion soldiers. They held the bandits pinned to the ground at swordpoint. Her knees shook as the surge of adrenaline ebbed away. The dagger slipped from her hands. “Ghost!” she breathed, still reeling from what had transpired.

“Your brave companion fought like a warrior. I will tend to his wound. Don’t worry, he’ll be fine,” he assured her softly.

She turned to her agitated horse, still prancing with rage. He didn’t let anyone come near him, throwing his head, eyes wide, and snorting menacingly. 

“Ghost, buddy,” she called out to him, and he neighed, but he wouldn’t come closer with the guards in the way. She stepped towards him, hands outstretched. “It’s over now, sweetheart,” she cooed softly, almost a lullaby after the chaos. “It’s over. Come, let me see your wound.” He lowered his head, and she dared to approach him, hands still outstretched. He bumped them and blew air into them. “Oh, my brave hero. You fought like a warrior and those thugs shot you.” She stroked him, and he pressed his head against her. Her arms wound around him, and she hid her face against his neck as the tears came. Damn, this had been too real. Her body was shivering, cold gripping her hard as the realisation of what had happened settled. Her steed had saved her again. He had fought furiously, had unleashed his full wrath upon those bandits who had dared threaten her. Her brave, loyal companion.

When she finally found the strength to move, Martin was speaking with the Legion soldiers, who glanced at her and Ghost with a mix of awe and disbelief. When they gathered the bandits and mounted their horses again, Martin approached her. “Do you think he has calmed down and is ready for a healing spell?”

“You… you can heal him with magic?” she asked in surprise.

“Yes, I believe it will be quick work. We just need to keep him still after we draw the arrow, so I can mend the wound.”

“You must be brave again, my warrior,” she whispered to her companion, and he snorted as if he understood.

“Here is what we shall do: you should pull out the arrow and I will soothe the pain and stop the bleeding immediately.”

Another shudder went through her, but her friend needed her to be brave now. She gripped the arrow with determination and pulled. Ghost neighed and snorted, a ripple running across his body. Martin held his hand above the wound, and warm golden light swirled in his palm. The magic worked quickly. Her steed endured it patiently. Celia watched in awe as the quiet, indeed not defenceless, priest cast his healing spell on her horse. She’d seen Martin heal himself after a fight in the game, but she had never thought he could use his Restoration skills to mend a wound on someone else. He’d been a formidable mage in the game, but seeing him in action like that, casting powerful magic without batting an eye, had been impressive. He finally quenched the spell in his fist, then patted Ghost’s flank, which now seemed unharmed. 

Celia looked at him, grateful beyond belief. When he turned to her, she threw herself at him, pressed her cheek against his chest and hugged him close. “Thank you!” she blurted in a rough voice. “Thank you!”

He hesitated for a moment, then hugged her back. “Come, let us move. We still have a journey ahead of us.”

They mounted again, following the Gold Road north to the Red Ring Road. The further they moved in silence, the more she wondered what had happened back in the woods. The uncontrollable chaos had taken over, had burst from her under the power she’d seized from the enchanted dagger on strike, just as Janus Hassildor had predicted. But it had been too much. When the arrow had hit Ghost, her terror had erupted in a violent blast. How had she returned from that? It had been Martin, calling her back, the only one in the frozen chaos able to move. How?

When they came around a bend, the vast Lake Rumare stretched before them. In silence, they followed the road, the Imperial City looming at the lake’s centre to their right. She caught Martin’s worried glances towards the White-Gold Tower. No, he was not happy with what lay ahead of him. Maybe he was overwhelmed. She could only imagine what pressure weighed down on him. And he didn’t even know the worst of it now. Guilt squeezed her stomach tight and made her nauseous. The more time she spent with him, the more she hated what lay ahead of him. They hadn’t even reached Weynon Priory, let alone Cloud Ruler Temple yet. At the crossroads towards Chorrol, they considered staying at Wawnet Inn in Weye for the night. However, the proximity to the Imperial City and the lack of safe stables for their mounts made them turn left onto the Black Road leading to Chorrol. They’d only ridden for half an hour when they heard hooves of several horses coming towards them. Celia gripped her dagger she now wore at her hip to be prepared for another hostile encounter, when five warriors rode around the corner. They slowed as they noticed them. Celia stared at the distinctly familiar style of armour. They all murmured a greeting as they passed. She gasped when she caught a glimpse of their helmets and spotted the dragon crest above their brows.

“Blades,” she blurted.

The group halted their horses and turned to stare at her in surprise. “What did you say, woman?” one of them demanded.

She blushed under her cowl and averted her face. There was no telling if they knew who she was… or Martin. Better play it safe. “I… I said you carry rare blades,” she stammered. The warrior narrowed his eyes at her.

“Celia?” an all too familiar voice rang out.

Him? Oi, this was bad, she thought. She considered bolting, but before she could signal Martin to flee, one of the Blades turned his horse and urged it towards her.

“It is you!” the Blade exclaimed. “Look at me when I talk to you, prisoner!”

Okay, she deserved that one. “Hey, Baurus,” she replied with a forced smile. “Long time no see. How fare things? Weren’t you investigating in the Imperial City?”

Fury crossed his face. “How dare you treat this so lightly!” he hissed, while he urged his horse nearer. She shrank in on herself under the prospect of his rage. “I trusted your word. I trusted you heading straight for Weynon Priory, only to hear you never showed up there. I was in the middle of my investigations when Jauffre contacted me about the Emperor’s death, but no word about you or the Amulet. I thought you were dead!” His voice rose with every word he hurled at her. “But here I find you happily travelling Cyrodiil’s roads with—” His gaze snapped to Martin, and he furrowed his brow as he took in the plain priest’s robes. “A… priest?”

“May I introduce you to Brother Martin?” she asked meekly. “The last heir to the Septim line?” she added in a whisper meant for his ears alone. His gaze shifted back to her, and he scrutinized her in confusion. 

“You mean to tell me you went to fetch the Emperor’s secret son by yourself? With the Amulet?” he hissed.

“We were on our way to Weynon Priory. I am sure Jauffre can vouch for him. And for the Amulet? It is safe.”

Baurus took a deep breath and stared into the dark woods, as though debating what to make of her story. She wouldn’t believe herself either in his place, not after vanishing on him like that. She knew he’d worried, thought he had failed the Emperor yet again. Little did he know that she had made his investigations needless by keeping the Amulet safe. Hell, how could she ever explain why she had gone to Kvatch, how she had known where to find the Emperor’s secret son, and that it was Martin all along. When she looked at his furious face, though, she knew these were questions for another time. They were heading into the night, and she wanted their journey as safe as possible.

“Would you mind accompanying us? It is already late and travelling the last part with strong arms for protection sounds appealing. I can admit that.”

He took a deep breath. “We return to Weynon Priory,” he said to the other Blades. “Be vigilant and don’t let anything happen to those two.”

The Blades spread out around them in a protective formation, forcing Martin and Celia closer together on the narrowing road. “So, this is the one who sent you on your journey?” Martin asked in a low voice. 

“Aye, he did, though I might have taken a different route.”

“I understand that.” He rode on with an amused smirk, while Celia threw anxious glances at the furious Blade leading the group to Weynon Priory.

Chapter Text

They arrived at Weynon Priory in the dead of night. Every muscle in her body ached, muscles Celia hadn’t even known existed. She longed for rest, for a hot bath, though that wasn’t in her cards yet. During the silent journey she had been mulling over how her decision had altered the main quest. She had uprooted the plot completely. They had the heir to the throne, and they held the Amulet, a constant burn against her side in the satchel. This meant there was no need to move Martin to Cloud Ruler Temple now. This realisation hit her like a lightning bolt. They could go straight to the Imperial City. There, he would be able to claim his rightful succession to the Elder Council and light the Dragonfires in the Temple of the One. The Oblivion Crisis might end before it even began, before the veil between Nirn and Oblivion became so fragile that Mehrunes Dagon would invade Cyrodiil. The Blades would be eager to pursue this path. Her heart pounded so hard it seemed to rattle her ribs. This meant she had altered the story completely and saved Martin from the ending she despised so much simply by going to Kvatch immediately. Nervous and excited about the course of events, she fidgeted in the saddle, impatient to reach Weynon Priory. 

When they finally arrived, they dismounted at the stables, where Shepherd Eronor greeted them, eager to tend to the horses. Baurus led them to the entrance of the house and held the door open for Martin and Celia. His gaze seared into her when she slipped past him. The other Blades spread out and stood guard. This small difference from her in-game experience loosened the knot in her chest; she had never felt this protected before.

“Jauffre is in his study,” Baurus said curtly, leading the way up the stairs.

“Baurus, what brings you back? I thought you were out looking for the Amulet,” came the all-too-familiar voice of the Grandmaster.

Oh, great to hear that their concern was just about a piece of jewellery in the first place. This made it very clear where she stood in all that, reduced to a nuisance. She tried not to take it personally. The safety of the Empire was at stake, perhaps of all Tamriel. Of course, a prisoner’s life was not high on their list of priorities.

“We didn’t get far before we encountered those two, Grandmaster. This is Celia, the prisoner who disappeared with the Amulet of Kings. She claims this priest is the Emperor’s secret heir.”

Celia lifted her chin defiantly as Baurus’s eyes narrowed at her. There was only so much she was willing to endure. If he kept his condescending tone up, he was in for it. After all, it had been her decision that would save the Empire. Her gaze shifted from him to Jauffre, who was bent over his desk, throwing her a scrutinising look, before fixing on Martin.

“Martin,” he gasped. “It is you.”

The quiet priest flushed under the reverent recognition. His hands tightened into fists at his sides, betraying his discomfort. “I am Brother Martin, a priest of Akatosh,” he replied softly, almost hesitant.

“Yes, you are indeed,” Jauffre agreed, his voice edged with surprise. “And you are here now.” The Grandmaster stared at him then shook his head as though ripping himself from his stupor. “Where is the Amulet?”

Celia opened her mouth, but Martin laid his hand on her shoulder, stopping her. “It is safe for now,” he answered.

“So, you have secured it?” His eyes fixed on the hand before drifting slowly to her face. “And you–”

“This is Celia, the Hero of Kvatch,” Martin interrupted, more sternly now. “She saved us all, warning us of an Oblivion Gate, so that we could evacuate the city in time. She stopped the Daedric invasion by entering and closing it herself.”

Her cheeks burned beneath the weight of the men’s gazes. “I… know, I was supposed to come here first. But then it would have been too late for Kvatch,” she stammered. Yes, they would question how she had known, but she didn’t care any more. They were sworn to protect Martin, and thus she had to inform them of the very real threat to his life and the Amulet’s safety. As she’d said before, secrets between the good guys only led to the villains rising. 

“How did you know that?” Baurus cut in, his eyes still narrowed at her. “And why didn’t you tell me?”

“I feared you would think me insane, a madwoman as people did in Kvatch at first.” Her gaze fixed on Jauffre, her eyes pleading. “Please, we must act now, before the Mythic Dawn can counter the shift. Here is the heir to the throne, we hold the Amulet of Kings. We must proceed to the Imperial City, present Martin’s claim to the Elder Council and light the Dragonfires in the Temple of the One as soon as possible. Only then can we ensure that the veil will hold and keep Mehrunes Dagon from invading Nirn.”

“Celia, I’m… I’m not ready for this,” Martin stammered, overwhelmed by her demand.

She met his wide, frightened eyes. “I know this sounds terrifying to you. It’s been only days since you learned of your true heritage. But believe me, this is the best path forward. For you, for the Empire, for all of Tamriel.” Hell, even for generations to come, if they managed to change the script. He still stared at her, his reluctance written across his face. “Trust me, I’ve seen it all unravel. This is the safest path for everyone involved,” she pleaded, her voice low.

“I agree with her,” Jauffre cut in. “We must not delay this any longer. The sooner you light the Dragonfires and ascend to the throne, the less likely the Mythic Dawn can carry out their designs. We can deal with them and their ambitions thereafter.”

Martin still stared at her in desperation. Her heart ached for the quiet priest she longed to save more than anything else. Now that she had met him for real, she felt the urge stronger than ever. She raised her hand and brushed it against his cheek. With a deep breath, he closed his eyes. 

“Then I must do what fate has planned for me,” he said solemnly, though fear still lingered in his voice. If he only knew what fate had planned for him in the first place, he would have welcomed this altered path with open arms.

“It is settled. We will ride for the Imperial City,” Jauffre declared. “Wait for me here. I shall gather the Blades.”

They were left in the Priory to rest and take food while the Blades prepared for departure. Prior Maborel and Brother Piner sat with them, exchanging quiet words. Martin remained silent, and guilt gnawed at her. He was unprepared, no time to adjust to the new life thrust upon him. In the game at least he could come to terms with his new role. Now, she had thrown him into it without any time for preparation. Still, this was better than what awaited him in the vanilla game. Between being frozen to stone as Akatosh’s avatar or ruling the country, she would choose the latter. She had never decided which theory about his fate she believed. Yet whether he had vanished, died, ascended to godhood like his ancestor, or fused his soul with Akatosh, the outcome still sucked.

At last, they were summoned for departure at dawn. Celia felt exhausted, but the prospect of ending the Oblivion Crisis soon and of saving Martin in the process gave her energy she didn’t know she possessed. She followed Jauffre and the Blades who led the still-quiet priest from the Priory. But before the archway to the stables, she was grabbed and pressed against the stone wall.

“I don’t know what you are plotting, Celia,” Baurus snapped, “but I will keep an eye on you.”

Her brows knitted. “I am not plotting anything.”

“Why were you in the Imperial Prison, Celia? When we led the Emperor through the secret passage, you lay there sleeping. The cell should never have been occupied. I looked at the records and found you were not registered. The guards weren’t even aware of any female captives. They said they had a Dunmer and an Imperial prisoner. That was all. Who are you?” 

She gulped. Not in the records? No one had even noticed she’d been in the cell? What did that mean? "I… didn’t know," she stammered.

“Are you with them? The ones who killed the Emperor?”

“What? No!” she exclaimed in shock. “If I were, I would have had plenty of opportunity to get rid of the Amulet and the heir as well. But I brought him here to you, to the Blades to protect him. Why would I do that if I were a Mythic Dawn agent?”

“I trusted you too easily then,” he cut her off, ignoring her reasoning. “I will not allow you to be a threat to him.”

She narrowed her eyes. A hot wave of fury surged through her. How dare he? How dare he after all she’d endured for their precious heir to the throne? She shoved against the heavy metal of his chest armour, making him stumble back in surprise. “How dare you!” she hissed. “How dare you! Didn’t you send me on this quest alone? Didn’t I ask for your protection? Yet you sent me away, claiming I was safer on my own than in your company. You stuffed that Amulet in my satchel along with some potions and apples, then cast me out onto the roads of Cyrodiil alone. And now you tell me I was a threat. The bloody nerve!” He stared at her in stunned silence. “You know what, Baurus? I was grateful to you for giving me Ghost.” 

“Ghost?” he cut in, confused, but she ignored him.

“I was grateful for the potions you gave me. But you know what? Fuck you!”

With a huff, she turned and stomped to the stables. Ghost waited there, prancing so impatiently that the Blade holding his reins struggled to contain him. Nodding to the poor soldier, she took the reins, swung into the saddle, and patted her best friend’s neck. Her cheeks flushed, her pulse raging with fury. She’d done everything to change the course of events, to save Cyrodiil, the Empire, all of Tamriel. She had been attacked by vampires, held captive by Count Hassildor, abducted by the Dark Brotherhood, manhandled by Kvatch City Guards, forced to enter an Oblivion Gate, and ambushed by bandits in the woods. A Daedric hound found her amusing and mocked her all along the way. And this Blade on his high horse had the balls to call her a traitor. She was so done.

Fuming she rode with the procession of Blades spread around Martin. If this was over, she could return home and forget it all. She could finally take a bath and laugh about her adventures. And then she would never play another Elder Scrolls game ever again. 

Ah, there she rides, all wrath and fury. Tell me, daughter of the Void, does it really take so little to make you reel? Barbas mocked her and barked. 

“Oh, shut up, mutt,” she murmured, but the Daedric hound howled with laughter. Leave it to the dog to express his amusement at her wounded pride and add insult to injury. 

If this has you upset already, be prepared for what is yet to come, he barked, and then fell silent. Goosebumps raced across her skin and her hackles rose at his threat. But what did those ominous words mean?

“Ambush!” a shout tore her from her brooding.

Oi, this was what he meant, she thought, as a red wave of Mythic Dawn agents descended on them. Horses reared, warriors roared and the clash of steel pierced the early morning peace. Taken off guard, Celia toppled from the saddle onto the hard stones of the road as Ghost turned and bolted. She heard his furious snorts, his neighs and stomps. Her warhorse had thrown himself into the fight again. Desperate to escape the panicked horses, she crawled to the side of the road, head low to avoid the crush of hooves.

“Protect the priest!” someone yelled, and when she looked back, she saw a group of Blades tightly forming a circle around Martin, slashing at everyone coming near them.

Others had leapt from their horses and hacked their way into the wave of red-armoured Mythic Dawn. Rough hands seized her, hurling her off the ground. She was dragged away, by a heavy arm around her mid-section, before she registered what was happening. A scream tore from her throat and she thrashed in the hold.

“Celia!” Martin’s voice broke through the battle noise. “Save her! Protect Celia!”

A frost spell hit her attacker, its icy cold biting into her skin as he was hurled back. She was torn to the ground, a heavy body pinning her there. With a surge of adrenaline she thrashed free and scrambled away, but in the next moment an arm curled around her and yanked her back. She reached for her dagger, but a punch to her face flattened her to the ground. Stunned, she blinked away the stars before her eyes, copper flooding her mouth. Spitting out blood, she crawled forward again. Someone grabbed her ankle and pulled her back, scraping her over the rough stone of the road. She kicked wildly, and her foot connected with a solid surface. Pain shot up her leg. Damn those heavy armour plates! Spells lit the air around her, arrows buried themselves in the ground with a thud. Too close! Another scream tore from her lungs, when she was lifted.

A horse neighed furiously. Ghost! She looked up. He was barrelling through Mythic Dawn, trampling bodies mercilessly. A purple spell hit him square in the chest, and he stumbled before he went down. The crash of his body against the stones thundered through her, numbing the clash of steel and battle cries around her. For a breath, she stared at her fallen friend. Then a sharp pain pierced her heart.

“NO!” she screamed, throwing her elbow back, and felt the crunch of bone beneath it. A howl echoed in her ear, the arm fell away, and she started to run, but the searing pain in her foot toppled her over. She hopped forward towards Ghost, who raised his head, and dropped it heavily to the ground. “GHOST!” Then a numbing shock hit her square in the back and the world went dark.

Mortals, a bark reached her ears. They never listen. 

She blinked up into the dark. A huge, shaggy dog sat before her and looked at her with sparkling eyes. Ah, you bloody mutt could have warned me a little earlier, she thought. 

The hound huffed at that. Where would be the fun in that? But tell me, did you believe the quest would be that easy? He laughed, as she groaned at the reminder of her naivety. 

Fuck off, Barbas!

Chapter Text

Celia felt cold, her limbs ached. A hard stone surface scraped her back. Dizziness blurred her thoughts. Her temples pounded as if her skull might split. She wanted to curl in on herself, but couldn’t move. Blinking, she tried to look around, but her sight was still foggy. The acrid reek of smoke filled her nostrils, a thousand voices clamouring in her ears. What was happening? Where was she? A cold breeze made her shiver. Was she back in the Imperial Prison? Did everything start over once more? She groaned when the voices faded and an eerie hush fell. Her sight slowly cleared, and she stared up at the high ceiling of a cave. And there was… Her breath caught at the colossal statue looming over her. Muscular legs disappeared beneath a loincloth. This… no! This was not… She turned her head and saw the figure standing there before a throng of red-robed people, arms stretched wide as the crowd cheered. Fires were dancing all around her, bathing the cave in eerie orange light. Shadows flickered on the rough rock. 

“The Dragon Throne is empty, but we do not hold the Amulet of Kings yet. Praise be those Brothers and Sisters who shall seek it soon. Great shall be their reward in Paradise!” the man before her proclaimed solemnly to his audience.

Memories came rushing back in a torrent: Weynon Priory, Baurus confronting her, their journey to the Imperial City, Barbas’s mocking words, the ambush, the battle, Ghost collapsing. No! This could not be happening. No! This was not the Shrine of Dagon. She tilted her head up and found her wrists in heavy iron shackles. When she tried to move her legs, the chains clattered and cut into her ankles. A glance down her body revealed she was naked, stripped of even the last, meagre scrap of dignity.

“Hear now the words of Lord Dagon,” the man proclaimed. “When I walk the earth again, the Faithful among you shall receive your reward: to be set above all other Mortals forever. As for the rest: the weak shall be winnowed; the timid shall be cast down; the mighty shall tremble at my feet and pray for pardon. Your reward, Brothers and Sisters! The time of Cleansing draws nigh. I go now to Paradise. I shall return with Lord Dagon at the coming of the Dawn!”

Oi, this could not be. No! Those were Mankar Camoran’s words in the Dagon Shrine quest, the one where she infiltrated the ceremony in Lake Arrius Caverns to claim back the Amulet of Kings. But he had opened a portal and disappeared, just as he’d done now. That was how she’d taken the Mysterium Xarxes, the book written by the Prince of Destruction himself. But now she lay on the altar beneath the gigantic statue of Mehrunes Dagon, instead of the Argonian priest. This meant… No! She was the sacrifice the new initiate was ordered to kill. Her eyes widened at the realisation, her head whipping around as an Altmer woman in dirty red robes ascended the stair to the dais: Ruma Camoran, the cult leader’s daughter. She would order the sacrifice, however, this time the player had not infiltrated the shrine, but lay shackled to the altar instead.

“Advance, initiate,” the woman said solemnly and a red-hooded figure stepped forth, the cowl drawn low over their face. “You have come to dedicate yourself to Lord Dagon’s service. This pact must be sealed with red-drink, the blood of Lord Dagon’s enemies. Here is the Hero of Kvatch, the one who thwarted our attack on the city. Take up the dagger and offer Lord Dagon the sacrificial red-drink, as pledge of your own life’s blood, which shall be his in the end.”

The initiate accepted the dagger and stepped up to the altar. A breeze whirled around her neck, coiled across her body and made her shudder. Celia’s heart raced, her vision blurred as the cultist lifted the weapon high with both hands. No! This could not end like this! Once more, she found herself at the end of her journey. She would be sacrificed to the Daedric Prince, the very one she tried to defeat. No! This could not be the course of the new script. Had she changed the main quest only to end as a pawn in a twisted cult farce? Again, she’d failed at every corner. They had ridden into the ambush when she’d thought they could stop the Oblivion Crisis easily. Barbas was right to mock her. She was no hero, not like the other anomalies. The Soulless One, the Agent, the Hero of Daggerfall, the Nerevarine… they had all saved Tamriel. None had ended on an altar as a sacrificial lamb. Heat seared her veins and coursed through her body. Unbearable pressure pounded behind her eyes, stringing her taut. A metallic tang spread across her tongue, and another breeze made her shudder, but it couldn’t cool her boiling blood. She pressed her eyes shut. A scream tore from her throat, full of torment and wrath, of desperation over her own failure. The pressure burst in a violent surge, draining all her strength. Her scream dwindled to a whimper, then silence fell, yet the stabbing pain of the blade never came.

“Ha! She flattened them all!” A rough voice echoed through the cave, followed by booming laughter and hurried footfalls. “Had I not thrown myself to the floor, this blast would have hurled me down just like them.”

“You were right, Speaker. This was an apt demonstration of chaos. She truly is a daughter of Sithis,” said a sonorous female voice, and Celia blinked her eyes open, breathless. “Come, brother, help me loosen the shackles.”

Two Argonians in black garb, hoods drawn low, bent over her and made quick work of the chains. Wait, who were they? They seemed oddly familiar, intimidating in their dark elegance. Celia flinched at the clawed fingers as they freed her wrists. The male scrutinized her with calm curiosity, his uncanny slitted eyes holding her for a moment too long.

“Stop playing around, child, and clear the way!” a deep velvety voice came to her ear. She turned in confusion, and had she any energy left, she would have cried out as a burly Orc brought his massive hammer down on a cultist’s skull. But then a dark-hooded figure obscured the gruesome spectacle as he stepped forward.

“Lu… cien,” she rasped in surprise, her voice scraping in her throat.

He flashed his wicked, lopsided smirk at her and unfolded a garment. The female Argonian lifted her into a sitting position while he pulled a robe over her head. “Hurry now. I want to be gone before those maniacs awake,” he said to the other dark-armoured figures.

Celia looked around in confusion as the two Argonians hooked her arms over their shoulders and helped her up. The robe brushed her ankles as a Bosmer woman, a bow slung across her back, knelt to slip shoes onto her feet. Nearby, a young Breton woman darted between the fallen, her blade flashing as she slit throats in quick succession. 

“I should take the lead and clear the way,” she urged, eager pride ringing in her voice.

“If you are swifter than my arrows,” the Bosmer woman replied coolly, tugging Celia’s laces tight. 

The booming laugh of the brutish Orc drifted to her as a Khajiit berated him for fooling about. The Mythic Dawn were spread flat on the ground, limbs tangled in a grotesque heap. Ruma Camoran lay at Mehrunes Dagon’s feet, unconscious. The only ones moving between the bodies like deadly shadows were dark-robed figures, swift and merciless, cutting throats and stabbing daggers into chests whenever a Mythic Dawn rose. Celia counted eight, with Lucien Lachance among them. Were they… the Cheydinhal Sanctuary members? She saw one figure straighten over a twitching victim, blood glistening on his mouth. He wiped it with the back of his hand.
“We tarry too long, Speaker,” he said in a calm, courtly tone.

The two Argonians turned with her wedged between them and headed for the entrance. “Quick, the raid is imminent. We must be gone before they come,” the male forced out in a hiss.

“It’s not the Blades, it’s the damned cultists coming in,” the Orc yelled. “We should either escape now or revel in a bloodbath such as Cyrodiil only sees on battlefields. I’m down for that.”

“No, we can’t risk her in a quarrel like that. This way! Through the sleeping quarters!” Lucien headed for the exit in the back of the cave.

“No! Wait! The book!” Celia cried and gestured to where the Mysterium Xarxes lay on a stand with her chin. “And my satchel!” 

Without hesitation, Lucien turned around, grabbed the book and kicked Ruma Camoran in the face as she stirred. Her head snapped back, and lay at an odd angle against Mehrunes Dagon’s foot. Celia gasped at the ruthless efficiency of his violence, and flinched when he stepped before her. He slipped her satchel over her head so that it thumped against her belly. Yelling came through the halls and the assassins retreated towards the back exit.

Some surged ahead and jumped the cultists they encountered, others secured their backs. The Argonians dragged her through the cave, strong and untiring. Soon, they emerged from the underground vault and headed into the mountain forest. She tried to match their pace, but they lifted her until her feet dangled in the air. Finally, exhaustion claimed her and she sagged in their hold. That’s when they slowed and eventually stopped. The siblings lowered her carefully to the ground, and she slumped against a tree and closed her eyes.

“You did well, my children.” Lucien’s voice drifted to her, but she couldn’t make herself look up again. “Return to the Sanctuary now. You have earned your bonus. I shall follow as soon as I have dealt with my business here.”

“Thank you, Speaker,” the Argonian female, Ocheeva, said. Her name flitted through Celia’s mind. The leader of the Sanctuary, intimidating in her calm, elegant strength. “Hail Sithis.”

They all echoed the parting words, and silence fell. Celia couldn’t open her eyes, her limbs useless in their weakness. She heard the rustling of clothes beside her, then an arm curled around her back, another slid beneath her knees. She was lifted and placed on a lap, her head fell against a shoulder. Warmth enveloped her, an unfathomable comfort from an assassin’s embrace.

“Rest now, child of Sithis.” Lucien’s voice came low and soft, almost comforting. 

Tears welled in her eyes and a sob tore from her throat. He sat in silence, his fingers stroking through her hair with grotesque tenderness. Having just witnessed his cold-blooded violence, she now found his gentle touch surreal. But she craved his warmth with every fibre of her being as exhaustion and dread shook her to the core. She crawled deeper into his embrace, her tears unending, as the emotional strain of what had transpired in the cave came crashing down on her. He sat silent through her meltdown, the steady stroke of his fingers the only movement. She might have fallen asleep, for when she stirred, the sun hung low over the horizon, bathing the forest in an eerie orange glow, as if the Prince of Destruction himself painted it in his colours. She looked up, found Lucien watching her patiently, almost with reverence. Janus Hassildor’s words echoed in her mind, that she was sacred to him. Was that why he had come to her rescue and brought his Sanctuary with him? Because he believed she was a gift to them from the Dread Father himself?

She tried to wriggle from his embrace, but his arms held her tight. “There she is,” he mused with a faint, lopsided smile. “The fearsome herald of chaos who defeated a coven of cultists all on her own.”

“I… I did not. You and your… people came to my rescue,” she objected, her voice rough.

He chuckled and slowly shook his head. “Oh, we were there,” he admitted, “and we witnessed the glory of you unleashing chaos upon those fools.”

“You were there?” she blurted in shock. Had they really? Why hadn’t they interfered with the sacrifice? Why had they let her lie there and live through the trauma?

“Ah, I can see the questions on your face, alas, you won’t like the answers.” She furrowed her brows in confusion. “I knew you would unleash your powers when facing death. I wanted to see you summon chaos again, glorious, untamed fury on those who dared threaten you. It was magnificent.”

She wriggled at that, but he held her fast. “You revelled in my fear,” she snapped. “I thought, I would die there, yet you just watched.”

“And I registered the signs of your outburst. You were never truly under threat. Only those ignorant fools didn’t fathom what they were about to unleash. Your display of power should rattle them for years to come. At least those who rise again.” He sighed, as if the memory of the bloodshed gave him physical pleasure.

“Let me go now,” she demanded, her cheeks flushing in embarrassment. 

To her surprise, he set her beside him and rose from the ground. He held out a hand for her to take. “It is time we leave. The Blades raided the caves in search of you. I am sure they are livid, interrogating survivors for your whereabouts. Though I find beauty in their torment, there is someone waiting for you.”

Hesitantly, she let him pull her to her feet, her hands flew to the satchel as it thumped against her belly. Dread coiled through her. The Mythic Dawn had stripped her of everything, taken her belongings. The Amulet of Kings!

“It is untouched,” Lucien told her, as though he had read her mind. “The Sigil Stone you brought from Oblivion hid it well. They were blind to the treasures you hide in your satchel. Strange, is it not, how the relic that grants them dominion hides from them the very prize they seek.” With his trademark smirk, all smug satisfaction, he pulled a delicate amulet with a white stone from his robes. “I took this from the one who’d robbed you. Surely, you want it back.” He slipped the chain over her head until Janus Hassildor’s parting gift dangled against her chest.

“I thought it… was lost.”

He chuckled, closed his hand around hers, and ushered her forward. Her knees were still shaking, as she followed him towards Shadowmere, the mount’s eyes glowing like rubies in the twilight. He lifted her onto the demon horse and swung into the saddle behind her. She stiffened as the steed leapt forward at an unearthly speed.

“Hush, little one. Shadowmere will take us to our destination swiftly,” he murmured at her ear and kissed her temple, the gesture as unsettling as the first time.

They raced through the night, undisturbed, the howls of wolves and the brush of wind their only companions, until the dark outline of a city loomed before them. Crisp air made her shudder, though Lucien had wrapped them in a coat during their trip. They followed the path around the sturdy walls and came to a halt behind a bend near the city gates. The North Gate of Bruma, she assumed, as the landscape was covered in snow. He dismounted, grabbed her by the waist, pulled her from the horse and steadied her when her feet touched the ground. Her breath escaped in soft puffs of fog in the cold. 

“You took your time, old friend,” came a familiar sound and a cloaked figure emerged from the shadows of the night. “The Blades are beside themselves, as they couldn’t find our sweet Celia in the shrine. They fear the cult leader took her and the precious relic she carries somewhere remote.”

“Count Hassildor!” She drew in a deep breath, and her lungs ached under the piercing cold.

He bowed his head. “I see you are unharmed, thank the Nine. I feared the worst as the cultists dragged you through half Cyrodiil.”

Her hands closed around the amulet, and understanding dawned on her. He was the reason why they had found the shrine. She hadn’t shared that important intel with anyone. Just further proof of her theory that secrets among the good guys only helped the villains rise. But he had given her the amulet, to shield and locate her, yet in the fight it had failed. “You said it would protect me.” She voiced the question, though it sounded more like an accusation of its failure.

“There is only so much it can shield you from,” he responded calmly, not offended at all. “At least you survived.” 

She shuddered at his words, then a sharp pain shot through her chest. It might have saved her, but not her fearsome companion: Ghost! 

“Oh, she survived, indeed,” Lucien laughed, his low velvety voice wicked enough to make Celia’s hackles rise. “You should have seen the tangled upheaval she caused.”

“I found the gruesome aftermath of what transpired in the shrine as I accompanied the Blades there. The mark of the Dark Brotherhood was all over the place. You could not help yourself, friend, could you?”

Lucien chuckled and shrugged. “My children are not called the Bloody Ones for nothing,” he replied, amusement glinting in his eyes. “It wasn’t my place to deny them their revels in the chaos she’d unleashed with such an astounding display of power.” 

She groaned and shuddered, pressing her eyes shut as the scarring images of the shrine returned with a vengeance. The Count stepped forward, took her hand and brushed a kiss across her knuckles as though to lend comfort.

“I understand, you gave her an impression of what the Dark Brotherhood is capable of. Come, my precious little chaos. Let us go to Cloud Ruler Temple. There are friends worrying about you.” His arm came around her shoulder and pulled her in. His unsettling eyes fixed on her with a compassionate warmth. Then his gaze shifted to Lucien and he bowed his head. “I thank you for keeping her safe, my friend,” he said solemnly.

The Speaker snorted and turned towards his horse, where he opened one of the saddlebags and took out a thick wrapped bundle. He handed it to her with a smirk. “The book you so desperately craved, child of Sithis,” he said, nodding as she took it from him. “I shall depart now.” 

He returned to his eerily unmoving steed, and elegantly swung into the saddle. Holding the Daedric tome in her hands, the one he had snatched from the stand without question, she realised that she owed him, that she owed all the assassins of the Cheydinhal Sanctuary. Indebted to the Dark Brotherhood did not sound desirable. She swallowed hard, unsure if the next move was wise or the dumbest thing she had ever done.

“Wait!” She blurted, and he turned around, his face a mask of smug confidence. “I must thank you,” she went on nervously. “I wouldn’t have made it out without you there.” That much was true. She might have incapacitated the cultists who’d been at the initiation ceremony, but reinforcements had just arrived. It was uncertain whether the Blades would have reached her in time. He nodded wordlessly and took up the reins. “Mathieu Bellamont!” she called out before he disappeared. 

He froze, his head whipping towards her. “What did you say?” he asked, and his eyes narrowed, the smug mask cracked for the first time. For a heartbeat something raw flickered there. 

“There is no need to cleanse the Cheydinhal Sanctuary. He is the one you seek, the one who brings upheaval to the Brotherhood. He wants revenge for the murder of his mother,” she explained, though the searing weight of his gaze made her shudder. “A life for a life,” she whispered. They had saved her, and now she had repaid her debt by saving them. The scales were even. “You’ll find proof in the Anvil Lighthouse.”

For some agonizing moments, he sat on Shadowmere, perfectly still, and stared at her with a wild, unsettling gaze. But then he slipped his smug mask back in place. “I will come and collect my reward soon, friend,” he sneered towards the Count, tugged at the reins, and vanished into the night, leaving her with the vampire on the moonlit road between Bruma and Cloud Ruler Temple.

“Reward?” she asked, dread knotting in her stomach.

“Oh, he only wanted to seize back his predatory dominance. You delivered a heavy blow with your knowledge. A true masterstroke. I have never seen him so rattled. No doubt he will raid my supply of Honeydew the next time he visits and interrogate me about what I know of you,” the Count said with an amused smile.

He slowly ushered her up the road, amusement remaining on his face. A sudden impatient whinny kept Celia from asking more about the unlikely friendship between those two men. Her heart skipped a beat as a snort followed, the soothing words of a woman were drowned out by another impatient neigh. What... Could it be? No! How was that possible? She gasped as a huge shadow broke free and thundered towards her.

“Ghost?” she breathed, frozen where she stood. The beautiful black horse skidded to a halt before her, bumped his head against her, and rubbed it along her side. She buried her hands in his mane, unable to grasp that her loyal companion truly stood there. He pranced and snorted with excitement, nudging her gently, his nostrils puffing hot air into her face. He was alive, and he made certain she knew it. “How is that possible?” she cried, pressing her forehead to his. “I saw you fall… By the Nine, I saw you fall…” Her hands stroked his soft coat, as if she had to assure herself of his reality.

“Your priest friend could not abide the thought of losing you both. In his fury at the Blades for neglecting you in the fight, he healed your loyal beast there on the road, even as the Blades pressed to carry him straight to Cloud Ruler Temple.” Martin? He had done that? He had saved Ghost? “Come! He’s been in distress ever since you were abducted by the Mythic Dawn.” 

Count Hassildor helped her mount and led her to Hal-Liurz who waited at a little distance with two more horses. Together they rode up the road towards Cloud Ruler Temple. Celia let the reins fall, bent forward, and pressed her cheek to Ghost’s neck as he carried her onward. She wrapped her arms around him, breathing in the comforting earthy musk of horse and hay, and revelled in the strength radiating from him, so at odds with the sight of him collapsing on the road to the Imperial City. The warmth of his body against the Bruma chill assured her she wasn’t only dreaming. Her most loyal friend lived, and she would be forever grateful to Martin for saving him.

Chapter Text

The ascent to Cloud Ruler Temple was steep. Celia pressed her face against Ghost’s neck to hide from the cold, sharp breeze that whipped down the hill. Greenish-blue auroras danced across the sky. The double moons hung dark and ominous in the black void stretching above the Jerall Mountains. And there it loomed on the crest of the hill, strong and undeniably Akaviri, its steep, sweeping roofs forming a flawless symmetry. Cloud Ruler Temple, stronghold, temple, sanctuary, united all three in everything it stood for. It loomed above, its walls rising stark into the night. In the game, Jauffre had claimed a handful of Blades could hold it against an army. Looking up now, she believed him. The fortress radiated the same impenetrable strength she’d once seen in medieval castles, built to withstand siege until famine broke the defenders. Awe filled her as they drew up to the heavy gate.

Hal-Liurz exchanged a few words with the guard on watch, then the gates slowly scraped open. They dismounted and led the horses through the narrow gap. In the game, the fortress had no stables; the stairs led straight up to the courtyard. But this didn’t matter to her as she refused to leave Ghost outside the safe walls. Not after she’d almost lost him. To her surprise, the real Cloud Ruler Temple was equipped with spacious stables she’d never seen in the game. Before the stairs, stablehands stepped forward to tend to the horses. The Count and his steward handed their mounts over without hesitation. Celia, though, stroked her steed’s coat, still afraid he was merely an illusion, a trick of her mind. She took his snout in both hands and kissed his velvety nose. 

“I will come to you as soon as I can. I fear I must talk to some people first,” she whispered for him alone. He blew hot breath into her hair before he allowed the hostler to lead him away.

Count Hassildor stood at the foot of the stairs and smiled as she approached. He offered her his arm and led her upstairs into the courtyard, where Jauffre awaited her, Akaviri katana on his back, clad in the iconic armour of the Blades. With a solemn face he bowed his head, his demeanour as calm as at Weynon Priory, but his expression no longer held the same dismissive air.

“Welcome to Cloud Ruler Temple, Hero of Kvatch,” he greeted her in the same serious tone she’d always heard from him in the game. “It is a great relief to see you unharmed. Come, Martin awaits you. There is much to speak of.”

Weariness dragged at her at the thought of facing more pressing matters. She was still recovering from a traumatic experience, damn it. Didn’t they know such a thing here? Cultists had planned to sacrifice her. She’d lain shackled and naked under Mehrunes Dagon’s statue, had stared at the dagger meant to end her raised above her, only to witness the bloodbath the Dark Brotherhood had wrought with cold brutality. The images hit her in jagged flashes: the dagger, the crunch of a skull beneath the Orc’s hammer, the vampire’s blood-smeared mouth, the Breton’s eager slash, Lucien’s vicious kick. All she wanted now was to crawl into a bedroll, close her eyes and forget everything that had happened in the last few hours.

“Thank you, Count Hassildor, for your support in this matter. We have a chamber prepared for you, where you can rest before your return to Skingrad,” Jauffre said, turning to the Count.

Janus Hassildor chuckled at that. “I am grateful for your hospitality, Grandmaster. But I won’t leave our sweet Celia’s side now that we’ve got her back safe and sound. I am sure your prince will not voice any objections.”

Jauffre blinked at the polite response, so firmly spoken it brushed against his own authority. He stared at the Count a moment too long before he turned around and walked towards the main entrance of the Great Hall. “As you wish,” he mumbled through clenched teeth. 

Janus Hassildor smiled at her and squeezed her hand, a gesture that gave her both security and support. She was no longer alone in this. They entered the hall, and she looked around in awe. It was as she remembered from the game, yet so much more vivid, so real it nearly made her weep. A fire cracked and danced in the massive stone fireplace, bathing the hall in warmth and comfort. Sturdy wooden beams broke it into sections, softening its overwhelming scale. Tables and benches promised company over a tankard of ale or a goblet of wine. She sagged and leaned more heavily on Count Hassildor’s arm. If he noticed, he gave no sign.

“Celia,” a soft voice reached her ear and she turned in time to see Martin enter from a door to the left. In a few strides he stood before her, caught her face between his hands and stared at her as if he couldn’t believe she was really there. “You are unharmed, thank the Nine. I was sick with worry.”

His icy-blue eyes, filled with warmth and fear, broke her last resistance to tears. Exhaustion claimed her hard and fast. She slipped her hand free, wrapped her arms around Martin and pressed her cheek against his shoulder. 

“You saved Ghost,” she sobbed. “I thought I’d lost him, but you saved him.”

He gathered her close, resting his cheek against the top of her head. “That is the kind, compassionate woman I met in Kvatch. You were dragged away into the shrine of Mehrunes Dagon and lived through horrors unheard of, yet you fear for your horse.” His soft voice rolled over her in a soothing wave. He held her a while longer, until she finally broke the hug. Her cheeks flushed when she noticed the Blades watching. Jauffre’s eyes showed surprise at the tender reaction, Baurus averted his gaze, as if unsure whether to stay angry with her or be ashamed of his earlier accusations. Captain Steffan only looked curious, his eyes lingering on her closeness with the future Emperor. Embarrassed she stood there awkwardly, unsure what to do.

“I was so worried.” He took her hand and led her to a table, gesturing for her to sit before settling opposite. She heard unhurried steps as someone approached and halted at her back. Count Janus Hassildor stood there, a silent reminder to the others that she was not alone. “I will never forget the moment when they dragged you away.” Martin's eyes moved to the Blades with anger, and they averted their gazes. “What happened?”

Celia lowered her head and focused on the rough wooden surface, very aware of the stares from those around her. Her finger traced the grain across the table-top, a restless movement to keep from meeting their eyes. “They held an initiating ceremony. I was to be sacrificed there.”

A sharp intake of breath made her flinch as the memory of the cave returned, the hooded Mythic Dawn initiate raising the dagger in both hands above her. She closed her eyes and shook her head in an attempt to clear her thoughts.

“How did you escape?” Baurus cut in, suspicion etched on his face. “When we stormed the caves we found a bloody mess.”

She shifted her gaze from him to Martin. “It happened again, much like in the Chapel of Akatosh,” she explained, seeing understanding in the icy-blue eyes across from her.

“Time stopped again?” he asked in a soft voice.

She shook her head and breathed deeply, reluctant to talk about the chaos she’d unleashed in front of the Blades who still seemed to suspect her of hidden allegiances. “A blast hurled the cultists back,” she answered. “Then I was rescued by a group of…”

“It was a faction who had business of their own with the Mythic Dawn,” Count Hassildor said calmly, cutting her off.

“A faction?” Baurus snapped, narrowing his eyes at her. “We found a cave full of crumbled cultists. They were shattered, as if a blast had flattened them. Only, many of them were dead, throats slit, skulls crushed. The whole cave reeked of the Dark Brotherhood.”

Martin’s eyes widened, flicking back and forth across her face. Oh, he was connecting the dots, her abduction in Skingrad, her conversation with Count Hassildor on the balcony of the castle, the man who was following her. He knew Lucien Lachance had taken an interest in her, and he knew about his position in the Dark Brotherhood. “He saved you because he believes you are a gift to them,” he murmured.

“Yes,” she answered. “But I repaid him. I made sure he knows I owe him nothing.”

“From your comment, I understood that you gave him information beyond price. If so, you did more than repay him; you placed them in your debt,” Count Hassildor cut in, his face a mask concealing his true thoughts.

Celia groaned and hid her head in her folded arms on the table-top. She might not have thought her stunt through. Had she really gone beyond repayment? If Lucien Lachance found proof of Mathieu’s scheme, he would not die in Applewatch. Bellamont would not have the Black Hand slaughtered. The Dark Brotherhood would survive, stronger than ever, and she could not even guess what that would mean for the Empire. What had she set in motion? She had altered the face of Tamriel in a single heartbeat. Hell, she really should learn to keep her trap shut. There was no telling how they would play their cards. What if the Mythic Dawn performed the Black Sacrament on Martin? The Dark Brotherhood had been the prime suspect in the murder of Uriel Septim, but cleared from any involvement. What if they now got involved? Could she use their debt to keep Martin safe from them? 

“Who are you talking about?” Baurus asked, his expression sharp with alarm. “Whom did she drag into this now? The Dark Brotherhood, isn’t it?” Red-hot rage surged through her at his accusing tone. “Do they threaten the Emperor?”

She shot upright at that and turned towards the young Blade she’d thought her ally when she’d arrived in Tamriel. She slapped her hands on the table. “Enough of this!” she snapped, but then her eyes widened in shock as the enclosing whirlwind surged toward the Blades. A hand covered hers, the warmth comforting against the heat of her anger.

“Hush, Celia,” Martin said softly. “You are not the enemy, I know that.” She gasped as her eyes darted around the hall. Everyone was frozen in place, everyone but Martin. Baurus stood alert. Jauffre, disturbingly quiet until now, watched the priest with a thoughtful expression. The other Blades were wide-eyed. Count Hassildor reached out as if to rest a hand on her shoulder.

“What is happening?” she asked in confusion.

“You did it again. Whenever your emotions overwhelm you, you summon chaos. The Speaker may have been right.”

“I am not a gift of Sithis,” she snapped. “I am just an ordinary woman trapped in a dream I cannot wake from.”

“Yes. You are caught in a dream, but not your own. You are part of the Godhead’s dream, and you shape it with every decision you make. And now you have stopped time again.”

“I… I don’t understand. It literally blasted from me in the cave. With the bandits, a whirlwind had frozen mid-air; in the Chapel, it was time alone that stopped. Now the chaos has returned, though it is frozen in place along with everyone else. And why didn’t it save me when the Mythic Dawn took me?”

“I don’t have the answers to this. Maybe the magic depends on your feelings. Maybe it is the intensity of your emotional reaction.”

“Or maybe,” she murmured as her gaze wandered to his hand on hers, “it is you who freezes time.”

He breathed in deeply and his hand tightened around hers, almost painfully. “What are you trying to say?”

“Maybe it is your power that tames the chaos. Your presence as a Dragonborn, an avatar of Akatosh, of time itself.” Her heartbeat accelerated at the idea. The one aspect of the creation myth she had always understood as the duality of forces, Anu and Padomay, the Is and the Is-Not, who dreamt their souls Anui-El and Sithis: stasis versus chaos, preservation versus change.

“An avatar of Akatosh?” he asked in surprise. He took another deep breath as understanding dawned on him. “You speak of me in those terms because you know something I do not.” Her cheeks flushed as she realised she again had blurted truths she should keep to herself. She wanted to avert her eyes, but his gaze kept her in place. “So tell me, if you believe me an avatar of Akatosh, what does that make you? Could the Speaker actually be right?”

Before she could answer, the noises around them returned, sounds that had been absent as if in a vacuum: breathing, the crackle of fire, the clatter of armour, the white noise of time itself. Martin sat unmoving, his eyes filled with new understanding as he stared at her. “Celia is not a threat,” he said, voice calm, as if there had been no disturbance in time. “Neither to me nor to the Amulet of Kings. Without her, I would not even be here. The Amulet would be lost.” He let the words settle before continuing, gentle but steady. “Her allegiance must not be doubted. No one has risked themselves as she has: for the people of Kvatch, for the citizens of the Empire, and for me.” A hush fell over those present as he paused again, his gaze moving from one Blade to the next. “She is called the Hero of Kvatch for good reason. The title has been earned, and she deserves your respect. If the Mythic Dawn rises against us again, her survival is as crucial as my own. Guard her with the same care. That is all.”

The Blades shifted their gazes to their Grandmaster, who still regarded Martin thoughtfully. He gave a single nod, and they silently left the Great Hall to whatever duties awaited them. Only Jauffre and Captain Steffan remained in the room. 

“You must be weary after all you have endured,” Martin said gently, giving her hand a reassuring squeeze. He turned to the captain. “Captain Steffan, please show her to the chamber prepared for her. She needs rest before we speak further.”

“As you wish, Emperor,” Steffan replied, bowing his head.

Celia cast a grateful look at the quiet priest and rose. Count Hassildor offered his arm in silent support, and together they followed the Captain through the narrow halls to a small room in the west wing. There the Count lifted her hand to his lips and brushed a kiss across her knuckles. 

“I can’t shake the feeling that something extraordinary transpired in the Great Hall,” he murmured, his eyes fixing on her with an eerie gleam. “Something beyond the realm of mortals and undead.”

“You are surprisingly observant,” she replied.

“A new understanding passed between the two of you. I am eager to find out what it is about.” 

“I am sure you are, Count Hassildor,” she threw back, whereupon a smile tugged at his lips. 

Captain Steffan stiffened but averted his eyes as the Count stepped closer to her and leaned forward. “Let us drop the formalities, dear lady. I am Janus to you,” he purred, his breath caressing her ear. “Or should I say daughter of Sithis?” She flinched at that and he chuckled. “Rest well, sweet Celia. You have earned some peace and quiet.” He kissed her knuckles again, then stepped back and disappeared into the halls, leaving her still reeling from his closeness.

Chapter Text

Celia shot upright with a gasp in the middle of the night. She’d returned to the Shrine of Dagon in a dreadful nightmare, strapped onto the altar again. The Orc assassin’s massive hammer had come down on her with a vengeance. Before it could crush her skull, she fled through winding halls, hiding from the Mythic Dawn and the Dark Brotherhood alike. The ground kept breaking away under her feet, the halls twisted endlessly, the walls breathing around her until she finally plunged into a deep black void. She screamed without end as she free-fell towards a flickering of light. It had transformed into a massive golden dragon head that opened its maw to devour her. That’s when she’d ripped herself from sleep. Her breath still tore ragged from her lungs, her heart hammered against her ribs, and her pulse pounded in her throat. It took her long moments to calm down. The rush of her own blood quieted, and she forced herself to breathe steadily. Then she listened. Cloud Ruler Temple remained silent. So she might not have screamed in sleep. With a sigh, she fell back, but she couldn’t close her eyes without the horrible images returning. 

Shaken and frustrated, she flung back the blanket and swung out of bed. She gathered up the cushion and bedding before leaving the room. The Blade patrolling the halls stopped and stared at her in surprise when she padded barefoot to the exit. She tiptoed across the courtyard and cursed herself for not dressing better against the icy night that slapped her in the face. By the time she slipped into the stables her feet were so cold, she hardly felt them at all. Bloody hell, she’d forgotten Cloud Ruler Temple lay in the cold, snowy Jerall Mountains. Ghost snorted as though he’d recognised her by her footfalls alone and hung his head over the stall he slept in. She stroked his forehead and his neck, but he didn’t seem happy with her on the other side of the stall door. He nibbled on the latch, so she opened it and stepped onto the straw, still warm from his body. He hooked his head over her shoulder and pulled her in, as she patted his flank, stroked his soft coat. With a clumsy thud, he lowered himself to the ground, grabbed her tunic with his teeth, and yanked. 

“You impatient beast,” she chuckled and laid out bedding and cushion beside him. She groaned at the ache as her feet slowly defrosted beneath his warm body. With a sigh, she reclined against him, her hand steadily stroking him. He snorted again and rested his head over her legs. His eyes held hers as if to make sure she calmed down enough to fall asleep. “You are my best friend,” she murmured. “I am glad you let me stay here with you.” He let out a soft horsey grunt, and she smiled. “I’ll shut up, I promise.” She revelled in his fierce gentleness, the way he grounded her after the brutal nightmare. He was still Ghost, her fearsome steed. He did not know how to be delicate, so he cradled her with the same stubborn weight that had carried them through their journey. Even in his clumsiness, he was unyielding, as if he could hold the whole night at bay for her. Pressing her cheek against him, she listened to his steady heartbeat, which eventually lulled her into a dreamless sleep.

She woke engulfed in warmth. Velvet fur tickled her and the thump of a strong heart sounded comforting in her ear. When she opened her eyes, her steed snorted, nudging her with his snout as if to tell her it was time to get up. “You impatient beast,” she repeated the words from the night before, closing her eyes again. “Let an old woman slowly get her bearings.”

“I tried to distract him with some carrots, but he’s been restless since sunrise,” Martin’s soft voice drifted to her from above. She blinked one eye open and found him smiling down at her from the stall door. “Are you in another ill mood?”

“Seriously, what is it with you always roasting me?” she asked, snuggling back against her horse. But Ghost had had enough and rose, careful not to kick her in the process. She landed in the straw with a graceless thump. Grumbling, she gathered her bedding and peeled herself out of the rough litter, her limbs stiff after a night pressed against her horse. “I swear, if you harp on my age again, you’ll be in deep trouble, young man.”

A surprised look flitted over his face at her blunt words, and she wanted to slap herself. He was the Emperor of Cyrodiil; she shouldn’t talk to him like that. But when a smile crept across his face, she relaxed. On the other hand, he was Martin, the quiet priest, who’d decided to believe her madwoman gibbering in the Chapel of Akatosh. “I have never disrespected your age,” he replied, still baffled.

“Oh yeah?” she asked. “What did I hear you say to Count Goldwine then? She’s a middle-aged woman, not a hero.”

“I tried to save you from the peril he planned to send you to,” he protested light-heartedly. She chuckled at that. “And again she scolds me, like an elder sister. I admit, I am not used to such treatment, though I enjoy it oddly enough.” 

Ghost nudged her a second time as if to reclaim the stall for himself. “Yes, yes, I am moving already.” 

“I believe he wants to enjoy his breakfast in peace and quiet,” Martin explained as he opened the gate for her. “He left it untouched while he waited for you to wake, not daring to move.”

“He is a sweetheart after all,” she remarked with a warm smile at her grumpy horse, but then her heart caught as she saw the scar across his chest. “Oh my…” Her voice faded. She reached out a hand and touched the crescent-moon-shaped mark, the skin puckered where the fur no longer grew.

“That’s where the spell hit,” Martin explained softly. “Don’t worry, he’s healed, but he will wear this scar like a badge of his courage and fierce loyalty to you.”

She traced her finger across the tissue. “My brave, reckless friend. You almost died because of me.” Ghost snorted at that and nudged her back, not in the mood for reverence. He wanted his breakfast, not her admiration and sympathy for what he had clearly already filed away as a minor nuisance.

“Come.” Martin held out his hand to her, palm up, and she took it and stepped out of the stall to leave her horse to his well-earned fodder. “He’s not in the mood for hero worship or sympathy.” Martin handed her a pair of shoes. Grateful for his mindfulness, she slipped them on, not keen on freezing her feet once more. “I waited in the Great Hall for you this morning to have breakfast with me, but you never showed. Pelagius told me you left your room in the middle of the night and went to the stables,” he continued and laid a coat around her shoulders, the gesture so caring it warmed her heart.

He was still a kind priest of Akatosh, and this trait would make him a great ruler to the people… if only she could prevent his sacrifice. A chill made her shiver under the thick fabric at that. Oh, she would try to alter the events she’d never been able to change in the game. The last days had shown she had the power to diverge from the script. Though she should think her choices through more carefully. The butterfly effect of all her decisions was yet to show. Each person she had saved would leave a mark never seen in the game, and the consequences were unpredictable. A crisp breeze whirled around her when they stepped out of the stables and made her cheeks flush in the cold. They ascended the stairs as all the Blades they passed greeted them and bowed their heads to Martin. Cloud Ruler Temple was occupied by more warriors than in the game, which made sense. Though Jauffre had stated that it could be defended by a handful of Blades against an army, numbers increased their defences and meant greater protection for the Emperor.

“The Blades saluting me and hailing me as Martin Septim...” Martin’s voice ripped her out of her thoughts. Worry edged his face as he accepted another reverent greeting from several Blades. “Everyone expects me to suddenly know what to do. How to behave. I don't mean to sound ungrateful, but… Emperor. That's an idea that will take some getting used to.”

She took his hand and squeezed it. “You are not alone in this, Martin,” she assured him. “The Blades are loyal and fierce. Jauffre will guide you through the challenges you’ll face. He watched over you all your life, and he will stand by you no matter what.”

“And what about… you?” he asked, his cheeks flushing. He stopped before the door to the Great Hall and looked at her with grave contemplation. “Will you stand by my side?”

Her heart ached for him as she heard the vulnerability in his voice. “I stood by your side even before we met. That’s why I came to Kvatch in the first place.”

“To save the heir to the throne…” he murmured, and his brows knitted.

“And the quiet priest of Akatosh who would die to protect others,” she corrected him gently, pressed her hand to his cheek. “Heir to the throne or not, you are special, Martin. You are kind, selfless, and empathic. You saved Ghost despite the attack on your life. Since we met you’ve always had my back, and I will have yours. We’re in this together, and you won’t get rid of me anytime soon.” He looked at her in confusion when she held up her pinkie to him. She threaded it with his and squeezed.  “Pinkie promise,” she whispered with a smile.

“You are a curious one, Celia. But I have come to love your oddness with each passing day. You are like the elder sibling I never had.” 

“And there you go again, harping on my age,” she teased. With an amused smile, he lowered their hands, their pinkies still hooked, and ushered her into the Great Hall for breakfast.

They didn’t address the elephant in the room, during their morning meal. But the impending conversation weighed on her. They needed to speak of what they’d learned from her abduction by the Mythic Dawn. She need not tell them she’d known about Paradise all along. Now she was a witness and the information she would share could be from what she’d heard in the shrine. She’d brought the Mysterium Xarxes, which she still needed to hand over to Martin. This alone would be proof of what she would tell them. Closing off Paradise and stopping Mankar Camoran was now the only way to clear their path into the Imperial City.

To her dismay, this sounded too much like the main quest as she’d played it through so many times. What did that mean for her altering the events? Would she always come back to the scripted steps, though she’d skipped some of them? No! She believed the Elder Scrolls were not set in stone, always had. They didn’t belong to the realm of time and stasis. They came from outside, just like her. Thus, she could diverge from the coded plot and change fate. Determined to embody the archetype of the Prisoner, she decided to show them what Free Will could do. She would write a new ending to the Oblivion main quest, and she would save Martin in the process. Watching him eat quietly made her aware that he’d grown on her more than in any other walkthrough. She felt protective of him, as if it was her job to save him in the end. A shiver coiled down her spine over the decision to do everything in her power to diverge from the script. If she needed to follow it for now, she would do that. But she would not miss the right moment to jump off the plotline.

Jauffre entered the Great Hall and headed for their table. “Good morning, Martin,” he said solemnly, then turned to her and bowed his head. “Good morning, Celia. I hope you found some rest in the stables after your disturbed sleep.”

Oi, the Blades were tattletales. She’d better remember that. “Thank you, I rested well,” she murmured and saw the corners of his mouth tug upward. “I am pleased to hear that as you have quite the task ahead of you. Did Martin already speak of our plans for you?”

“Jauffre,” he admonished the Grandmaster softly. “We’ve decided to let her eat in peace first.”

“And some peace she’s had,” Jauffre replied. “As you are not familiar with one-on-one combat you will learn some fundamentals today. The recent events showed that it is necessary for you to know some defence techniques.” 

She choked on the piece of bread she’d just shoved into her mouth.  “You think I will be able to fight?” she coughed in disbelief.

“Not fight, no, but you may increase your chances to hold off an attacker until one of us comes to your rescue.” Oh! She stared at Jauffre in surprise. He had already made a security plan for her? “And after you discussed some odd magic surrounding you, I believe Martin should teach you to use your arcane talent.”

“I don’t possess any arcane powers,” she objected immediately. “There is only this weird chaos clinging to me.”

“You could draw from the Ayleid well, Celia. An ancient source of power known for enhancing Magicka. I don’t think that chaos just clings to you. It comes from within,” Martin explained calmly. “It is a part of you, and you should learn to control it.”

She chewed on her lip, not sure what to make of this. Jauffre though appeared convinced that was the best course of action. “Your instructor will await you in the courtyard after you have finished. You should wear something comfortable. Afterwards Martin will teach you basic magic. It seems you have many tasks ahead today.”

Thus, she found herself stepping into the courtyard in a warm tunic and trousers. Several Blades just gathered their equipment and cleared the practice area. A lone figure remained when they scattered: Baurus. He turned, and his gaze landed on her, focussed and unrelenting. Her heart pounded as she realised he would be her instructor that day. Jauffre had tricked her, most likely Martin as well. He probably didn’t know they had planned this, isolating her so Baurus could have a word with her. Oh, those sneaky bastards! If they thought it was that easy, they had another thing coming.

“So, you are my instructor?” she asked when she stepped towards him, determined not to show how much she dreaded training with him.

“Aye, I volunteered,” he replied, his eyes still fixed on her.

She nodded, spreading her arms wide. “Then don’t hold back.”

And he didn’t. To her surprise he refrained from immediately cornering her with unwelcome questions. He started with combat training just as they had told her. However, he did not spare her. After only a short time, her muscles ached and exhaustion claimed her. That was when he decided to practice the moves he’d shown her against an actual foe. Him! She landed on her butt more than once, the hard stone floor unforgiving to her poor limbs. When he flattened her again and most likely caused another bruise, she relented and waited for him to let her go. Only he didn’t. His hand pinned her shoulder on the ground, and he bent over her, fixing her with his dark gaze.

“We must speak,” he said sharply, as though to make sure his words reached her ears alone. “You still haven’t answered what you were doing in the Imperial Prison.”

“I am aware of what it looks like, Baurus. But I never lied to you. I don’t know how I ended up in that prison cell, nor why I was there,” she tried to explain in a hushed voice.

“Do you really think I believe that? You disappeared with the Amulet of Kings as soon as you were out of my sight. I trusted you.”

“Yes, you did, because the Emperor trusted me first. You explained to me that he as a Dragonborn saw more than other people. He had visionary dreams, Baurus, ever since he’d returned from his Daedric prison. He knew me before we had even spoken, and he entrusted me with the Amulet of Kings because he saw something no one else could.”

“What? What did he see in you?” he asked, sounding angry and desperate.

“My role in this crisis,” she answered calmly. “I am not here to hurt Martin, Baurus. That’s why I headed to Kvatch instead of Weynon Priory. I knew what would have happened, if I’d gone there.”

“How? Did the Emperor tell you?”

She inhaled deeply. This was the opportunity to steer him off her trail. It would be so easy, a single word, yes, and he would back off. But she would lie to him, and she found, she couldn’t. Gaining his trust was worth more than settling his doubts quickly. She’d always liked him in the game. He was not a bad man, just concerned about Martin’s safety. That put them on the same side. They needed to find common ground, but they wouldn’t if she lied to him now. “No,” she answered truthfully, and his eyes narrowed. “He couldn’t see beyond his grave.”

“What then?” He shook his head, and his hand tightened on her shoulder.

“Martin knows,” she said, not showing any resistance to his almost painful grip. “Ask him, maybe he will explain it to you. You won’t believe me if I tell you.”

“So, he knows from you, doesn’t he? What if you lied to him, too? What if he trusted you too easily?”

“He is a Dragonborn, just like his father, and he will become Emperor. Do you believe he is worthy of the position?” Shock flickered across his features, and his tight grip loosened. “If you do, you must trust his judgement.” Suddenly, he released her and stepped back. She stayed down, all vulnerable to him and no threat at all. “I am not your foe, Baurus. We want the same thing. If you believe it or not, I will do everything I can to keep him safe, even if that means I must bend the script.”

Using that phrase was risky, she knew, but she didn’t care. It was a bone she could throw him, though he would likely take it as a reference to the Elder Scrolls. She couldn’t tell him where she had come from. That was Martin’s call. He had to decide which information he would disclose to the Blades. They were his people to command. She would not take that from him. Baurus stepped forward and stretched out a hand. Surprised about the gesture she grabbed it, and he pulled her to her feet. 

“I will keep an eye on you,” he murmured.

“You do that,” she agreed. 

With a scrutinising look he rounded her then headed for the east wing of the Temple. She let out the breath she’d been holding when the door shut behind him. Well, that went better than she’d thought. She turned around and limped back to her room, where she would clean up for her lesson with Martin.

Chapter Text

Celia sat in the armchair before the fireplace and tried to relax, just as Martin instructed. The fire crackled, its heat comforting on her cheeks. Her fingers and toes soaked up its warmth after the cold breeze outside in the courtyard. However, relaxing was no easy feat with bruises blooming on her skin and every movement aching under her body’s weight. Martin’s soothing voice alone should have been able to lull her into calm, but each time she got there, another stab of pain yanked her back from the threshold whenever she neared stillness.

“Feel for a spark, much like the energy you drew from the Ayleid well. It should pool somewhere within you. Try to imagine it just as you perceived the well’s arcane power,” he instructed her patiently, and she flinched under another sharp stab. He hadn’t commented on her fidgeting as they searched for her supposed magic. Hers. She still wasn’t convinced it even existed. There was this chaos rising, as he had said, when emotions like worry or rage overwhelmed her. But the most brutal occurrences came as she feared for her life, when death loomed imminent. Then chaos broke loose, beyond her control. It burned her from the inside, made her blood boil. 

Looking for something, girl? Won’t find much worth having. She hadn’t heard that bark since the ambush. Better try sniffing instead. 

Shut up, Barbas. I’m trying to concentrate, she snapped back, refusing to be toyed with by a Daedric servant.

His bark proved she had not annoyed him enough to leave her alone. Burning chaos and sweet desperation, a delicious scent that Dagon’s minions carry to the Deadlands now. What a nice love note you sent him. Such a treat. Deciding the wisest reaction was none at all, she pushed aside his mocking laugh and focused once more on searching for the pool of energy inside her, just as Martin had instructed. Burning embers glowed in the dark surrounding her, making it impossible to ignore the hound. Try time; mantle your true nature. Then you may yet stumble upon what you hunt in vain.

“Come back to me, sweet Celia.” The deep, sonorous voice rolled through the darkness and tore her from the trance. Barbas’s howl faded, his laughter echoing as her consciousness clawed its way back into the Great Hall of Cloud Ruler Temple. “Ah, there she is.” Janus Hassildor smiled at her, and she stared at his handsome face, again stunned by the striking features the game had never managed to capture. She could not take her eyes off him until she realised he had invoked Vampire Seduction, yanking her free of the trance that had swallowed her whole.

“Celia, thank Akatosh, you are back. I thought I’d lost you.” Martin knelt before her, hands trembling. She frowned, puzzled at how he had gotten there. “What happened?”

An arm steadied her, and she found herself on Janus Hassildor’s lap, her legs dangling over the chair’s armrest. Her cheeks flushed in embarrassment.

“I saw her like that when we first met on the road to Skingrad,” he explained. “She nearly slipped away from me then as well. I suppose it was the Daedric Hound again, claiming her attention.”

“Barbas?” Martin asked and enclosed her hand in both of his, a worried look in his eyes.

“He has mocked me all along the way, even shortly before the ambush. By then it was too late to prevent what happened,” she replied. “Thank you, kind sir, I can sit by myself now.”

Janus Hassildor helped her rise from his lap and offered the armchair back to her, a wicked little smile playing at the corners of his mouth. Oh, this infuriating man. She fixed her gaze on the fire.

“I don’t like that,” Martin murmured. “The Daedric hound following you, pulling you into a trance like that.”

She met his gaze and tilted her head, deep in thought. “I am not sure what his agenda is, why he takes such an interest in me. Sometimes it is pure mockery; at other times he seems to spill truths I cannot yet fully grasp.”

“Don’t listen to him, Celia,” Martin said, panic in his eyes. “Daedric tongues deceive. They lull you into service, and you can never win.”

“I don’t intend to worship any Daedra at all,” she assured him. “They might seem fun at first glance, but none of them is harmless. They are selfish and cruel, all of them.” Her words eased him somewhat, though he still looked uncomfortable. She understood why. His scarring past with Sanguine had led him there, guilt and trauma deeply ingrained in his personality. “It is time we speak of what we know about the Mythic Dawn and their schemes, especially after what I witnessed at the Shrine of Dagon.” She steered the conversation away from Barbas towards the pressing matters of Mankar Camoran and the Mysterium Xarxes.

Shortly after they assembled in the Great Hall: Martin, Count Hassildor, Jauffre, and all the Blades who were not on active duty. Celia saw Baurus among them and a female Blade, whose presence made her feel less like a beacon between all the men. She remembered her name as Jena, the one who allowed herself to wander the battlements in quiet moments and breathe in the cold mountain air. When their eyes met Celia smiled at the Blade, who returned it with a tilt of her head, like an unspoken bond between sisters in this male-dominated stronghold.

“The Mythic Dawn block our path to the Imperial City. There is no way we can smuggle Martin in through the passage to the Imperial Prison. The Emperor’s murder showed us the last secret path we held has been compromised,” Jauffre declared. “We must dismantle the Mythic Dawn by erasing their leadership. Only then can we escort Martin to the Temple of the One to light the Dragonfires and stop Mehrunes Dagon from invading Nirn.”

“So you are saying we must infiltrate the Mythic Dawn and investigate its hierarchy?” Baurus cut in.

“That won’t be necessary,” Celia replied. “As I said before, they wanted to sacrifice me at an initiation ritual. The leader of the Mythic Dawn was present and spoke to the cultists. His name is Mankar Camoran, an Altmer mage.” A murmur broke loose at that. She waited until it settled before she continued. “He created a plane in Oblivion and calls it his Paradise, where his followers shall ascend to.”

“How could he achieve that? How could he build a plane in Oblivion?” Jauffre asked, his brows knitted.

“He received a book written by Mehrunes Dagon: the Mysterium Xarxes. He bound himself to it to create Paradise and enter it at will. His doctrine claims Tamriel was just another plane of Oblivion. He sees Lorkhan as the rightful Prince who was betrayed by false gods, the Aedra, as he considers Daedra as the only gods. Thus, he sees Mehrunes Dagon’s invasion to Tamriel as his birthright, its destruction as a cleansing to build it anew.” A horrified hush fell over the Great Hall. Celia summoned all the knowledge she had obtained about the cult leader during her research, when she’d played the game, quickly deciding which information would give them the clearest picture of who Mankar Camoran was before she spoke again. “The Daedras’ active presence against the passivity of the Aedra is what he bases his claims on.”

“I heard this name before: Mankar Camoran. He is said to be the Camoran Usurper’s son, though he tried to erase his ancestry,” Count Hassildor murmured, deep in thought. “There are rumours about him having used the Razor of Mehrunes Dagon, CHIM, or Dracochrysalis to bestow the Dragonblood on himself. In his Mythic Dawn Commentaries, he hints at using the Thu’um. Thus, his seeking of the Amulet of Kings makes sense. Mehrunes Dagon, Prince of Destruction and Ambition, Lord of Change, fits into this worldview naturally.”

Of course he’d heard about that. Janus Hassildor had introduced himself to her as a man who sought knowledge and was open to all kinds of philosophical views of the world.

“That sounds disturbing, indeed,” Jauffre said, his brows still furrowed in worry.

“He vanished to Paradise through a portal during the ceremony,” Celia went on. “But he left something important behind: the Mysterium Xarxes.”

“So what are you saying? We seek this book to end him?” Baurus asked. Yes, that sounded like him, always pragmatic, always leaning towards action.

“There’s no need to return to the shrine. I retrieved it during my escape,” Celia said.

“By the Nine! Such a thing is dangerous even to handle!” Martin sprang to his feet, horror on his face. The Blades stared at him in surprise. “A Daedric artifact. Here at Cloud Ruler Temple. Right under my nose.”

Celia shrank at his outburst. Oi, she had known he’d feared the book but had not reckoned with such a violent reaction. Maybe she should have delivered it the moment she’d arrived.

“I… should have handed it over right away. I was just… overwhelmed by everything that had happened.”

He turned towards her, his eyes wild. But then his gaze softened, and he reached for her, regret on his face when she flinched. “Forgive me. You were right to bring it. This evil book might be the key to Camoran’s Paradise. It might give us the means to open a gate to it. But you'd better hand it to me. I don’t want you tainted by its force, especially with Barbas following you. That is too much Daedric influence for my liking. I know some ways to protect myself from its evil power, though.”

“I’ll get it for you,” she murmured, fleeing the Great Hall without looking back. 

His fury unsettled her, but she understood where it came from. He dreaded the Daedric power the book harboured. He feared the corruption it could cause. It had been dumb of her to keep it. She swallowed when she retrieved the package from where she had hidden it and stared at it warily as if it could attack her at any moment.

Chaos fears chaos. What a twist. The bark came out of nowhere, and she groaned. 

She really should get this book to Martin before something unforeseen happened. Carrying the bundle in both hands, she hurried towards the Great Hall. It felt heavy in her grasp, and an overwhelming urge to press it against her chest made her arms shake under the strain.

Oh, hug it close, little chaos, for it is just another part of you. Unite with the power you hold in your hands. No! She would not touch it to her chest, not connect with it in any way. Panicked, she ran, threw herself against the door, and stumbled into the Great Hall. Don’t let the opportunity slip and seek the ultimate power, girl. 

“Fuck off, Barbas!” she cried and dropped the book with force. 

“Celia!” Martin was at her side in an instant, pressed his palms against her cheeks and looked at her with worry. “Don’t let him get to you. What is he saying?”

“He taunts me to bind myself to the Mysterium Xarxes, this bloody mutt.” 

A barking laugh echoed in her head. Just trying your resolve, little chaos. And oh, did you pass. 

“A test, my arse,” she muttered under her breath. “There’s the bloody book. Be careful, yes?” With a pleading look, she freed herself from Martin’s hold, turned and left the Hall to head towards the stables.

She welcomed the cold breeze in her face as she hurried across the courtyard. The Blades who stood guard did not take much notice of her, concentrating on their duty. Shivers coiled down her spine which had nothing to do with the cold and everything with the Daedric forces that had tried her. No way would she consort with any of those devils, ever. Barbas was only a servant and still the cruel mockery grated on her. If that was just a little taste of what a true Daedric Prince was capable of, she slowly understood what Martin had gone through when he’d turned his back on his former master. Surely, Sanguine had not let him slip away easily. 

When she reached the stables she collected some grooming equipment and headed for Ghost’s stall. He welcomed her with his trademark snort and affectionate clumsiness. She tended him, with vigorous determination, switching off all thoughts about cultists and Daedra and dangerous books. Her body still ached with every stroke of the brush, but she welcomed it as it grounded her in the present. The smell of straw and hay, of horse and wood soothed her frayed nerves. Soon the agitation faded from both her body and thoughts alike, so that when the stable doors opened with a creak she felt calm and composed again.

“Ah, I see your friend helped you find peace and quiet. And he seems extraordinarily happy about it,” Janus Hassildor said and slowly approached the stall. 

“I like the smell of stables, the noises horses make, the snorting, the munching on hay,” she replied. “There is also something true to those beasts. They tell you what they think, straightforward, no secret agenda here.”

The Count chuckled. “There are no secrets between us, either, sweet Celia. You’ve known my most guarded secrets all along. There is nothing more to uncover.”

She laid down the brush she was holding, letting her hand stroke the soft coat of her most loyal friend. “Is that so?” she finally asked. “So tell me, why are you here?”

“Isn’t that obvious?” he replied. “You fascinate me, and you have since the moment we met. You embody everything I’ve ever craved: strength and endurance in the face of trials and dangers. You suffered through the worst, yet you stand tall. You unite myth and the greater forces with a true human personality, power and vulnerability in a sweet woman’s body.” She felt her cheeks burn at his words, and turned her gaze away. “There are matters that need my attention, calling me back to Skingrad. The Blades surely know of my nature and are keen on getting rid of me. Another threat they don’t need worrying about.”

“Are you a threat?” she asked softly and looked at him to gauge his reaction.

“A Dragonborn on the Ruby Throne, wearing the Amulet of Kings and keeping the Empire safe, tell me, why should I threaten his ascension to the throne?” He stepped closer to the stall, and she realised his eyes were even more bloodshot than before, the white of his irises stark in the dim light of the stables. His face appeared slightly grey, his lips showed a bluish tinge. All signs of his advanced stage of vampirism. He hadn’t fed for a long time. Was that why he withdrew? Because he couldn’t hide his nature any longer? “I said it once, yet I will say it again. I am not your foe, Celia. I am your ally and I stand by your side. I am also the Count of Skingrad. Therefore, I must leave now as night has fallen. I will return, though, and whenever you need sanctuary, Skingrad Castle will welcome you.” He reached out and cupped her face in his hands, pulling her cautiously towards him. She stared up at him in surprise, as his thumbs gently stroked over her cheeks. “You are remarkable, Hero of Kvatch, daughter of Sithis,” he whispered. “Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.” 

She froze when his lips brushed hers in a tender kiss, drawing an involuntary whimper from her throat. He smiled, then stepped back. “Farewell, sweet Celia. We shall meet again.” The next breath, he was gone, only the stable doors fell shut.

She grabbed the stall walls and steadied herself, her pulse raging in her throat, her vision blurring under the sudden rush of blood. Oi, calm down, girl, she scolded herself, but couldn’t find the composure he had just shattered with a tender brush of his lips. Count Janus Hassildor had kissed her, right there in the stables of Cloud Ruler Temple.