Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Feel it comin' in the air (Yeah)
Hear the screams from everywhere (Yeah)
I'm addicted to the thrill (I'm ready)
It's a dangerous love affair (What's up? Come on)
Can't be scared when it goes down
Got a problem, tell me now (What's up?)
Only thing that's on my mind (What's up?)
Is who's gon' run this town tonight (Ah, what's up?)
Is who's gon' run this town tonight (Yeah, what's up? Yeah)
We gon' run this town
~ “Run This Town” – Jay-Z featuring Rihanna and Kanye West

Kassia strolled through the Riften marketplace like she owned the entire Rift. No Brotherhood leathers today – just a fitted corset in blood-wine red, black leather pants tight enough to kill a man’s concentration, and thigh-high boots polished to a mirror shine.

Rubies glittered at her ears, throat, and wrists – drops of blood turned to stone. And while the Blade of Woe rode openly across her small of her back, none of the Guild dared lay a hand on her. Even the cutpurses looked the other way.

She stopped at Madesi’s stall, fingering a delicate chain of silver and garnet.

“It suits you,” Madesi offered nervously. “On the house, if it pleases the Listener.”

She smiled faintly, dropped a few septims anyway, and reached for another ring when –

Wham. She turned and collided shoulder-first into someone barrel-chested and perfumed.

The hiss that followed was venomous. “Watch where you’re going, you half-blind gutterspawn.”

Kassia blinked lazily. “Maven,” she purred.

Maven Black-Briar sneered down at her. “You don’t want to make an enemy of me. The Dark Brotherhood is at my beck and call – one word from me, and –”

Her hand darted out, snatching for the jewelry in Kassia’s hand.

Kassia caught her wrist mid-motion.

“Is that so?” she said sweetly. “Funny. I wasn’t told.”

She let go, slowly, then reached into her bodice and produced a neatly folded piece of parchment. The Black Hand seal, unmistakable, gleamed in the morning sun.

She turned on her heel, faced the gathered crowd – and when she spoke, her voice carried with unnatural power, bolstered by the thu’um itself:

“Astrid,
I thought your people were supposed to be reliable.
I've performed the Black Sacrament, paid proper penance, and waited patiently for results.
If you can't handle a simple assassination, I'll find someone who can.
I want this contract handled – immediately.

– Maven Black-Briar.”

The marketplace fell into stunned silence. Eyes widened. Marise dropped a basket of apples.

Maven’s face drained of color.

Kassia folded the note and tucked it away with exaggerated care.

“Astrid is dead,” she said calmly. “So I suppose I’ll ask you directly: Who is it you want us to assassinate? Sabjorn? He’s already in jail. Or is it Jarl Laila? You do like pretending to rule the city.”

Maven’s mouth worked soundlessly, like a fish gasping on the docks of the Riften Fishery.

“Let me be perfectly clear,” Kassia said, stepping closer, voice low and lethal. “The Dark Brotherhood is not, and never has been, at your beck and call. Stop cultivating that lie. You can perform the Black Sacrament until your fingers rot off, but we will never accept a contract from you. Ever.”

Maven’s lips curled in fury. “You’ve made the wrong enemy. Now get out of my way.”

Kassia didn’t move. “No. You have.”

She stepped aside only after Maven stiffly stormed off, red-faced and seething. The crowd watched her go.

No one said a word.

Not until Kassia turned back to Madesi and plucked up the garnet ring she’d left behind.

“Wrap that, would you?” she said lightly. “And add something cursed. Something Maven might touch by mistake.”

Madesi nodded wordlessly, hands trembling.

*                                                                     *                                                                                          *

Kassia’s boots rang softly against the stone floor as she descended into the Cistern. The scent of torch oil, mead, and damp brick filled the air – familiar, almost homey, if your definition of home included thieves, backroom deals, and at least one blade always drawn.

She spotted Galen near an archery range, idly twirling a dagger as he watched Nuruin and Thrynn riddle the target with arrows.

“You’re upright,” she said by way of greeting. “That’s a good sign.”

He looked over and smiled, sharp and warm. “Still breathing. Still feeding. Mostly on beggars, don’t worry.”

“I’d be more concerned if you were snacking on Dirge.”

Galen laughed. “Dirge is too salty. You know I have a sweet tooth.”

She came to stand beside him, their shoulders nearly touching. “You settling in alright?”

“Better than alright. The Guild suits me. Better than Blacklight ever did.”

Her expression softened briefly. “Still feels like yesterday, doesn’t it? Stolen apples, broken noses, and running from guards.”

“You ran,” Galen said, smug. “I walked away. Smiling.”

Kassia chuckled. “And now look at you. Well-dressed. Well-fed. Sitting pretty in a place you were born to run.”

“Progress,” he agreed.

Before she could reply, At’avar’s voice cut through the din behind them. “Kassia. Might I have a word?”

She turned, meeting his gaze. Brynjolf stood behind him, pretending not to listen but clearly eavesdropping with professional finesse.

“Of course,” she said. “Not here. Meet me at Honeyside.”

At’avar nodded once. Brynjolf raised an eyebrow but said nothing.

*                                                                     *                                                                                          *

Candles flickered low in the sitting room as Kassia poured two glasses of wine – red as spilled blood.

At’avar stood by the window, watching the lake shimmer in the moonlight. He didn’t speak until she handed him a glass.

“I want to hire the Brotherhood,” he said without preamble. “I want Maven Black-Briar dead. Her sons, too.”

Kassia sipped slowly. “And why would I agree to that?”

“So I can be with Ingun,” he said. “No more pretending. No more being a chained lapdog for Maven’s whims. I want her gone. Hemming. Sibbi. All of them.”

Kassia set her glass down. “Do you know what you’re asking?”

“Yes. And I know it comes with a price.”

She considered him for a long moment. “The Dark Brotherhood doesn’t usually interfere with Guild business. But for Maven?”

Her red eyes gleamed. “That one’s personal. I won’t even charge gold. How about an exchange of service?”

*                                                                     *                                                                                          *

The opportunity fell into place like a blade sliding into a sheath.

Sibbi was released from jail to run an errand for Maven. Hemming and Maven were due to inspect the Black-Briar Lodge. Maul rode with them. Ingun, conveniently, was left behind.

That night, the Lodge stood quiet beneath a heavy sky.

Kassia struck fast.

She was a shadow in the rafters, a whisper in the halls. She tore out Sibbi’s throat while he was arguing with Maul. Ripped Hemming from his bed. Bled Maul dry in the main hall. And Maven… Maven she saved for last.

Kassia bit deep, holding her close as she drank every ounce of pride from her.

When it was done, she dragged in a dead werewolf – fresh from a ‘detour’ to Bloated Man’s Grotto – and staged the carnage. Clawed wounds, torn bodies, splintered furniture, and blood. So much blood.

*                                                                     *                                                                                          *

Ingun wept for the guards to accompany her to her family’s Lodge.

“They’ve been gone too long,” she sobbed. “Something’s wrong.”

Jarl Laila agreed without hesitation.

They found Black-Briar Lodge in ruin. Bodies everywhere. The werewolf slumped near the fireplace, killed by a desperate final blow.

Maven, Hemming, Sibbi, Maul – all dead.

Ingun fled the Lodge, screaming into the trees.

The old Black-Briar banners came down quietly, replaced by all new. Ingun Black-Briar took over the manor and the meadery. Rebranded the recipe – her recipe. Added the spices Hemming took credit for.

She pledged her support to At’avar. Behind closed doors, they celebrated in more ways than one.

*                                                                     *                                                                                          *

The fire crackled quietly in the hearth. Kassia poured three glasses of wine – a spiced vintage from Blacklight, one of the few luxuries she still indulged in. The rubies at her throat gleamed faintly in the candlelight.

Ingun sat on the edge of the settee, fingers curled tightly around the stem of her glass, her eyes still puffy from the public weeping she’d performed earlier that day. At’avar stood behind her, ever the pillar – part protector, part co-conspirator.

Kassia sipped her wine. “The guards believed it?”

Ingun nodded slowly. “Every one of them. The werewolf… the blood... the claw marks. There’s no question in anyone’s mind.”

“Good,” Kassia murmured. “That took effort.”

Ingun hesitated. “I told them I found the ring… the one my mother wore. I kept it.”

“That’s fine,” Kassia said. “You deserve a keepsake.” She swirled her wine. “And you deserve the meadery. You’ve earned it.”

Ingun blinked, unsure whether to thank her or remain cautious.

Kassia leaned forward, voice gentle. “You’re in the clear, Ingun. You always were. But let’s be practical for a moment. I went to great lengths to make Maven’s death look like a tragic accident – tragic enough for the bards, clean enough for the records. It would be… unfortunate if the truth got around.”

At’avar raised a brow. “You think someone might talk?”

“Not you,” Kassia said smoothly, “but tongues wag. Especially when new power rises where old power died screaming.” She smiled. “I’d simply suggest we not speak of the Brotherhood’s involvement. To anyone. Not even in whispers.”

Ingun exhaled slowly. “I understand.”

“Good.” Kassia stood. “You’ve both done well. Enjoy what you’ve built. I’ll be in touch when next you need us.” Her eyes flicked to At’avar. “And vice versa.”

They left quietly, and Kassia waited until the door shut before she said aloud:

“Now then…”

She looked toward the window, where the night wind stirred the curtains like the breath of fate.

“Time to take care of older business.”

*                                                                     *                                                                                          *

After a pit stop in Markarth for a pleasurable visit with her favorite housecarl, Argis, she returned to the sanctuary. Babette flashed a toothy grin as she greeted her.

“The big, stupid mutt is waiting for you in his dawg haus.”

The ‘dawg haus’ was an addition to the sanctuary beyond the upgrades the Guild had provided them. It consisted of a natural cave leading to a secondary hidden exit just south of Yngvild. Arnbjorn often dragged his prey into its dark depths.

“He’ll have to wait. The Night Mother whispers to me.” Kassia haughtily replied and knelt before the ancient corpse’s ornate coffin.

“He insisted you come to him immediately.” Babette sing-songed. She loved being an instrument of chaos. “He sounded angry.”

The Night Mother gave her a name. Aia Arria. She would have to send a Speaker to Solitude. Glancing around, she noticed Jasmine in the alchemy nook.

“Jasmine, my dear, I need you to head to Solitude. Speak to a bard at the college named Aia Arria. She performed the Black Sacrament. Find out who she seeks to silence.”

“Bards…” Jasmine sighed, “Such flighty creatures. This should be delicious.”

Then Kassia turned away from the Night Mother. Her stiletto heels clicked angrily on the stone as she headed for her wolf’s play area.

“How dare you drag me away from a very important communion with the Night Mother?!”

“I smell your pretty boy housecarl on your flesh, tidbit,” growling low in his throat.

“He’s not a boy,” she hissed. “He is sworn to carry my burdens and one of them includes warming my bed. Sithis knows, I deserve the pleasure he bestows upon me.”

Kassia peered into the pitch black cavern, using the darkvision being a vampire granted her, making out the remains of three eviscerated bodies.

“And when I rip his heart out and serve it to you on a platter?”

Kassia’s sharp laugh pierced the darkness. “He would rip you to shreds. It would be your heart on a platter.”

“So that how it’s going to be, tidbit? You’ll see. I don’t have a heart. It died with Astrid.”

Time abruptly came to a halt, Kassia waited, too intrigued to move. She knew he blamed her for what became of his late wife. Nevermind that it was Astrid’s folly and her penance to the Night Mother.

A low growl issued from the darkness behind her. Eyes wide with interest, she located the source. Standing a short distance away, illuminated by the torchlight, was Arnbjorn, standing on two hind legs, body covered in coarse black fur, in his werewolf form with feral red eyes, a long distinguished snout, a very broad torso, and claws that looked like they could turn a tree into a toothpick. His eyes bored into her own, to the very depth of her soul. Looking into those wild, untamed red eyes, she instantly knew what he was thinking, “Devour.”

“Surprise, tidbit,” he growled then bared his teeth. “I will not be used by your whims anymore. Time to pay up.”

Drool dripped from his blackened gums and jowls. He howled then lunged at her, catching her. He wrapped thick, hairy arms around her waist. Kassia struggled, flailing her legs wildly in hopes of landing a solid kick. Arnbjorn proved to be stronger, though. He yanked her to the floor, covering her body with his. He then sank his incisors into the tender flesh of her shoulder. Kassia hissed in pain, thrashing beneath him. Blood oozed down her front, soaking into the dress, leaving streaks through her cleavage.

Arnbjorn ripped her dress to shreds, exposing her bare flesh. Shoving her legs apart, he positioned himself between them. Kassia screamed as loudly as she could, Sithis's name on her lips, as she felt the coarse fur brush the backs of her thighs, “NO!”

He threw back his head, letting out a howl that froze the blood running through her veins, making her freeze in place from her own terror. He’d never had this kind of effect over her. Stunned, Kassia glanced back over her shoulder to find Arnbjorn readying his assault, his red eyes glaring at her hungrily. Her terrified gaze focused on what was growing between his legs. In amazed horror, she gazed upon his cock, a giant bulbous length of flesh, its tip glistening in the pitch dark of the room.

Kassia struggled to get away, but clawed hands wrapped around her waist, tearing at her skin. Screaming obscenities at him, Kassia clenched as Arnbjorn mounted her exposed form. Gripping her hips, he thrust forward, burying his cock inside of her.

Her scream echoed off the cave walls as Arnbjorn began his long strokes into her passage, his cock brutally ramming in then out of her tight pussy.  Painful deep tremors wracked her body as his claws dug into her hips, holding her steady as he ravaged her, stretching every nook of her entrance then beyond.

Arnbjorn fell into an animalistic frenzy, giving into the inner beast, furiously ramming his cock into Kassia, a feral snarl coming from his fanged mouth. As Arnbjorn worked her moistening passage, an insatiable lust consumed her, causing her back to arch and her hips to rise for deeper penetration. A moan slipped from her lips as her hips bucked in time to Arnbjorn’s thrusts. She no longer feared him as he continued his vicious assault.

Just when the pain dulled, turning into a sensuous fullness, Arnbjorn threw his head back, howled then cum erupted from his cock to fill her slippery sheath. His pistoning thrusts reached a new frenzy, cum gushing out of her channel with each surge, pooling on the floor between her knees. Kassia moaned from the intensity, the amount that spewed into her. She yelped in pain as he pushed her face against the floor, her body quivered as he pulled his cock from her bloody, stretched snatch with a wet sucking sound, a stream of cum flowing from her channel, adding to the pool between her knees.

He wrapped a clawed hand around her neck, lifting her to her feet. Then a long pink tongue snaked out, licking her face, her neck; tasting her. He then pushed Kassia to her knees. She gasped as he grabbed a handful of her hair. His desires became all too clear as he pulled her forward, straight toward his cum covered cock. Her mouth opened to be filled with his cock. Kassia's eyes flew open in shock as the beast's cock slid deep into her throat. Gagging, she fought to pull away, but he pushed her head forward, burying more of his vicious tool in her mouth.

Struggling to keep up, she pounded her fists against his furry thighs while he thrust in and out of her mouth.  He pulled back momentarily, allowing her to find her rhythm. Then he brutally plunged his cock deep into her throat right after, with her face buried in the bristly hair surrounding his balls. Holding her there, Kassia swore she would make him suffer dearly for this violation before gagging on the salty substance that spewed forth from his sex.

Pulling back, Arnbjorn howled as he furiously fucked her mouth, hot cum spilling into her orifice. Refusing to swallow any, cum gushed from her soft lips, sliding down her chin, coating her breasts. With one final, vicious thrust, he once again, forced his entire cock down her throat, holding it deep while filling her with cum before finally pulling out. Kassia spit out what she could while cum flowed down her chin.

Arnbjorn slammed her to the floor, pinning her on her back with a guttural snarl. When she started to struggle, he snapped at her – teeth bared, the beast still in his eyes. One deep, vibrating growl warned her to stay still.

Then he tore into her flesh with claws and teeth. Blood spilled, crimson streaks across her pale grey skin. “YOU ARE MINE!”

“FUS!” Kassia shouted, the force of the shout cracking through the cave like a thunderclap.

The blast flung him backward. He hit the stone hard, groaning as the transformation snapped back into place, fur giving way to flesh. He lay sprawled in the dirt, laughing raspily.

“Feisty tidbit,” he crooned, licking blood from his lips. “Naughty.” He sat up, grinning like a wolf. “I think I’ll keep you as my pet.”

“Never,” she hissed, chest heaving, as he lunged toward her again with rough, possessive arms.

“Ohhh, pet… you know you enjoy it. You always do,” he rumbled against her throat. “Who else fucks you like I do?”

“Argis is better,” she said coolly, biting back a smirk.

Arnbjorn growled low, the sound a mixture of jealousy and dark amusement.

“You’re mine, tidbit,” he murmured, brushing a bloodied thumb across her jaw. “So beautiful… so perfect. You’ll be mine forever.”

She sank her fangs into his throat, drinking just enough to begin healing her wounds. The blood was hot, bitter. Beast-blood. She hated the taste of it. Arnbjorn snarled and grunted in pain, but didn’t stop her.

“Are you seriously that jealous of Argis that you have to be so godsdamned rough?”

“I thought you liked it rough,” he growled, his voice reverberating through her ribs. “Soft and sweet bores you.”

Kassia shoved him off. This time, he let her go.

She stood, gathering the shredded remains of her dress with a sigh. It was a lost cause. Another gown ruined. At this rate, her wolf was going to owe her an entire new wardrobe.

“Clean up your mess,” she said coldly. Then, as she turned away, her voice dipped with sly authority. “Oh – Argis will be moving in. For safety reasons. There are… big things on the horizon. And he’s my favorite housecarl. Can’t risk losing him to the consequences.”

Arnbjorn snarled behind her.

“Be a dear,” she added sweetly, “and clear out a room for him near mine.”

And without another word, she walked away—bloody, torn, and utterly in control.

Chapter Text

Chapter 2: Hungry Like The Wolf

In touch with the ground
I'm on the hunt, I'm after you
Smell like I sound, I'm lost in a crowd
And I'm hungry like the wolf
Straddle the line in discord and rhyme
I'm on the hunt, I'm after you
Mouth is alive, with juices like wine
And I'm hungry like the wolf
~ Hungry Like the Wolf – Duran Duran

The room was dark save for the embers in the hearth. Shadows danced across fur rugs and weathered stone, illuminating the hulking form of Arnbjorn sprawled across their bed, shirtless, his breath slow, deep. A single ebony dagger lay on the bedside table. His left eye fluttered open.

And there she was.

Kassia straddled him without a word, silent as a wraith. Her knees pressed against his ribs. Her eyes – glowing, deep, predatory red – glinted in the firelight. Her cheeks were slightly sunken, her fangs bared just enough to hint at the creature she truly was.

“You're awake,” she whispered, voice like velvet pulled over a dagger’s edge. “You did as I asked?”

Arnbjorn didn’t move, didn’t push her off. He simply growled low in his throat. “Aye, tidbit, pretty boy’s room is ready for him.”

She leaned down, close enough for her breath to ghost across his cheek. “So I noticed, but that dirty mat of furs is not a proper bed. Fix it or that’s where you will be sleeping and Argis will be in here with me.”

He snarled, and she smirked. “I take it we’re clear.”

“Crystal.”

“Lovely.” A sinister smile crossed her blood red lips. “I expect it taken care of once I am through with you. He is here and waiting.”

A low growl rumbled through his chest. His hand snaked up and gripped her throat. “One of these days, tidbit…”

Kassia let loose a mocking laugh. “Don’t make promises you don’t have the balls to keep, darling.”

She covered his hand with hers and forced him to grip tighter. Rage flickered through his eyes and an insolent sneer twisted his lips.

Then she let go. “To business, then.”

His grip slackened.

“While in Markarth, I ran into one of the twins,” she purred, dragging a finger down his scarred chest. “Don’t ask which. They’re hard to tell apart when they’re angry.”

That earned a quiet chuckle from him, gruff and humorless. “What did you do?”

“Asked a few questions,” she said casually. “About Jorrvaskr. About Kodlak. And about a certain bastard son of Falkreath who once called that place home.”

His hand clenched her throat again. She felt the flex of his muscles beneath her.

“I haven’t been that man in years,” he growled.

Kassia tilted her head. “No. Now you’re something better. Something wilder.” She traced his jaw with a clawed fingertip. “But the Companions… they still strut around Skyrim like they own the night. Shield brothers. Honor this, Ysgramor that. They think the blood they spill is noble. Clean.”

She leaned in so her lips nearly brushed his. “But you and I know what they really are. Beasts hiding behind oaths.”

His voice dropped back to that dangerous rumble. “What are you asking?”

Her smile sharpened.

“I’m offering you a reckoning.”

She shifted, grinding her hips down just enough to keep his attention.

“I will tear down their walls with whispers. You, my love… you get to bury the old wolf yourself. A silver arrow. A bed soaked in blood. And when you pin him down, I want you to remember the first time they made you howl. Remember how it felt to lose your soul for their cause.”

Arnbjorn’s throat worked. His hands finally left her throat, moving down to grip her waist – not to push her off, but to hold her steady.

“And when the Silver Hand is blamed?” he asked.

She nodded slowly. “Let them devour each other while we watch from the shadows.”

Silence stretched between them.

Then he grinned, “You’re a dangerous woman, tidbit.”

Her smile turned predatory. “And you’re the wolf who taught me how to bite.”


*                                                                      *                                                                      *

The faint creak of stone and wood echoed in the silence as Argis the Bulwark ducked beneath the arched threshold of his new quarters. The space was small, tucked into a quieter alcove of the Sanctuary’s twisted halls – away from the sleeping quarters of the others, but close enough to Kassia’s that he could respond quickly, should she call for him.

The bed was new. Sturdy. Heavy. Real. And judging by the slightly chipped wall and gouged floor near the doorframe, it had been forced in by brute strength and annoyance.

Argis turned just in time to see Arnbjorn filling the doorway, his arms crossed, shirt sleeves rolled up, and eyes gleaming silver in the torchlight. There was still dust in his beard and a chip in one of his canines. His posture radiated defiance, dominance – even barely restrained hostility. But Argis didn’t move. Didn’t blink. He simply stood, relaxed, imposing.

“Nice of you to bring the real bed,” Argis said dryly. “The heap of lice-infested furs was charming, but my spine would’ve revolted.”

Arnbjorn grunted. “Soft skins like you need your comforts.”

There was no humor in his voice. Just teeth behind a smirk.

“I don’t care about comfort,” Argis replied. “I care about duty.”

Arnbjorn’s nostrils flared. “You smell like her. Tidbit's scent’s all over you.”

“That’s because she feeds from me.”

Arnbjorn bristled.

Argis held up a hand before the man could growl again. “I know what it looks like. What she lets it look like. You think we’re fucking. We’re not.”

Arnbjorn’s lip curled insolently, but he said nothing.

“I’ve slept in her bed, yes,” Argis continued, voice calm, steady, “but not with her. She trusts me to keep her safe when she’s vulnerable. That’s the only reason I’m here. I serve. I guard. I bleed when she needs it. Nothing more.”

He paused, letting the words hang in the torchlit stillness. Then added, “I know she lets you think otherwise. That’s between you and her. I’m not here to stir it up.”

Arnbjorn’s eyes narrowed, as if he were sniffing out the lie – but there wasn’t one. He grunted again, this time with a note of reluctant understanding.

“Fine,” he growled. “But you’re still a hamshank. A big, juicy one.”

Argis raised an eyebrow. “And you’re the mutt who pisses on the furniture.”

A moment of tense silence. Then, to Argis’s surprise, Arnbjorn chuckled – a low, lupine sound that rumbled in his chest.

“Well, hamshank,” Arnbjorn said, turning to go, “you ever want to lose another eye, come find me in the training yard. I’ll show you what a real beast fights like.”

Argis smirked. “I’ll bring my axe. You bring your leash.”

Arnbjorn’s laugh echoed down the corridor as he disappeared into the shadows.

Argis turned back toward the bed, exhaling slowly. One less tension waiting to boil over. For now.

*                                                                      *                                                                      *

The torches along the rough stone walls crackled low, casting flickering shadows over the blood-stained training mats. The stale air reeked of sweat, metal, and challenge. Kassia lounged atop a stone outcropping, a perch of natural rock that allowed her a perfect view of the pit below. Her arms were folded. Her eyes glinted like twin coals in the dark.

Below her, the clash began.

Arnbjorn and Argis circled each other barefoot, stripped to nothing but loincloths, their bodies scarred and glistening with exertion. The werewolf’s frame was raw power, thick with sinew and primal rage. Argis was no less imposing – his broad shoulders, corded arms, and honed balance betraying years of soldiering and brute-force survival.

Flesh met flesh with thunderous slaps. Fists cracked against bone. Arnbjorn roared as Argis drove a knee into his ribs, but the werewolf rebounded with a savage uppercut that sent the housecarl sprawling against the training post. Argis shook it off, blood running from a split lip, and launched back in like a freighted hammer.

No words were exchanged. Only grunts, snarls, and the sound of pain as dominance and grudging respect fought for control.

Arnbjorn grappled him from behind – beast strength in full display – only for Argis to twist and throw the Nord off balance with a brutal shoulder check. They rolled across the mat, each trying to mount the other, fists flying like war drums, until both collapsed in a heap, panting and slick with blood.

Kassia watched, a slow smirk on her lips.

Neither man would yield.

They stood again, shoulders heaving, fists up. Ready for more.

She rose, her voice velvet over steel. “Enough.”

Both men froze, chests rising and falling like warhorses at the end of a charge.

“Arnbjorn,” she said sweetly, “you have a date. With an old wolf.”

He groaned, spitting blood. “I hate that wrinkled bastard.”

Argis grunted. “So go kill him already.”

They exchanged a glance – still wary, still sizing each other up – but the edge had dulled. What had begun as territorial posturing had carved out something quieter. A brutal, blood-soaked understanding.

Arnbjorn rolled his shoulder. “You’re still a hamshank.”

Argis smirked. “And you’re still a flea-ridden mutt.”

Arnbjorn gave a short bark of laughter as he limped away toward his gear.

From her perch, Kassia’s eyes gleamed.

One wolf down.

One old one left.

*                                                                      *                                                                      *

The scent of nightshade and juniper lingered in the air, chased by the sharp edge of candle smoke. A single brazier cast flickering shadows across the carved walls of the Sanctuary’s deepest chamber. Kassia stood near her narrow table, one gloved hand resting on the polished curve of a newly forged war axe.

She didn't look up when Argis entered. She didn’t need to.

“You’ve been busy,” he said, the clink of his boots echoing behind him. He was freshly bandaged, newly armored, his steel plates gleaming from the cleaning he’d given it.

“I always am,” she replied coolly. “Close the door.”

He did. And then she turned to face him – red eyes sharp, but not unkind.

“Take it off,” she said.

Argis blinked once. Then quirked a brow. “Is this about Arnbjorn? Because you know damn well he’s the jealous type.”

She gave a faint, dangerous smile. “That was amusing. But no. Strip, Argis. Not for pleasure this time.”

He chuckled, unbuckling his armor. “You know, most people would thank me for saving their ass from a werewolf.”

She gestured toward the side table where a fresh set of armor gleamed in the torchlight – ebony as black as midnight, trimmed in the faintest glint of crimson and gold. An ebony war axe rested beside it, paired with a shield bearing a scorched red hand – the mark of their Brotherhood. And behind it all, leaning against the wall, a greatsword that hummed with deadly promise.

Argis let out a low breath. “That’s not Imperial issue.”

“No,” Kassia said softly. “That’s me issue.”

He walked to the table, running a calloused hand along the curve of the axe’s blade. “You want me to wear this in public?”

“I want you to stop pretending you belong to anything else,” she said. “You're not Markarth’s dog anymore. You’re mine.”

Argis looked back at her, quieter now. “You opened my eyes, Kassia. And I made my choice. I serve you. Not a throne. Not a city. Not a banner.”

Her gaze softened just a little, her voice dipping lower. “Then armor up. There’s still work to do.”

He began to dress again, piece by piece, the weight of the armor fitting him like truth. When he slid the shield onto his back, he gave her a sideways glance.

“You’re still letting Arnbjorn believe we’re more than we are.”

“I let everyone believe what they want,” she said coolly. “Including you.”

He huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “You’re the worst, you know that?”

“I’m the best at what I do,” she corrected.

He paused. “For what it’s worth… Illia misses you. You should visit sometime. Before she freezes me in my sleep for ‘forgetting’ to clean the alchemy table again.”

Kassia smirked. “If she kills you, I’ll raise you. Then you really won’t be allowed to leave my side.”

Argis grinned and slipped the greatsword into its sheath.

“Shall we get to work?” he asked.

“Oh yes,” Kassia purred, stepping past him and brushing her fingers across the red hand on his shield. “It’s time an old wolf met the new.”

*                                                                      *                                                                      *

The fire in Kodlak’s chambers had burned low, casting flickering shadows across the stone walls of Jorrvaskr. Outside, the Skyforge hissed with distant heat, and the wind that swept through Whiterun carried the scent of coming rain. Inside, Kodlak Whitemane slept with a journal on his lap, dreaming of Sovngarde.

But Sovngarde would have to wait.

Arnbjorn slipped through the door without a sound. Bare-chested and smeared in dirt, he moved like a ghost with blood in its mouth. Old scars rippled across his back, and on his forearm, the tattooed paw-print of a wolf had long since faded to a bitter brand.

He drew a silver arrow from his quiver and raised it with steady hands. With a whisper to no one but himself – “You should’ve left me in the wild, old man” – he let it fly.

The arrow thudded into Kodlak’s chest. He gasped, body jerking upright, pain in his eyes but no understanding. Arnbjorn stepped forward, climbed onto the bed, and pressed his hand down hard over the wound. Kodlak wheezed once.

Arnbjorn leaned down and growled, “The beast you gave me suits me.”

He drove the twin silver daggers through Kodlak’s palms, pinning the Harbinger to the mattress like some twisted effigy. Blood soaked the sheets and pooled on the floorboards. He watched the life drain away with a grimace, then turned and vanished into the night the way he had come. By the time the sun rose over Whiterun, Arnbjorn was long gone.

That same morning, Galen Andarys arrived in Whiterun posing as a courier. Wrapped in a travel cloak and carrying fabricated papers, he passed through the gates with ease – Brynjolf’s contacts had already ensured the guards would look the other way.

Jorrvaskr was chaos. Companions were howling, arguing, mourning. Vilkas raged while Farkas stood in stunned silence, clutching a bloodied pillow from Kodlak’s bed. The sight had nearly broken him. The twins had regarded Kodlak as a father figure.

Galen slipped into the training yard, unnoticed amid the storm of grief. He moved like mist through the shadows until he reached the weapons rack. There, gleaming beneath the sunlight, rested Farkas’s Skyforge Steel greatsword, an old, massive thing worn by years of honest battle.

He took it.

And just as quietly as he had come, he vanished back into the veins of Skyrim’s underworld.

Later that day, the Dark Brotherhood struck Gallows Rock. When the smoke cleared, Krev the Skinner’s body was found torn apart – limbs twisted, throat slashed, bones shattered by what looked like savage beast attacks.

Planted beside the corpse was Farkas’s sword, half-buried in the mud. Above the body, scorched into the stone wall with a silver dagger, someone had carved the words:

“The Circle protects its own.”

The Companions would never know it was Arnbjorn who penned it.

*                                                                      *                                                                      *

The whispers spread like blood across fresh snow.

The Companions claimed the Silver Hand had butchered their Harbinger in the dark of night. The Silver Hand, in turn, believed the Companions had assassinated Krev the Skinner in cold blood. Neither side waited for proof.

Within days, the retaliation began.

Steel rang out across the plains of Whiterun, where patrols crossed paths with blood in their eyes and vengeance in their hearts. Hidden camps were put to the torch – sleeping warriors dragged from their tents into flame and fang. Blood painted the stones of Driftshade Refuge in the Pale and soaked the plains around Orotheim in Hjaalmarch.

The war in the shadows had begun. The people of Skyrim watched Jorrvaskr unravel from within, blind to the true puppet master behind the curtain. Kassia watched from afar, a smile curling her lips as the proud wolf-brothers tore each other apart. The Brotherhood remained hidden. Clean. Blameless.

The perfect crime.

*                                                                      *                                                                      *

The mead hall once rang with laughter, sparring songs, and the proud clash of steel. Now it echoed only with silence and grief. Jorrvaskr was cracked open like a ribcage, half-ruined from Silver Hand treachery, its pillars scorched, banners torn, and blood still staining the floorboards beneath Kodlak’s bed.

Only four remained: Aela, Vilkas, Farkas, and a Nord named Liesje.

They gathered around the great table. Skjor was gone. So were Njada, Athis, Torvar, Ria. Vignar’s old voice would never bark commands again. Brill, who once fretted over every plate and plan, now lay cold beside Tilma the Haggard, her hands still stained with flour and oil from the kitchen she died within.

Liesje didn’t speak at first. She didn’t need to. The others watched her. The outsider who had become one of them. The one Kodlak had trusted enough to send for the head of a Glenmoril witch just days before he died.

When she finally rose, clutching the blackened hilt of a Skyforge-forged blade, she didn’t ask for leadership.

She took it.

*                                                                      *                                                                      *

The skies over Whiterun broke into winter drizzle as Liesje saddled up and set off alone. She didn’t look back. There was no one left to stop her.

The path to Glenmoril Coven was no simple woodland trail – it was a descent into rot and madness. As she climbed, elk bones rattled in the trees like windchimes of the damned. Spriggan hearts bled into the soil. Mora tapinella grew like infection on the bark of dying trees.

At the entrance, lit braziers cast flickering shadows over the cave mouth – a maw waiting to consume her.

Inside the Coven, Liesje fought tooth and nail. The witches screamed in tongues as they summoned frost, flame, and beasts warped by alchemy. One hag burned, shrieking, impaled on her own antlered staff. Another died gurgling in her ritual pool, Liesje's off-hand dagger buried in her throat. A third fell with a head severed clean, leaking green blood onto her own enchantment table.

She emerged hours later, wounded but alive. Three heads in her pack. Three chances to end the curse.

*                                                                      *                                                                      *

The Skyforge bellowed smoke into the twilight. Jorrvaskr stood scarred and blackened behind them, a husk of what it had been. And now, so too did they gather around the final pyre.

Liesje stood near the back of the crowd, the weight of Glenmoril’s heads slung across her shoulder. Her armor was still stained with hag blood and troll bile. She hadn’t slept since returning.

Kodlak Whitemane’s body lay upon the wooden bier built above the forge. Eorlund Gray-Mane stood solemn beside it, hammer tucked beneath one arm, his face graven like stone. The mourners included Jarl Balgruuf, Irileth, Proventus Avenicci, and Danica Pure-Spring, all gathered in reverence for the Harbinger who had kept Whiterun safe for decades.

Only four Companions remained: Aela, Farkas, Vilkas, and Liesje.

Eorlund’s voice rang out into the silence.

“Who will start?”

Aela stepped forward, her face set in grim steel. No war paint. No theatrics. Just grief. She lit the torch from the flames of the forge and set it to the pyre. “I’ll do it. Before the ancient flame…”

“We grieve,” the crowd echoed.

“At this loss…” Eorlund said next.

“We weep.”

Vilkas spoke next, fists clenched at his sides.

“For the fallen…”

“We shout.”

Farkas, his voice low and hoarse, barely whispered the next words.

“And for ourselves…”

“We take our leave.”

Aela stepped forward, lit the torch, and set it to the pyre.

The flames rose slowly, licking the edge of Kodlak’s cloak first before consuming the body with bright, orange heat. Smoke curled into the sky like the breath of Sovngarde itself. Liesje stood motionless as the scent of burning linen and pine resin hit her. The Harbinger was gone.

*                                                                      *                                                                      *

After the pyre burned down to ash and bone, Eorlund approached Liesje near the steps of Jorrvaskr.

“Shield-Sister,” he said, voice rough. “Do you still have the fragments? There was one in Kodlak’s chambers too – hidden in his end table. I’ll need that, if I’m to reforge Wuuthrad.”

Liesje nodded. She ascended the steps, found her way through the great hall, and entered Kodlak’s old quarters. The room smelled faintly of juniper and old parchment. She opened the end table with care, fingers brushing the lone hidden fragment within.

When she returned and handed it over, Eorlund offered her a heavy nod.

“Thank you. Your Shield-Siblings have withdrawn to the Underforge. I think they’re waiting for you.”

*                                                                      *                                                                      *

The Underforge was dim and cool, but the tension inside ran hot. Liesje stepped in quietly to find Vilkas pacing, Farkas seated on a bench with his head in his hands, and Aela standing near the blood font, arms crossed.

“The old man had one wish before he died,” Vilkas said sharply. “And he didn’t get it. It’s as simple as that.”

“Being moon-born is not so much of a curse as you might think, Vilkas,” Aela snapped back.

“That’s fine for you. But he wanted to be clean. He wanted to meet Ysgramor and know the glories of Sovngarde. But all that was taken from him.”

“You avenged him,” Aela countered, her tone defensive.

“Kodlak didn’t care for vengeance,” Farkas murmured from the bench.

Vilkas turned to them all.

“No, Farkas, he didn’t. And that’s not what this is about. We should be honoring Kodlak, no matter our own thoughts on the blood.”

There was silence. Then Aela sighed.

“You’re right. It’s what he wanted, and he deserved to have it.”

Vilkas looked to Liesje, then to the others.

“Kodlak used to speak of a way to cleanse his soul, even in death. You know the legends of the Tomb of Ysgramor.”

“There the souls of the Harbingers will heed the call of northern steel,” Aela said. “But we can’t even enter the tomb without Wuuthrad. It’s still in pieces.”

“Like everything else,” Vilkas muttered.

And then the door creaked open.

Eorlund Gray-Mane stepped in, Wuuthrad gleaming on his back.

“And dragons were just stories. And the elves once ruled Skyrim. Just because something is, doesn’t mean it must be. The blade is a weapon. A tool. Tools are meant to be broken… and repaired.”

Vilkas blinked. “Is that… Did you repair Wuuthrad?”

“This is the first time I’ve had all the pieces,” Eorlund said, stepping forward. “Thanks to our Shield-Sister here.” He glanced to Liesje. “The flames of a hero can reforge the shattered. The flames of Kodlak shall fuel the rebirth of Wuuthrad. And now it will take you to meet him once more.”

He turned to Liesje and laid the weapon in her hands. It was heavy. Cold. Beautiful.

“As the one who bore the fragments,” he said solemnly, “I think you should be the one to carry Wuuthrad into battle.”

Then, to the others, “The rest of you, prepare to journey to the Tomb of Ysgramor. For Kodlak.”

They moved as one, no longer fractured. The war was not over. But their path had become clear.

*                                                                      *                                                                      *

The wind off the Sea of Ghosts howled through the stone crevices of the tomb. Snow drifted in the entrance, faintly glowing in the blue light that seeped from the walls. The entrance to Ysgramor’s Tomb loomed wide and cold, carved with ancient runes older than any Companion living or dead.

Liesje stepped through the threshold, Wuuthrad strapped across her back. Vilkas followed, his usual steel-cold demeanor softened by a raw edge of grief.

“Be on your guard,” he warned, his voice echoing in the vast chamber. “This place... it’s not just stone. It remembers. And it tests those who enter.”

He hesitated then, gaze fixed on the statue of Ysgramor.

“I cannot go further. My heart –” He swallowed. “There is too much grief. Kodlak was more than Harbinger. He was the only father I ever knew.”

Liesje nodded once. No words were needed. She stepped up to the base of the statue, placed a hand against the ancient metal. With a sound like a shifting glacier, the wall behind the statue rumbled and lowered as Wuuthrad was drawn from her back and embedded itself in the statue's grip. The path forward opened.

Vilkas turned without another word and vanished into the dark behind her.

Only Farkas and Aela remained now.

The three descended together, blades drawn. Two skeevers skittered from the shadows—Aela made short work of them with arrows faster than thought. But the real test came deeper.

They passed into a chamber filled with whispering shadows and old, empty coffins. As they moved, the air chilled – then from the dark, ghostly shapes emerged. Former Companions, long dead, rose in spectral defiance.

“You are not worthy,” one hissed.

“The blood has corrupted you,” said another.

“Turn back before you join us.”

Steel met ghostly axe. The fight was fast, vicious. Liesje's sword cleaved through one ghost’s chest even as Aela felled another with a shot through the skull. The spirits fell like mist – but they left doubt in their wake.

The path wound deeper, into a tomb chamber encircling a stagnant pond. More ghosts rose – older, crueler, taunting them with sins not their own.

Farkas shuddered beside her as they ascended a narrow staircase. Then came the webs.

Massive spiderwebs veiled the passage ahead. Farkas froze, sweat standing out on his brow despite the cold.

“Ever since Dustman’s Cairn...” he confessed. “The big crawly ones... they’re my weakness.”

Without another word, he turned and fled back toward the statue, his boots scraping against the stone.

Liesje drew her blade, sliced through the webs, and pressed on. Only Aela followed.

The lair was thick with poison and movement – a swarm of frostbite spiders poured from the ceiling, hissing and striking. A massive frostbite spider lunged from its nest. Liesje met it blade-first, hacking through its legs and stabbing it through the mouth just as it reared up for a final strike.

Breathing hard, covered in ichor, they moved on.

The tomb grew quieter after that. Draugr lay in their alcoves, undisturbed. Loot gleamed from the dark –  old blades, ancient armor, urns heavy with coin. A tome, The Legendary Sancre Tor, rested beside a crumbling burial urn.

At the far end of the final hall, Liesje found a great iron door. She pushed it open.

Inside stood the Flame of the Harbinger, flickering with a strange, unnatural light. And near it, warming spectral hands, was Kodlak Whitemane.

His ghost turned as she entered, eyes full of peace – and pain.

“This is the resting place of the Harbingers of old,” he said, his voice gentle. “And their souls are here still... watching me.”

Liesje looked around, seeing only shadows.

“I do not wish to join them in this form,” Kodlak said. “I wish to be clean. To walk in Sovngarde as a man, not a beast. Do you still carry the Glenmoril heads?”

She nodded silently and stepped forward, withdrawing one from her satchel.

“Then cast one into the flame. Let us see if the legends are true.”

She tossed the head into the fire. With a roar that cracked the chamber like thunder, a wolf spirit burst from the flame – twisting, howling, his curse made manifest.

Kodlak’s beast had to die.

Aela leapt to her left, loosing arrows into the glowing form. Liesje faced it head-on, ducking under its pounce, blade flashing through spectral fur. It howled as she struck it down, a final time.

Silence followed. The flame dimmed.

Kodlak’s ghost looked down at his hands. They no longer trembled.

“Thank you. You have done for me what I could not do for myself. I go now to Sovngarde. I will greet Ysgramor, and all the Harbingers. And I will speak your name as my successor.”

He turned, walking into the mist that crept along the tomb’s edge. Then he was gone.

Liesje stood in silence until Aela spoke. “He named you Harbinger.”

“I’m no leader,” Liesje said. “I’m a killer with nothing left to kill.”

“You’re exactly what we need.”

Aela lingered by the Flame of the Harbinger. “I think I’ll stay a while. There’s more to learn here. More to feel.”

As Liesje turned to leave, she saw Vilkas and Farkas entering through the iron door.

“We felt it,” Farkas said simply.

“It’s done,” Vilkas added. “He’s at peace.”

They didn’t speak of grief again.

Liesje climbed the spiral stairs alone. At the top, she found the Shield of Ysgramor resting on a pedestal – old, strong, honorable. She took it.

Before she left, she returned to the statue at the tomb’s entrance and reclaimed Wuuthrad from its pedestal.

The Harbinger had returned. And she bore the weight of ghosts.

*                                                                      *                                                                      *

The road back to Whiterun was quiet. No songs were sung. No tales told. Even the wind seemed to hush itself as the four Companions descended from the tomb of Ysgramor and left their dead behind.

Jorrvaskr felt hollow when they returned. The mead hall was dark, its great fire pit cold. No laughter rang from the benches. The scars of war still marked the walls – burns, broken timbers, blood in the cracks between the stones. But they were home. Or what was left of it.

They gathered in the Underforge, where it had all begun. Liesje sat on one of the stone benches, Wuuthrad resting across her knees. Aela leaned against the far wall, arms crossed, her eyes unreadable. Vilkas stood stiff, his back to the others, while Farkas paced near the shrine of Hircine, glancing at it like a man eyeing the bars of a cage.

“We were torn apart,” Vilkas said at last, voice low. “Our own home breached. Our Harbinger assassinated in his bed. The Silver Hand moved like they knew our every step. And... we let them.”

No one answered right away.

“It started at Dustman’s Cairn,” he muttered. “That ambush. That was the moment.”

Farkas stopped pacing. His brow furrowed.

“My sword...” he said suddenly. “My Skyforge steel. The one Eorlund made me. I lost it that day. I thought I dropped it in the fight, but –” He looked down at his hand, flexed his fingers. “It never turned up again.”

“That doesn’t explain everything,” Aela said. “Even without the beast blood, they would’ve hated us. But you’re right. They were prepared. Too prepared.”

“We were betrayed,” Liesje said. “But we’ll never know by who.”

Vilkas finally turned. “Then let’s decide what happens now. What we rebuild. And what we leave behind.”

They spoke into the night, not as warriors, but as the last of a fallen order. Vilkas wanted the blood gone. Farkas, after a long silence, agreed.

“I’m tired of the rage,” he said. “Tired of losing myself. I want to be strong without it.”

Aela’s laugh was cold and sharp.

“I embrace it. Hircine gave us a gift. I won’t turn my back on it just because we lost a fight.”

“It wasn’t just a fight,” Vilkas said. “It was slaughter. And Kodlak was murdered because of what we were.”

“And because someone used that against us,” Liesje added. She met Aela’s eyes. “But I’m with you. I won’t give up the blood. I’ve come too far. Bled too much. It’s part of me now.”

“Then we split the choice,” Farkas said. “Let each Companion choose their path. No shame. No pressure. If they want the blood, fine. If not, we help them find a cure.”

Vilkas nodded.

“And we find new blood. Strong recruits. Loyal ones. People who want to stand for something again.”

Liesje stood, resting Wuuthrad across her shoulder.

“Then let’s rebuild. No more secrets. No more shadows. If someone tries to burn Jorrvaskr down again, they’ll find us waiting.”

*                                                                      *                                                                      *

The hall was still. No feasting. No clamor of mugs or steel clashing in the yard. Just firelight and ghosts.

Liesje stood in the center of the great hall beneath the rafters, Wuuthrad slung across her back, the Shield of Ysgramor cradled in her arms like something sacred. Behind her, the other three members of the Circle watched in solemn silence – Aela with arms folded and unreadable eyes, Vilkas and Farkas flanking her like twin shadows bearing equal weight.

The hearth in the center of the room crackled faintly, barely enough to cast warmth into the old timbers. There was still blood on the floor in places – dark stains where Athis had fallen, where Ria had tried to hold the door, where Njada had made her last stand.

“We rebuild,” Liesje said. Her voice didn’t waver.

She moved slowly, reverently. First, she mounted the Shield of Ysgramor on the northern wall, across from the long tables where once Kodlak had sat. Its silvered face glinted in the firelight – scarred, battered, but unbroken.

Then came Wuuthrad.

She drew the mighty axe from her back with both hands and approached the stand they had crafted from Kodlak’s own chair, now repurposed into an altar of sorts. With a breath and a whisper only the gods could hear, she rested the weapon across its frame.

“For the old blood,” she murmured. “And for the new.”

The silence that followed felt ancient. Even Aela bowed her head.

And high above, in the beams and shadows of Jorrvaskr’s rafters, a figure crouched – quiet as a breath.

Kassia.

She watched with innate stillness, her red eyes catching the glint of firelight. A phantom of secrets and shadows, always watching. Always there.

She didn't speak. Didn't move. She simply bore witness to the rebirth of the Companions.

Below, they lit their little fires of hope and clung to blades and banners like they meant something.

She watched Liesje’s hands rest Wuuthrad – so careful, so reverent – and smiled without warmth.

Fools always rebuild.

It was their nature. Hope was a flame too stubborn to die, even when drowned in blood.

She shifted, the faintest creak in the wood. None heard. Of course not. They thought the monster had already come and gone.

But Kassia was no monster. Monsters had limits.

She was patient.

And chaos… chaos evolves.

A whisper curled through her mind like smoke, like silk: “Let them rise… they’ll only fall harder.”

Then, like breath fading in the frost, she was gone.

The rafters were empty.

But the storm… The storm was far from over.

Chapter Text

She drinks my blood and I wear her crown
The clothes, the rings, the everything
Undo myself with every string
Don't push it now, I'm choking

The minute you are gone
I lose where I belong
~ “Crown” by Billie Marten

The massive stone doors of the Palace of the Kings thundered open, shuddering on their hinges as the frigid wind screamed into the long hall. Guards jumped to attention, hands on hilts. Galmar's sharp eyes narrowed from his place to the left of the throne.

The figure that entered did not cower. She prowled, a jagged silhouette clad in crimson and black, the unmistakable gleam of Dark Brotherhood armor hugging her body like a second skin. Her face obscured beneath a crimson-lacquered mask, her hood drawn low, but her glowing red eyes shimmered beneath it. Just a glimpse of menace between fabric and shadow.

Her voice was a whip crack of power, threaded with the Thu’um, a deliberate ripple of authority.

“Ulfric Stormcloak. Jarl of Windhelm.”

The guards flinched. One drew steel. Ulfric, seated on his throne, remained still, stone-faced, lips thin.

“I bring you glad tidings... from the Dark Brotherhood.”

She walked. No – strutted – her every movement coiled and confident, like a dancer leading a blade through a battlefield. Shadowmere's hoofbeats still echoed on the bridge outside the city.

She stopped at the foot of the dais, unslung a modest black-lacquered box from her shoulder, and set it at the Jarl’s feet.

“A token. A gift. A message. Hail Sithis!”

She cackled and opened the lid.

Gasps erupted. A guard stumbled back. One gagged. Galmar's hand tightened on his axe.

Inside the velvet-lined box rested the preserved, severed head of Emperor Titus Mede II, lips stitched shut with silver thread, black pearls in his sockets where his eyes once were.

“He sends his regards.”

Ulfric’s breath hitched for only a moment. A vein pulsed in his temple. He stood.

“You dare... bring this filth into my hall?”

Kassia tilted her head, voice low with amusement.

“I dare because I can. And because someone needed to finish what you were too cowardly to even begin.”

Ulfric’s fury boiled over.

“Guards! Arrest this creature! She’ll rot in the dungeons before the day’s out!”

Kassia didn't flinch.

Her hand lifted.

“Fus...”

A crackle in the air, the room went still.

“Ro...”

Red light blossomed under her feet.

“DAH!”

The Shout erupted, a concussive blast that sent two guards flying. Tapestries tore from the walls. The box tumbled across the floor, the Emperor’s head rolling grotesquely across the flagstones, lips grinning, black pearls staring at nothing.

And then she splintered into a storm of bats.

Shrieking wings filled the air, dark tendrils of smoke writhing around the throne as guards swung wildly into empty space.

Ulfric shielded his face. Galmar hissed, shielding Ulfric. Yrsarald shielded Jorleif.

By the time the chaos died down, all that remained was the spilled box, the stench of blood... and a whisper in the wind.

“This is only the beginning.”

*                                                                     *                                                                                          *

The chill wind of Windhelm bit at her as she coalesced from a swirling mass of screeching bats atop a warehouse overlooking the icy docks. Below, guards scrambled in confusion, shouting orders and spreading panic like wildfire. None would find her. Not tonight.

Kassia adjusted the folds of her cloak with gloved fingers, still smelling faintly of ash and blood. Her eyes glinted through her mask, locked on the palace she had just exited in smoke and horror.

“So easily shaken. So easily played.”

Her voice, low and purring, merged with the wind like a secret the snow had sworn never to tell. She reached into a hidden pocket and pulled out a small, dark token: a dragon-shaped ebonite brooch, crusted with dried blood.

“Ulfric wanted war. I gave him legend.”

Her smile was all fang.

Behind her, Shadowmere stamped his hooves, Daedric barding whispering against itself like a living thing. She walked toward him with the ease of a queen who had already conquered, one stiletto boot crunching through the ice-crusted stone at a time.

“Let the holds choke on the screams of kings. Skyrim burns... and they still haven’t looked at the spark.”

She swung into the saddle, voice a murmur that carried only to her steed.

“And the Companions? Still reeling. The Guild? Obedient. The Empire? Shattered.”

She tilted her head skyward, staring into the void between stars.

“But there’s still one more game to begin. Let the Thalmor look the other way while I plant rot at their roots.”

Shadowmere reared and screamed – a night-thing's cry – before launching into the frostbitten dark.

Kassia did not look back. After all, the night was hers.

*                                                                     *                                                                                          *

The throne room was in uproar.

Guards scrambled, blades drawn, shouting orders to one another. Red mist still clung faintly to the floor where Kassia had vanished in a swarm of bats. One guard had dropped his weapon entirely, backing against the stone wall with eyes wide in horror. Jorleif hovered near the dais, expression pale as milk, while Galmar stood at Ulfric’s side, knuckles white around the hilt of his axe.

But Ulfric Stormcloak hadn’t moved.

He sat back slowly into his throne, eyes fixed on the open box at his feet. The head of Titus Mede II stared back at him, mouth sewed shut, the skin preserved, but no longer warm with life. Crimson-smeared velvet lined the inside of the box like a sick parody of an Imperial coronation.

Ulfric’s voice was quiet at first. “She used the Voice.”

Galmar looked over. “Aye, my Jarl. She shouted your name. The power of it – echoed like the gods were watching.”

Ulfric’s fists clenched on the arms of the throne. “Only a few in all of Tamriel possess the Thu’um. And fewer still who’ve faced Alduin and lived.”

His gaze lifted, steel-gray and storm-filled. “That… was the Dragonborn.”

A cold hush fell across the room. Even the guards stopped shifting in their armor.

Jorleif, still trembling, managed a whisper. “The Dragonborn… is in the Dark Brotherhood?”

Ulfric rose from the throne like a gathering thundercloud. “Not just in it,” he growled. “She leads them.”

Galmar snarled. “She walked in like it was her hall, Ulfric. Mocked us. Laid the Emperor’s head at your feet like a dog leaves a bone.”

“She made fools of us,” Ulfric admitted, tone hard. “And she did it with purpose.”

He looked to the empty space where Kassia had stood, as if seeing through the stone and snow to wherever her shadow now lingered.

“A message. That the Empire is leaderless. That chaos reigns. And that the Dark Brotherhood dances behind it, masked and unchallenged.”

He turned on his heel and barked to the guard captain. “Seal the city. No one leaves Windhelm without my say-so. No one enters without being watched.”

“To what end, my Jarl?” asked Jorleif, his voice small.

Ulfric narrowed his eyes.

“To smoke her out. To find her roots. No one struts into my hall and threatens my hold without consequence. She thinks herself untouchable, above kings and emperors. But the Voice is not hers alone.”

He touched the hilt of his war axe and lowered his voice to a near growl. “Let her come again. Next time, the storm will answer.”

*                                                                     *                                                                                          *

Kassia did not linger.

Before Ulfric’s voice could rise to command lockdowns and guard patrols, she was already gone. Shadowmere’s hooves pounding away from Windhelm like a storm come early. She rode like a shadow in motion, cloaked in the veil of night and snow, avoiding the roads with a veteran’s instinct. No banners. No signs. No mercy.

She rode north and east, veering hard off the path, slipping through the jagged edges of Winterhold. Past Snow Veil Sanctum, Mercer Frey’s old haunt of secrets and betrayal. Past Journeyman’s Nook, half-buried in ice and forgotten time. By Saarthal, where the ancients whispered their truths to mages who never listened.

She never stopped.

The Pale greeted her with frozen silence – hostile, unforgiving. The wind howled like the ghosts of the Sanctuary she was returning to. She passed the burned husk of Frostflow Lighthouse, the reek of death long frozen into its timbers. And then Nightcaller Temple, silhouetted against the moons, forgotten by gods and men alike.

She arrived just before dawn.

The Dawnstar Sanctuary loomed like a buried corpse in the rock. She slid from Shadowmere’s saddle, ran a gloved hand along his armored neck. The Daedric barding shimmered red and black in the pale twilight, like dried blood over muscle.

The doors groaned open, and darkness swallowed her whole.

The moment she stepped across the threshold, she felt it – her.

“Listener…”

The Night Mother’s voice echoed in her mind, delicate as frost on steel.

“The time has come. Skyrim will bleed itself dry, and we will be the blade.”

Kassia dropped to one knee, head bowed, but eyes wide open. “Give me their names.”

One by one, they came. Ulfric Stormcloak, pride-bound fool and self-styled savior. Elenwen, snake of the Thalmor, emissary of tyranny. Elisif the Fair, widow of a puppet, blind to the fire curling around her throne. General Tullius, the iron hand of a crumbling empire.

The Night Mother’s whisper was a caress of silk over a dagger.

“They must fall. But not by storm or steel. They must bleed from within. You, my sweet daughter, will be their doom. As only you can be.”

Kassia rose, eyes gleaming crimson in the shadows.

“It will be done.”

*                                                                     *                                                                                          *

First, the girl.

She found Babette in the library, poring over alchemical tomes thicker than her arms. The child-vampire looked up, pale and perfect.

“Time to play dress-up, dear.”

Within the hour, Babette stood by the docks in Dawnstar, the salty chill of the sea brushing against her porcelain face. She wore a pink velvet dress, frills bouncing with every innocent step. A stuffed bunny dangled from one arm, and in the other, she carried a tiny wicker basket – filled with sweet rolls and lies.

Her eyes twinkled like a child about to visit her grandmother. No one would suspect her. Certainly not in Windhelm.

Kassia crouched beside her, one clawed hand gently lifting the hem of the dress to inspect the sewn dagger sheath hidden beneath.

“Smile sweetly,” Kassia murmured. “Let them underestimate you. But listen. Listen well. And then come home.”

Babette curtsied like a noble’s daughter at court, gave Shadowmere a cheeky wink, and boarded the trade ship bound for Windhelm. The tide was rising.

As was the chaos.

Next came the farmer.

Kaelvar stood near the forge, his shoulders squared, already scrubbing dirt into his weathered skin and working fresh linen around his old scars. The firelight glinted off his jawline, and in his eyes there was no deception – just the practiced resolve of a man stepping into a role he’d worn before.

Kassia circled him slowly, like a hungry predator admiring the craftsmanship of her trap.

“Your name is Thorek now. Your farm was in the Reach. Burned by Forsworn. Your wife raped and murdered. Your children slaughtered like cattle.”

Her voice was low, intimate, each word a brand against the flesh.

“Whiterun turned you away. Markarth ignored you. But Ulfric – Ulfric is your hope. Speak with fire. With pain.”

She pressed an iron axe into his hand – dull, worn, but convincing.

“He’ll lap it up like mead.”

Kaelvar nodded once, silent. The hate in his heart was real enough. Kassia didn’t need to remind him how many lies were built on grains of truth.

As he turned to leave, she gave him the final details of his tale.

“Tell him your farm was near Rorikstead, but just inside the Reach. You had a beautiful wife, pregnant with your fourth child. You had three other children. Two boys, twelve and five. One daughter, three. Forsworn from Serpent’s Bluff Redoubt came every year – stealing livestock, burning your crops, taking more than just your harvest. The Jarls never helped. Balgruuf told you to hire the Companions. Igmund turned a blind eye. But you’ve heard of Ulfric’s war against the Forsworn. You want to fight for the man who fights for Skyrim.”

Kaelvar didn’t speak. He didn’t need to.

As he walked away into the snow, Kassia’s voice followed like a curse on the wind, “Let them embrace you, Thorek. Let them hand you steel and praise and trust. And when the time comes… gut them with it.”

Kaelvar nodded once. His eyes, unlike Kassia’s, held no glow. Only the hardened hate of a killer waiting to be aimed.

As they departed, Kassia stood alone at the Sanctuary’s mouth, red eyes fixed toward the horizon.

“Skyrim will burn itself alive,” she murmured. “All I have to do… is fan the flame.”

Behind her, the Night Mother whispered something only she could hear.

And she smiled.

*                                                                     *                                                                                          *

The tide was calm as the ship glided into Windhelm’s icy docks. Fog curled along the planks like coiled snakes. Babette stepped lightly down the gangplank, pink frills dancing and sweetroll basket balanced on her arm, as if she'd just come from a child's tea party.

She passed unnoticed. She always did.

Her steps led her uphill through the Gray Quarter – filth-stained stone and cold stares – and through the open market where she paused only to nibble the edge of a sweetroll. No one questioned her. No one stopped her. The city was locked down, but children weren’t threats. Just burdens.

She knew where to go.

The Aretino home sat abandoned, its front stoop dusted in fresh snow and dark memories. She slipped around the back, climbed silently through the rotting window frame, and disappeared inside.

By nightfall, she’d turned it into a spider’s nest of whispering hideaways: messages tucked behind broken bricks, a small stash of stolen coin, notes written in lemon juice to be revealed with fire. Kassia had taught her well.

And while the city slept, Babette listened.

She wandered markets, sweetly asking for apples. Skipped down alleys. Smiled at guards. Eavesdropped on merchants, couriers, soldiers – anyone who let down their guard near the “lonely orphan.”

She’d smile.

She’d listen.

She’d learn.

And then she'd go home.

*                                                                     *                                                                                          *

The gates of Windhelm loomed like fortress jaws. They were sealed tight, manned by wary guards with suspicion etched into their brows. The lockdown was in full effect. But Kaelvar –now Thorek – knew how to bleed sincerity from stone.

Wrapped in a coarse wool cloak, iron axe slung over his shoulder, and a fresh bandage peeking beneath his tunic, he approached with a purpose as grim as the sky.

“You there,” one guard barked. “City’s closed.”

Thorek didn’t flinch.

“I’m here for Ulfric. To fight for Skyrim. My farm… was in the Reach. Close to Rorikstead. Forsworn raided us again. Burned everything. My wife… my kids…”

His voice cracked at just the right point. The guards looked away, uncomfortable.

“Whiterun told me to hire mercs. Jarl Igmund didn't even answer my plea. But Ulfric… he’s the only one fightin’ for us now.”

Silence fell like frost. The guards exchanged a glance.

One cocked his brow and said, “Galmar might wanna hear this.”

They opened the gates.

He was ushered up the stone steps of the Palace of the Kings, where the war banners fluttered in the cold air like bloodied wings. The great hall was quiet save for the echo of boots and the hum of torches. Galmar Stone-Fist met him with a scowl, but listened.

“Tell it again,” Galmar said.

Thorek did. The whole tale. The farm, the Forsworn, the smoke, the screams. He didn’t cry – just clenched his fists until the knuckles turned white.

Ulfric sat silent upon his throne, his gaze sharp. When Thorek finished, he rose.

“You’ve known pain,” Ulfric said at last. “You’ll make a fine Stormcloak.”

Thorek bowed low, murmuring, “Thank you, my Jarl.”

He was in.

*                                                                     *                                                                                          *

Nestled within the old Aretino house, Babette waited for nightfall. When the city quieted and the lamps dimmed, she emerged, cloaked in shadow and armed with alchemical brilliance.

From her satchel she drew a vial of Translucence Draught – her own invention. One sip and she shimmered out of sight. A second potion granted her cat-like silence. She scaled Windhelm’s walls like a spider – light-footed, careful not to disturb snow or echo footsteps. She was invisible death in velvet frills. She slipped into the Palace of the Kings through a loose grate near the kitchen. Steam and stew masked her presence as she crept through stone corridors toward the throne room.

From her perch behind a tapestry above the War Room hearth, Babette remained utterly still –barely a breath in the shadows. She was a ghost in frills, a ten-year-old terror with a bunny doll and blood on her mind.

Below, voices rumbled like storm clouds.

Ulfric stood near the hearth, arms folded, back straight, gaze fixed on the crackling fire as if searching for omens in the flames. Galmar Stone-Fist loomed over a war table, his fists clenched beside the maps. Yrsarald Thrice-Pierced lingered at the edge, silent for now, but his presence thickened the air like another sword drawn.

Galmar groused irritably, “Balgruuf won't give us a straight answer.”

Ulfric turned, his brow lifting, “He's a true Nord. He'll come around.”

“Don't be so sure of that.” Galmar shook his head. “We've intercepted couriers from Solitude. The Empire’s putting a great deal of pressure on Whiterun.”

Ulfric held his arms out, “And what would you have me do?”

Galmar stated, rubbing his bearded chin. “If he’s not with us, he’s against us.”

“He knows that.” Ulfric’s voice rose an octave. “They all know that.”

“How long are you going to wait?” Galmar asked, as he tapped his foot, impatiently.

Ulfric began to pace slowly, his eyes fixed on the map, “You think I need to send Balgruuf a stronger message.”

A grin crossed Galmar’s weathered face, “If by message you mean shoving a sword through his gullet.”

“Taking his city and leaving him in disgrace would make a more powerful statement, don’t you think?”

Galmar pinned an eager look upon his longtime friend, “So we're ready to start this war in earnest then?”

“Soon.”

Galmar chuckled, rubbing his hands together,  “I still say you should take them all out like you did Deadking Torygg.”

Ulfric said nothing at first. His jaw clenched. The fire cracked.

Then he shook his head. He appreciated Galmar’s zeal, but he knew the cost. “Torygg was merely a message to the other Jarls. Whoever we replace them with will need the support of our armies.”

“We’re ready when you are.” Galmar asserted, moving pieces on the war map.

“Things hinge on Whiterun.” Ulfric stated, setting his banner over Whiterun’s. “If we can take the city without bloodshed, all the better. But if not…”

Galmar encouraged, “The people are behind you.”

But Ulfric was a realist. He knew the score. “Many, I fear, still need convincing.”

“Then let them die with their false kings,” Galmar growled. He was ready to fight. Ready to see Ulfric on the throne. To Oblivion with everything else.

“We’ve been soldiers a long time. We know the price of freedom.” Ulfric tempered his friend’s fervor.  “The people are still weighing things in their hearts.”

A moment of silence. Then Galmar leaned in, voice low. “We’ve also received word that Vignar Grey-Mane was found dead. Murdered. The Companions took a serious blow. Jorrvaskr’s in shambles.”

“His death complicates things, but there are others. Hod and Gerdur of Riverwood, for instance.” Yrsarald said darkly. “Despite their neutrality, the Companions are shattered. That… mauling gutted them. Just a few of them left now.”

Ulfric’s expression darkened – but not with concern. With calculation. “Then now is the time. With Jorrvaskr broken, Balgruuf will stand alone.”

Babette narrowed her eyes.

“So the fall of the Companions wasn’t lost on them,” she thought. Good. Let them take it as fate. She noted every word, every hesitation, every boast and veiled threat, committing it all to memory.

She retreated the way she came, her feet never once touching a floorboard that groaned.

*                                                                     *                                                                                          *

Kaelvar waited with clenched fists and a fire he didn’t need to fake. The rage of Thorek the Widowed Farmer was real enough for Galmar.

“You want to fight for Skyrim?” the old general growled. “Good. Go prove it. Serpentstone Isle. Ice-wraith. Bring me its teeth  or freeze out there trying.”

Thorek only nodded.

He left Windhelm at dawn, wrapped in thick furs and fury. The ice-wraith slithered out of the wind like a ghost of winter. But Thorek had seen worse. Done worse.

He fought in silence. No roars. No cries. Just gritted teeth and the thwack of his axe cleaving through translucent flesh. The wraith shrieked as it died, its body shattering like glass.

The teeth of the wind bit at Thorek’s cheeks as he trudged down from Serpentstone Isle, the severed ice-wraith teeth clinking like fangs in his pouch. The creature had lunged from the icy fog like a dagger of winter itself, but Thorek had fought with the fury of a man who no longer feared death – only failure.

His axe still steamed from the kill. The hate in his chest burned hotter than the cold on his skin.

At the gates of Windhelm, the guards admitted him without question this time. A Stormcloak hopeful returning from a sanctioned trial was not to be hindered. Not when the snow on his boots had been dyed crimson.

Thorek marched through the stone corridors of the Palace of the Kings and found Galmar and Ulfric exactly where he'd left them: looming over the war table, deep in heated discussion.

Galmar turned and let out a surprised grunt. “Huh. Thought you'd be frostbitten and gutted by now. Looks like you’ve got more fire in you than I reckoned.”

Thorek said nothing at first – just reached into his pouch and dropped the ice-wraith’s teeth onto the map of Skyrim with a clatter that silenced even Ulfric.

Galmar's lips curved in a rare, wolfish grin. “Well. I’ll be damned.”

Then he stepped forward, drawing Thorek into the circle of firelight. He straightened his shoulders, then spoke, voice firm, clear, ritualistic. “Are you ready to take your oath?”

Thorek echoed it with conviction.

“I, Thorek, do swear my blood and honor to the service of Ulfric Stormcloak...”

“...Jarl of Windhelm and true High King of Skyrim.”

“As Talos is my witness, may this oath bind me to death and beyond...”

Thorek’s hand clenched around his axe.

“...even to my lord as to my fellow brothers and sisters in arms.”

“All hail the Stormcloaks, the true sons and daughters of Skyrim!”

When the final words left Thorek’s mouth, a hush settled over the chamber. It was not just a vow. It was a weapon. A firebrand given voice.

Galmar gave a grunt of approval, and with a warrior’s pride, tossed a bundle into Thorek’s arms.

“Here,” he said. “You're a Stormcloak now. You ought to look the part.”

Wrapped in coarse fabric were Fur Boots, a Stormcloak Cuirass, Fur Gauntlets, and a battered Hide Helmet – worn from past battles, but still sturdy. Still ready for war.

Ulfric nodded once. “You'll be assigned to a unit soon. Your next task will take you to what Galmar assured me is one of Skyrim’s lost crowns.”

Galmar leaned close. “Korvanjund. You’ll be going with Ralof’s unit – and me. Let’s see if that fire of yours keeps burning in the crypts.”

Thorek’s eyes gleamed – not with loyalty, but with purpose. Each step deeper into this role brought him closer to the storm he was helping build.

And Skyrim had no idea what was coming.

*                                                                     *                                                                                          *

When Babette returned to the Dawnstar Sanctuary, she laid the map on the table and whispered every word Ulfric said into Kassia’s ear like a lullaby of war. Kassia smiled. Her fingers danced across the map like a puppeteer checking her strings. One city teetered. Another plotted war. The time for shadows had passed. Now the blade would fall.

Kassia smirked. “Report.”

Babette sat on the floor, back to the firelight, letting it throw monstrous shadows across her doll-like face.

“I heard everything,” she said. “Ulfric, Galmar, Yrsarald. They’re planning to move on Whiterun. If Balgruuf doesn’t swear fealty soon, they’ll take the city by force.”

Kassia nodded. “And?”

“They know about Vignar Grey-Mane,” Babette said. “They know he’s dead. That the Companions are shattered. They believe Jorrvaskr’s fall leaves Balgruuf without his best warriors. They think it’ll weaken his resolve.”

Kassia’s fingers drummed her thigh. “So… the fall of one hall might tip the balance of a war.”

“Seems so,” Babette murmured. “And they’ve already named replacements. If Whiterun falls, Ulfric will install Hod and Gerdur of Riverwood to rule. Loyalists. Useful fools.”

“Mm. Saw that coming,” Kassia said.  “I’ll send Veezara and Nyxeris to dispatch them. Make it look like a Stormcloak/Imperial blood feud with Alvor and Sigrid. Their kids will end up orphans sent to Honorhall.”

“That is devious. Even for you, Listener,” Babette flashed a toothy grin.

“Tell me about the Crown.”

“They’re sending Kaelvar along with Galmar and Ralof to Korvanjund,” Babette reported. “Recover the Jagged Crown, prove their claim to the kingship. Galmar practically drooled saying it.”

Kassia stood, cloak whispering around her legs. She prowled. A sabre cat in silks. “If I had more time, I’d have the Guild lift it. But…” she turned to Babette, eyes gleaming with cruel certainty. “I don’t trust amateurs with history.”

“You’re going to steal it yourself,” Babette grinned. “Before either side can even blink.”

“Correct,” Kassia said. “I’ll beat them to Korvanjund, lift the Crown, and vanish. Let Galmar and Tullius argue over a crypt stripped bare.”

Babette tilted her head, smirking. “That’ll muddy the waters real nice.”

“No,” Kassia said, slipping knives into her belt. “It will drown them.”

She moved to the Night Mother’s coffin and stared at the ancient mummified corpse.

“Let Ulfric declare himself king without a crown. Let the Legion fume about a prize they never held. I’ll write their history in blood and theft.”

“And Brother Kaelvar?” Babette asked.

Kassia didn’t look away. “Let him chase ghosts with Galmar. Let him play the role he was born to play.”

She reached for her mask. “Ulfric will learn not to shun a gift offered by the Brotherhood. Not when there is a province worth of blood on his hands.”

*                                                                     *                                                                                          *

The cave stank of rot, mildew, and death – exactly as she remembered.

Kassia crouched in the dark, watching a Justiciar haul two unconscious Nords to the drop, muttering about “traitor filth.” As the bodies hit the floor with dull thuds, she downed an invisibility draught and shifted—flesh unraveling, bones snapping, wings unfurling in silence.

She became a bat. Tiny. Swift. Unseen.

She flew up through the grate, past the flickering torches of the prison below, then higher into the bowels of the Thalmor Embassy.

Two cells. Two prisoners. Both Nord men – brutalized, beaten, barely breathing.

“Collateral. Fuel. Stagecraft.” Kassia mused as she rose above them, gliding through corridors heavy with arrogance and perfume.

*                                                                     *                                                                                          *

Elenwen never heard her coming.

Kassia slipped through the door into the Solar with the silence of a forgotten god. She stood behind the First Emissary for a full five seconds, savoring the quiet scratching of her quill.

Then the Blade of Woe sang.

It sank into Elenwen’s chest, piercing heart and lung. The Altmer stiffened, then crumpled, breath stolen in a gurgle. Kassia caught her, hand clamped over her mouth, dragging her down in a lover’s embrace. Her fangs followed, draining what little life remained.

“For your crimes against Skyrim,” she whispered.

She stuffed Elenwen’s body into a void-pouched enchanted bag – no bigger than a coin purse from the outside – and wiped the blood from the carpet with a flick of magicka.

Then came the illusion spell.

A golden mirror shimmered over her form, reshaping flesh and bone. When she turned to leave, Elenwen walked the halls.

*                                                                     *                                                                                          *

Back in the dungeon, Rulindil looked up from a fresh report as Elenwen arrived.

“They’re due for another interrogation,” he offered. “We’ve narrowed down one of them as a contact from Windhelm…”

“Release them,” she ordered.

“What?”

“I said release them. Now.”

Rulindil hesitated.

Kassia didn’t.

The glass dagger slid between his ribs like it had always belonged there. He died without understanding.

She released the two prisoners, whispering instructions, “Tell Ulfric. Tell Galmar. The Thalmor are watching. Run fast, and don’t stop until Windhelm.”

They didn’t need telling twice.

Then she dragged Rulindil into one of the cells and shackled his corpse to the wall.

*                                                                     *                                                                                          *

By the time the Embassy guards responded to the escape of the prisoners and the death of Rulindil, Kassia was gone. The illusion spell dropped as she strolled through the snow beyond the gates.

She whistled once, sharp and clear.

Shadowmere emerged from the woods like a shadow uncoiled, red eyes gleaming.

Kassia mounted smoothly, adjusting her gloves.

“Elenwen’s gone. Riverwood will soon be in mourning. And no one even knows it yet.”

She smirked as she kicked the horse into motion.

Time to return to the sanctuary.

Time to forge new lies.

*                                                                     *                                                                                          *

The rain hadn’t stopped in hours.

It slicked the cobblestones with sheen and shadow, the kind of storm that drowned sound and cloaked sins. Jasmine stood in a narrow alley between Proudspire Manor and the empty mansion once belonging to Vittoria Vici, her back to the wall, watching torchlight ripple through the raindrops like molten fire. Her dark leathers blended into the gloom, but her eyes gleamed, a flicker of topaz in the dark.

She didn’t wait long.

Aia Arria arrived wrapped in a deep blue cloak, her steps uncertain, her gaze sharp. The robes beneath the cloak shimmered faintly with stage-worthy silk,  vanity and ambition stitched into every hem.

“You’re the one they sent?” Aia’s tone was cautious, annoyed. “I expected someone… older.”

Jasmine tilted her head. “Assassins don’t age, my dear. We refine.”

Aia pursed her lips. “I don’t care what you are. You came recommended.” Her voice lowered. “I want it done quickly. Quietly. It must look like an accident.”

Jasmine stepped forward. “And your target?”

“Dean Pantea Ateia. The savior of the Bards College. She’s always been praised, protected, adored.” Aia’s lip curled. “I composed three of the new madrigals she claimed credit for. I have been her understudy for eight years. She’s going to sing until she’s breathless and still expect a standing ovation.”

“Understandable.” Jasmine’s voice was soft, reassuring. “And what’s in it for the Brotherhood?”

“I can offer five thousand septims, now. Another five when it’s done.” She hesitated, then added, “Lady Ateia says my voice is second only to hers. But she’s selling me short.”

Jasmine smiled slowly. “Oh, I believe you.”

Lightning flashed above Proudspire’s spires, followed by the distant boom of thunder.

“I assume you’ll handle the details?” Aia said.

Jasmine’s eyes sparkled. “Tragedy is our specialty.”

She turned to leave, the shadows gathering at her heels.

*                                                                     *                                                                                          *

Thorek followed closely behind Ralof and the others, weapons drawn, boots crunching over dust and ancient debris. The air in Korvanjund was thick with the scent of old death – rot and stone, disturbed by their intrusion. Even the torches seemed to flicker reluctantly.

Galmar Stone-Fist was already charging ahead, axe in hand, storming through draugr-infested halls like a man possessed. The Stormcloaks surged behind him, shouting Talos’ name as they cleaved through ancient warriors and tangled with pockets of Imperial soldiers sent by Tullius to claim the Jagged Crown for the Empire.

But Thorek – Kaelvar – felt a deeper chill crawling down his spine. Not fear. Instinct. Something else was at work.

They pushed deeper into the ruin, where the quiet was too absolute, too… deliberate. The air carried a strange stillness, like breath held too long.

When they reached the final crypt – the one etched on cracked maps as the resting place of the Jagged Crown – Thorek was the first to pause.

“Wait,” he ordered.

Galmar didn’t. He shoved open the iron door with a grunt and stormed into the gloom beyond.

The chamber was half-lit by torchlight. The great throne at the center of the dais loomed like a shadowed sentinel. And on it sat a draugr, its dead eyes open, but vacant. Lifeless.

“Shor’s bones…” Ralof whispered.

Two sarcophagi flanked the dais, their lids shattered on the stone. Draugr wights lay strewn about, but they hadn’t fallen to steel or desperation.

They were precise kills – chests skewered through the heart with elven arrows, golden-fletched and unnaturally clean. There were burn marks, singed flesh, and small piles of ash – residue from shock spells or destruction magic far beyond the crude frost blasts of draugr.

And then – among the corpses – Thorek spotted it.

A Thalmor Justiciar. Dead.

Face-down, robes scorched. Another Thalmor soldier rested a few feet away, an ancient Nord sword protruding from her chest, hand still locked in rigor mortis around a scroll.

“The Thalmor,” Thorek breathed.

But Galmar was already stomping toward the dais. “Where’s the damn Crown?”

He stopped dead.

The throne was empty.

The Jagged Crown was gone.

Only a folded letter remained – pinned to the draugr’s desiccated chest with a slim glass dagger, its hilt too polished for this dusty tomb.

Galmar yanked it free and tore open the note. His jaw clenched.

To the so-called liberators of Skyrim –
We thought it best such a dangerous relic not fall into primitive hands.
The Jagged Crown now rests with those who understand its true importance.
The Dominion watches your little war with great interest.
 – First Emissary Elenwen

“The gods damn them!” Galmar snarled. “They’ve stolen it right out from under us!”

Ralof moved beside a draugr corpse, flipping it gently. “But why would they leave their own dead? They’re too proud to let bodies lie like this.”

“Unless they wanted us to find them,” Thorek said, righteously pouring his heart into the performance. “They wanted us to know they took Jarl Ulfric’s rightful crown. Damned piss-skinned thieves.”

He examined one of the Thalmor corpses. The Justiciar’s eyes were glassy, too perfect in death. No sign of struggle. Not a mark on the draugr that flanked her. Her robes bore illusion sigils, scorched faintly – spell backlash.

“Staged,” he whispered to himself. “It’s all been staged.”

Now he knew for certain. The Listener was nearby.

Galmar slammed a fist against the side of the throne. “Ulfric was counting on that crown—more than you know. It wasn’t just a symbol. It was our history, our claim to sovereignty. This… this will shake the men.”

“Or harden them,” Ralof said. “The Dominion has made this personal.”

Galmar let out a bitter laugh. “Oh, it was always personal. But this? This is war-mongering theater.”

He looked at Thorek, the anger still simmering. “We’re done here. Let’s get back to Windhelm.”

Thorek gave a small nod but lingered behind as the others turned.

He gazed up at the throne, then at the shadows beyond it.

There – just out of reach of the torchlight – a sarcophagus lid slid shut, silent as breath. A faint, echoing whisper of movement that no one else noticed.

And something unseen… smiled.

*                                                                     *                                                                                          *

The snow had started again. The wind howled through the pine trees as Kaelvar mounted his horse near the ruins of Korvanjund, his cloak stiff with frozen Imperial blood and ancient dust. The Stormcloaks marched ahead, their banner drooping against the gray skies like a weary sigh. No songs. No victory shouts. Just the steady, grim rhythm of boots echoing through the snows of the Pale that had expected triumph.

He paused at the edge of the ruin, instinct prickling like frostbite.

Something moved in the periphery. A glint of crimson in the snow-shadowed treeline.

A black horse, watching.

Not just black – void. Shadow thick as velvet wrapped around its flanks. Red eyes gleamed like dying embers.

Shadowmere.

Kaelvar blinked – and it was gone.

The wind stirred. No hoofprints in the fresh snow. No signs of passage. Only the faint, lingering scent of nightshade.

He said nothing.

But his hands tensed on the reins. The Listener was still here.

*                                                                     *                                                                                          *

They were expected.

The guards pushed open the doors without ceremony, and Thorek followed Galmar and Ralof into the stone-blooded chill of the Palace of Kings. The long hall stretched ahead, firelight dancing off stained-glass and tapestries. At the map table in the War Room, Ulfric Stormcloak paced like a caged sabre cat, his arms folded behind his back as he conferred in low tones with Yrsarald Thrice-Pierced.

The moment Ulfric saw them, his brow furrowed. “Where is it?”

Galmar slammed something down onto the table – a folded parchment, creased and stained. “Gone,” he growled. “Taken from under our boots before we even reached the throne.”

Ulfric's expression sharpened as he read. His jaw clenched.

Yrsarald leaned in and scowled. “I warned you. The Dominion’s been watching us since Helgen.”

Galmar gestured sharply. “This wasn’t just a bloody Thalmor raid. This was a pre-meditated attack. Someone knew we’d go after the Jagged Crown.”

“There were Thalmor bodies among the dead,” Ralof said cautiously. “Two Justiciars. Hit with ice magic. Elven weapons. They wanted us to know who was behind the theft of the Crown.”

Ulfric’s voice was cold steel. “And the Imperials?”

Thorek stepped forward. “Waiting for us.”

Galmar grunted, frustrated. “The Crown was gone. Just… gone. All that was left was that damned note.”

Ulfric’s hand twitched toward the map table. He picked up one of the small stone figurines, a dragonbone crown, and crushed it in his fist. Dust and grit scattered across the surface.

“Without the Crown,” he said, low and dark, “our next move loses half its strength.”

“The message was signed by Elenwen,” Ralof added.

Thorek tilted his head, expression unreadable. “She wanted us to know. I doubt she was there herself.”

Ulfric’s gaze didn’t lift. “A symbol stolen is still a declaration of war.”

Galmar’s voice turned gravel-thick. “What matters now is Whiterun.”

Ulfric finally looked up, the fire catching in his eyes. “Still no word from Balgruuf?”

Yrsarald shook his head. “He stalls. Trying to ride the line between both sides. But that line’s wearing thin.”

Galmar snorted. “If he doesn’t bend the knee, we install someone who will.”

Ralof stepped forward, a flicker of pain crossing his face. “Someone like Hod and Gerdur. Good Nords. Loyal. Survivors.”

Galmar scoffed. “Farmers don’t rule cities.”

“They bled for Skyrim!” Ralof snapped. “Gerdur raised me after our parents died. She believed in this cause more than anyone in Riverwood.”

Ulfric raised a hand, silencing them both. “Enough. We’ll give Balgruuf one last chance to stand with his people.”

Galmar looked at him expectantly. “Shall I send a courier?”

“No,” Ulfric said. His tone cooled, like frost spreading across a lake. “This isn’t a message to be delivered by parchment.”

His gaze shifted toward Thorek – Kaelvar – measured and unreadable.

“You’ll take it,” he said. “Ralof goes with you.”

Thorek nodded, calm as ever.

Ulfric turned to a nearby chest and drew out an axe – not ceremonial, but a weapon meant for war. The steel still bore notches from a dozen battles.

“Give him this,” he said, handing the axe to Kaelvar. “Balgruuf will understand its meaning.”

Galmar muttered, “And if he sends it back?”

Ulfric’s reply came without hesitation, low and final, “Then may the gods help Whiterun…   Because we will not.”

*                                                                     *                                                                                          *

Still cloaked in her illusionary draugr guise, Kassia remained motionless in the sarcophagus long after Thorek and the Stormcloaks retreated in frustration. Only once the last echo of their boots faded into silence did she move, her fingers flexing with the stiffness of the hours she’d spent motionless.

Sliding the sarcophagus open from within, she stepped into the eerie quiet of the crypt. Her breath was silent as all vampires, and even though she wore a killer’s confidence like a second skin, she didn’t linger. She glanced across the crypt and with a flick of her hand, dismissed the careful illusion she had wrought. The she retrieved her pack from a hidden crevice, slung it across her back, and vanished into the shadows of the ruin’s upper levels, retracing her steps through the trap-strewn halls.

Outside, the wind cut straight through her. Snowflakes drifted like feathers from a storm-grey sky. She slipped into the tree line and moved fast, whistling for Shadowmere, never once returning to the road.

The climb to the summit was brutal. Kassia did not take the Seven Thousand Steps. She knew better. Though that path wasn’t watched, she had no desire to exchange tense words with Arngeir, not after the last time he chided her for “turning the Voice to violence.” Her thu’um had saved her life and others more times than she can count, and she wasn’t in the mood for monkish morality. Besides, the Dragonborn wasn’t bound to the “Way of the Voice.”

Instead, she left Shadowmere near Ivarstead and followed goat trails and icy ledges, taking the less-traveled paths known only to bandits, madmen, and perhaps one stubborn assassin with a stolen crown of kings.

By the time she reached the summit, her fingers ached beneath her gloves and her armor caked with snow. But her eyes were alert. Her every movement was precise. This place was sacred and dangerous.

In the shade of the ancient Word Wall where Paarthurnax so often rested, she uncovered a small cache she once used – a weather-worn chest hidden beneath rock and snow, nearly forgotten. She opened it and carefully wrapped the Jagged Crown in oiled cloth before placing it within. It fit snugly beside a few sealed scrolls and an old flask of Snowberry Brandy. The lid shut with a muted thunk.

She marked the stone above with a faint line of chalk – nothing anyone else would notice. But she’d know.

For now, Skyrim’s most dangerous symbol slept in the sky’s shadow.

A low rumble sounded behind her as she finished burying the chest in fresh snow. Kassia stiffened, her hand automatically drifting to the hilt at her back.

“Zu’u mindoraan los hi, faasnu Dovahkiin.” I have known you, fearless Dragonborn.

Paarthurnax landed behind her, his wings folding with the grace of an elder god. His great eyes – ageless and calm – studied her closely.

“You come here burdened with more than the crown. You seek not just to hide it, but to hide yourself.”

Kassia exhaled slowly and turned her head just enough to speak. “Just seeking quiet. And altitude. Maybe a little wisdom.”

“Hiding a crown forged in conquest will not silence its voice,” the dragon mused. “Its call will echo, even buried in the sky.”

She didn’t reply at first. Then she said, “I didn’t steal it to wear it. I stole it so no one else could.”

“A noble lie… or a true defiance?”

Kassia smiled faintly. “A bit of both, maybe.”

She reached up and touched the scales of his snout. Then she wrapped her arms around it, hugging him. Softly she planted a kiss on one of his brow ridges.

“Keep it safe. Tell no one it’s here.”

She didn’t linger long. The wind on the peak was too loud with ghosts, and her path was far from over. The Tiid Ahraan pulsed eerily. Paarthurnax offered no condemnation, nor blessing, as she vanished down the ledge-line once more, moving fast, leaving only shallow footprints and deeper doubts.

Far below, the world readied itself for war. But the crown meant to decide it now slept in secret – hidden by one who refused to let tyrants write history in blood and gold.

*                                                                     *                                                                                          *

Two days later in the Bards College courtyard.

Lady Pantea Ateia stood in a velvet gown embroidered with snowberries, her voice lifted in song before a gathered crowd of students, nobles, and minor bards beneath the banners of Solitude’s Bards College. The rain had passed; the air smelled of pine and lavender.

A surprise had been arranged. A gift from one of her noble patrons.

The stablehand, a broad-shouldered Orc woman named Roka gra-Bazgar, led the enormous Colovian-bred stallion to the courtyard. The beast was a Snow-Blanket Sorrel, known for its intelligence and high spirits.

“This is no ordinary horse, Lady Ateia,” Roka said, bowing low. “He comes from Colovian stock. Bred for royalty. He is called Windwhisper.”

Pantea, always dramatic, placed a gloved hand to her heart. “For me? Well! I have been told my voice can charm the rain.”

A few polite chuckles rose from the crowd.

With grace befitting a diva, she approached the beast and mounted sidesaddle. The moment her weight settled, Shadowmere, disguised, masked by illusion, moved.

A buck. A shriek.

Then chaos.

Pantea screamed as the stallion reared. She clung to the saddle, but only for a second. The second buck hurled her into the dirt. Roka shouted, pretending to try and rein the stallion in.

The crowd screamed. Guards surged forward, but too late.

Shadowmere stamped once.

Twice.

A sickening crack echoed as Pantea Ateia’s ribcage caved inward beneath the beast’s iron-shod hooves.

By the time the guards reached the scene, Roka was sobbing apologies, gripping the reins as if she'd barely stopped a worse disaster.

The College was in uproar. A tragedy, they called it.

But Aia Arria?

She sang at Pantea’s funeral, voice full of sorrow and sweet satisfaction.

*                                                                     *                                                                                          *

The Sanctuary was quiet, save for the whisper of flickering torchlight and the faint scrape of leather boots on cold stone.

Jasmine descended the spiral steps with practiced grace, her cloak damp from snowmelt, the scent of Solitude's perfumed tragedy still clinging to her skin. The lacquered coin pouch clinked decadently in her hands, ten thousand septims, the agreed-upon price for one fatal encore.

She found Kassia seated before the Night Mother’s coffin, her posture straight, hands folded in her lap. The Listener looked as she always did, serene and calculating, a storm wrapped in satin and leather.

“You return,” Kassia said, voice low and smooth. “Is it done?”

Jasmine knelt and placed the pouch before her. “Lady Pantea will not be conducting any more solos.”

A faint smirk touched Kassia’s lips. “And the client?”

“Overjoyed. Singing her own praises. Said she’s composing a new ballad to commemorate her mentor’s tragic end.”

“How tasteful.”

They shared a chuckle. The Night Mother remained silent.

Kassia untied the pouch and counted the coins by touch, metal against leather. She withdrew two smaller pouches from beneath her robes, dividing the sum with surgical precision.

“Five for you,” she said, tossing the first to Jasmine, who caught it deftly. “Two for Roka.”

Jasmine raised an eyebrow. “Generous. She’ll spend it all on weapons and armor oil, you know.”

“I’m counting on it.” Kassia’s voice turned amused, but cold steel glinted beneath the surface. “Shadowmere was impeccable?”

“Perfect. He played the part of a war-gifted stallion to the letter. Didn’t even try to bite until the final beat.”

Kassia’s smirk grew. “Good. Remind Roka to burn the stablehand uniform. And to give Shadowmere a treat from me.”

“Yes, Listener.”

Kassia stood then, trailing a hand along the carved sarcophagus beside her.

“One more name crossed from the scroll,” she murmured. “One more symphony silenced.”

Jasmine inclined her head. “And what now?”

Kassia turned, her gaze distant.

“Now?” Her voice was silk wrapped around something darker. “Now we prepare for the final act.”

*                                                                     *                                                                                          *

The soft crackle of firelight hissed through the stillness of her camp past the swamp along the Karth Delta.

Roka gra-Bazgar crouched near the red and black Daedric barding and scattered tack, her hand extended, flames dancing from her fingers as she cast a small Flame Cloak spell – not for protection, but cleansing. The illusion fell away in wisps of char and smoke, incinerating the stablehand garb she'd worn into Solitude. What remained were ashes, curling black at the edges, vanishing into the breeze like the memory of the woman she’d pretended to be.

Shadowmere snorted nearby, his glowing crimson eyes catching the last light of the fading sun. Even masked beneath the illusion of the deep mahogany of a Colovian Snow-Blanket Sorrel breed, he radiated menace. With the illusion dismissed, at last, he was allowed to be himself again.

“Easy, boy,” Roka murmured, her voice low and reverent. She stepped forward and began brushing his coat, revealing the inky shimmer. Each stroke of the curry comb brought the steed’s unnatural sheen back to life, and he leaned into her touch with something close to pleasure.

“You played your part well,” she added, slipping him a crimson apple from her satchel. Shadowmere chomped through it in a single bite.

Roka leaned against his shoulder, resting there a moment, her hands tangled in his black mane.

“Another accident,” she said quietly. “Another whisper in the dark.”

She looked back toward the horizon, toward the arch of Solitude and the Blue Palace now glimmering faintly in the distance.

“They never see us coming.”

Shadowmere snorted again, as if in agreement, as Roka slid the barding back in place, armoring the stallion once again.

Then they turned toward the coast, abandoning the camp and vanished into the night, two shadows wrapped in silence, leaving only the scent of ash and apple in their wake.

*                                                                     *                                                                                          *

Memoir of Aia Arria

They’ll mourn her, of course. Her brilliance, her beauty, her unparalleled technique. The Lady of Song, silenced by tragedy.

Her fingers tapped an idle rhythm against the railing overlooking the courtyard where the news had broken. So tragic. So sudden. So… divine.

And yet… wasn’t she the one who told me I might be adequate? Adequate.

Aia’s lips curled into the ghost of a smile as she wrote.

No more lectures. No more sideways compliments. No more Pantea.

She’d play the grieving protégé well. A tear here, a tremble there. And when the time came to appoint a new Dean…

Second only to her? She wrote with dramatic flair. No, darlings. She was second only to me.

Now there was no one left above.

Chapter Text

"Generals gathered in their masses
 Just like witches at black masses
Evil minds that plot destruction
Sorcerer of death's construction
In the fields, the bodies burning
As the war machine keeps turning
Death and hatred to mankind
Poisoning their brainwashed minds
Oh, Lord, yeah…"
~ “War Pigs” by Black Sabbath

The morning was bitter, wind cutting sharp through cloaks and furs as Ralof and Thorek rode southward from Windhelm. Snow clung to their beards and saddles alike, the world around them locked in frost and tension.

Ralof rode with quiet nostalgia in his eyes, gazing toward the treeline as if he could see Riverwood just beyond the horizon. "I grew up in that little mill town. After our parents died, it was Gerdur who raised me. Stubborn woman, sharp as a hawk and twice as fierce. Runs the mill with Hod, her husband. Solid man. Loyal."

Thorek grunted, adjusting the iron axe at his hip. “Loyalty didn’t stop the Forsworn from burning my farm to ash,” he said, eyes cold. “Didn’t stop Whiterun from ignoring my pleas. Balgruuf turned his back. And now we’re here… asking him for help.”

Ralof glanced at him, concern briefly flickering across his features. “We’re asking him to choose. Not beg.”

“Hmph. Should’ve sent the axe embedded in someone’s skull. That would send a clearer message.”

They pressed on in silence, snow giving way to the muddy slopes near Whiterun. Thorek kept an eye on the shadows beyond the road. Just before the city gates came into view, he caught a flash of something – red and black armor, almost mistaken for a trick of the light. Shadowmere.

The infernal steed stood perfectly still beneath the trees, watching. No rider in sight.

Thorek’s jaw clenched. The Listener is here.

He said nothing.

*                                                                     *                                                *

Inside Dragonsreach, the warmth of the fire was a poor substitute for the weight of the room. Jarl Balgruuf stood at the top of the steps, Proventus Avenicci on one side, Irileth on the other. Thorek and Ralof knelt respectfully, though Kaelvar’s expression was anything but deferential.

Ralof spoke with conviction. “Jarl Ulfric sends this axe as a gesture – between warriors. A sign of honor, a demand for allegiance.”

Balgruuf took the axe slowly, weighing it in his hand. His brow furrowed. “I’ve known Ulfric since we were boys. Never liked the man, but I understood him. This… is his way of forcing my hand.”

Proventus scowled. “You can’t honestly consider siding with the Stormcloaks. The Empire – ”

“The Empire,” Balgruuf snapped, “has tied our hands more times than I can count. I’ve seen the coin they offer, the threats they make. But this war…” He shook his head. “This war is tearing Skyrim apart.”

Throngar stepped forward, hand resting on his sword. “Then we must choose. Delay will cost us lives. If we side with the Empire, they must reinforce our garrison. Now.”

Balgruuf’s jaw clenched. He handed the axe back to Ralof. “Give this to your Jarl. Tell him my answer is no.”

Thorek stiffened slightly. Coward.

Ralof bowed, but the look in his eyes was steel. “So be it. You’ve made your choice.”

*                                                                     *                                                *

When they returned to Windhelm, snow still clinging to their cloaks, Ulfric stood by the fire in the war room, Galmar Stone-Fist beside him.

Ralof placed the axe in Ulfric’s hand. “He refused.”

Ulfric sighed heavily, then looked toward the map. “I hoped he wouldn’t. But I expected he would.”

Galmar let out a barking laugh. “Then it begins. No more delays. No more half-measures.”

Ulfric nodded, placing the axe on the table. “Begin preparations. Galmar, issue the orders. The Battle for Whiterun starts now.”

Thorek remained silent, but inside, the embers of excitement flickered. Chaos was coming – and the Listener was already one step ahead.


*                                                                     *                                                *                                            

While Thorek and Ralof rode south toward Whiterun with an axe and a warning, Kassia had already turned her gaze to Riverwood.

She dispatched Veezara and Nyxeris with a quiet, brutal order.

“Make it look like the civil war came early. Leave no survivors. Both families must suffer. Let the village grieve, and let the blame fall wherever it must.”

Riverwood was asleep when the Brotherhood struck. Nyxeris, graceful and merciless, slid through the shadows to the home of Ralof’s family. Hod and Gerdur were the first – hearing nothing, seeing nothing, until their bodies were riddled with Imperial arrows.

Veezara handled Alvor and Sigrid with cold precision. Alvor had almost reached for his hammer; Sigrid had nearly screamed.

Almost.

When it was done, they set the scene with Imperial arrows, Stormcloak blue, and chaos. A dash of enmity, a splash of blood. The perfect lie.

Two children were spared – not out of mercy, but calculation. Frodnar and Dorthe were found wandering at dawn, silent and blood-specked, clutching at each other and the dog, Stump. They were taken to Honorhall Orphanage in Riften, their lives shattered.

Kassia’s message was clear: No allies. No safe havens. No innocence left untouched.

*                                                                     *                                                *

Word reached Windhelm like a dagger in the ribs.

A courier burst into the Palace of the Kings while Thorek and Ralof were still reporting on Balgruuf’s rejection. The timing was too perfect, though, cruelly cinematic.

“Riverwood... has suffered an attack. Hod and Gerdur were dead. Alvor and Sigrid, too. The children... taken to Riften.”

The color drained from Ralof’s face.

He stumbled back a step, mouth dry, heart thunderous. Gerdur – his sister. The woman who raised him after their parents died. Hod, who’d always grinned when Ralof sparred shirtless in the yard. Frodnar, that sweet boy who carved boats out of pinewood and wanted to be a Stormcloak, just like his uncle.

“No,” he blanched. “No, no, she was just…she was just there.”

Thorek said nothing. But he could see it. The hollow look in Ralof’s eyes. The tightening of fists. The shift. He placed a gentle hand of solidarity on Ralof’s shoulder.

Ulfric watched from his throne, silent for once. Even Galmar tempered his usual bloodlust. For a breath, the war paused.

Then Ulfric spoke.

“Their deaths were not in vain. Let the people see what the Empire’s peace looks like. Balgruuf stood idle. Let that stain be on his soul.”

Thorek turned away, hiding the curl of a smirk behind his stoic expression.

*                                                                     *                                                *

In Solitude, Hadvar received the news in the Castle Dour War Room, amidst reports of increased Stormcloak movement. A scout from Falkreath handed him a parchment with trembling hands.

“Your uncle… Alvor. And Sigrid. Dead. Dorthe taken to Riften. The guards claim it was a feud with Hod and Gerdur. Stormcloak supporters.”

Hadvar’s jaw tightened. He clutched the message until the parchment tore.

“Alvor was a blacksmith,” he whispered. “He had nothing to do with this godsdamned war.”

Tullius, standing nearby, muttered a curse under his breath. “This is exactly what I feared. Ulfric’s dogs biting anything that doesn’t bark Stormcloak.”

But Hadvar shook his head. “It doesn’t make sense. They always co-existed peacefully despite their allegiances.”

Tullius glanced over. “You’re certain?”

Hadvar nodded slowly. “Something isn’t right.”

He looked toward the map of Skyrim on the war table, the candlelight flickering over the jagged terrain of conflict. Hadvar’s eyes settled on Riverwood.

“Something else is at work. Something darker than politics, than war, and innocent people are getting swept away in its path.”

*                                                                     *                                                *

While grief ate at hearts in Windhelm and Solitude, Kassia – ever the harbinger of doom – slithered toward her next conquest.

Back in the sanctuary, by candlelight, she pored over stolen reports from Elenwen’s desk. Her quill scratched furiously. Her forged letter read:

To General Tullius, Commander of the Imperial Legion in Skyrim,

In the wake of recent escalations and the increasing boldness of Stormcloak activity, the Dominion feels it necessary to realign our joint objectives. Your presence is required at the Thalmor Embassy for a confidential diplomatic council. This meeting is of utmost importance. The Dominion is prepared to offer support beyond rhetoric.

As always, discretion is expected. Travel light. Bring no guards. Trust, General, is the first pillar of peace.

– Elenwen, First Emissary of the Thalmor

She dried the ink with a breath of frost and sealed it with Elenwen’s personal sigil – stolen and replicated with perfect illusion.

Then she sent the letter via courier to Castle Dour.

*                                                                     *                                                *

General Tullius read the letter with furrowed brows and a weight in his gut.

“She would never offer peace,” his brow furrowed. Then he grabbed an earlier missive from her, comparing the handwriting and tone. To his eyes, they were identical. He huffed a breath.

What if the Dominion truly was preparing to throw support behind the Empire? What if this was the only chance to avoid open war with Ulfric?

He told no one. Not Hadvar, not Captain Aldis or Legate Adventus and certainly not even Rikke.

Not yet.

Kassia watched from the shadows of Solitude’s rooftops, dressed in a noblewoman’s cloak, sipping a stolen bottle of Colovian brandy.

“One step closer,” she whispered. “To what, you ask? To everything.”

 *                                                                     *                                                *

The wind howled softly beyond Windhelm’s stone walls, carrying with it the faint scent of ash and pine. Snow whispered down like falling regrets.

Ralof sat alone on a bench near the barracks firepit, his shoulders hunched, a bottle of cheap Nord mead dangling from his hand. The flames danced, but offered no warmth. His eyes were red, but not from the cold.

“You always knew what to say, Gerdur,” he whispered to the empty air. “But you’re not here to say it.”

Footsteps approached, slow and steady. A shadow stepped into the firelight.

“You drinkin’ that swill alone?” Kaelvar’s voice was casual, friendly and measured.

Ralof glanced up. Kaelvar – Thorek, as he knew him – held two bottles of Honningbrew Reserve in one hand, like an offering to a god in mourning.

“Figured you could use something that doesn’t taste like mammoth piss.”

Ralof grunted. “Wouldn’t matter. Nothing tastes like anything right now.”

Kaelvar sat beside him, uncorking one bottle and handing it over. They drank in silence for a long while, the fire crackling, wind hissing through the ramparts.

Finally, Kaelvar spoke.

“Gerdur was the strong sort. The kind this world doesn’t get enough of.”

Ralof nodded tightly. “She raised me after our parents died. Kept Riverwood afloat with her bare hands alongside Hod at the mill. Gods, I still remember the way she scolded Hod for using too much timber too fast. And Frodnar – he’s just a boy…”

Kaelvar’s gaze lowered to the flames, his voice gentle but needled with venom.

“You’d think… someone like Balgruuf would have done more to protect them.”

Ralof’s head turned sharply.

“What are you saying?”

Kaelvar shrugged, sipping from his bottle. The pause was calculated.

“Just that maybe if he’d stood with Ulfric – stood with his people – instead of hiding behind his throne in Dragonsreach, maybe Gerdur would still be alive. Maybe Alvor would still be hammering iron. Maybe… maybe the children wouldn’t be waking up in Honorhall.”

Ralof’s jaw tightened. “That’s not fair.”

“No,” Kaelvar agreed, “it’s not.”

He let that silence fall like a coffin lid before continuing.

“But you and I … we fight so no one else has to lose their sister. Their kin. Their home. Balgruuf made his choice. When we march on Whiterun, he’ll answer for it.”

He turned now, meeting Ralof’s bloodshot eyes with a warrior’s solemnity.

“I swear to you, Ralof, on blood and bone, I’ll watch your back during that battle. And I’ll make sure Balgruuf feels what it means to fail his hold. No more families torn apart.”

Ralof didn’t speak. But he clinked his bottle to Kaelvar’s. Not in celebration. In solidarity.

The fire cracked again. Snow fell heavier now.

And in the dark, Kaelvar smiled.

 *                                                                     *                                                *

The gates of the Thalmor Embassy groaned open under the moonlight. General Tullius dismounted his steed with a weariness carved into the lines of his face, cloak trailing behind him as he was greeted by none other than First Emissary Elenwen herself.

“General,” Elenwen said, inclining her head with false courtesy. “If you’ll follow me to my solar – we have much to discuss.”

Tullius offered no pleasantries. He was tired, short-tempered, and wary. But the politics of war rarely allowed room for comfort. He followed.

Inside Elenwen’s solar, the air reeked of expensive perfume and ink. Reports and correspondence littered the desk in haphazard stacks.

“Ulfric Stormcloak is moving on Whiterun,” Elenwen began, pouring herself a goblet of wine she didn’t intend to drink. “Balgruuf, in desperation, has reached out to your Legion. I know you’ve been in contact.”

Tullius folded his arms. “And what of it?”

“I’m offering a gesture of goodwill,” she said smoothly. “A few of my mages – Altmer battlemages trained in precise destruction – could bolster your ranks. The Stormcloaks won’t know what hit them. They lack magical discipline.”

The General studied her warily. “You’ll forgive me if I don’t trust the Dominion’s charity. But… the Empire is weakened. And war waits for no one.” He sighed. “Fine. A detachment of your mages, under my command.”

He turned to go.

That was his last mistake.

A blade slid between his shoulders with inhuman precision. Tullius gasped as his body arched, legs buckling.

“You’re a fool,” hissed Kassia, her voice shifting as the illusion melted away. “You should never turn your back on your enemies.”

She caught him as he fell, dragging him by the collar down the Embassy steps, then through the hidden passages that led to the dungeons. There, she chained him one-armed to the wall like a common prisoner, letting him bleed into the stone.

When she emerged, it was not Kassia who walked out of the Embassy – but Tullius once more, perfect and polished. She mounted his horse and rode for Castle Dour.

*                                                                     *                                                *

Castle Dour stood silent under a gray sky as Tullius returned. She moved like him, barked like him, even favored his limp from an old wound. None questioned a thing.

She summoned Hadvar at once.

“We ride to Whiterun at once,” she barked. “Balgruuf needs the Legion’s steel.”

“Yes, sir,” Hadvar replied, brow furrowed. “You’re… certain about this? You seem… different.”

Kassia gave a dismissive wave and closed the distance, her eyes glowing faintly. “Come here, soldier.”

A whisper of Vampiric Seduction laced the air between them. Hadvar blinked, his tension bleeding away. His mouth slackened into a lazy, obedient smile.

“Yes… General.”

“Good. You’ll ride beside me. Stay close to Jarl Balgruuf. Protect him with your life.”

“Yes, General.”

And so they rode. The Empire's banner flew over a battalion marching toward Whiterun – led not by Tullius, but a blood-soaked shadow wearing his face.

*                                                                     *                                                *

In Dragonsreach, the war council convened. Tullius stood across from Jarl Balgruuf and his advisors.

“We’ve brought two hundred Legionnaires,” she said, her voice gruff. “And the might of the Empire’s steel.”

“No mages?” Irileth asked.

Tullius’ eyes gleamed coldly. “The Dominion declined.”

A pause. Then the council moved into strategy. Hadvar offered his usual measured counsel, Ralof’s name came up in frustration, and Balgruuf cursed the timing of it all.

When the plans were laid, Tullius excused himself.

“I’d like to survey the view to the north,” he said, “from the Great Porch.”

Alone on the Great Porch – once Odahviing’s prison – Kassia shed the illusion. Her bones twisted. Wings erupted.

A vampire bat soared into the sky, riding the wind toward Volunruud.

There, two dragons waited – captive to her will.

Gol Hah Dov. Bend Will.

Her voice, terrible and commanding, rang across the sky.

“You will fly to Whiterun. You will burn all you see. Friend. Foe. It matters not. Paint the snow with blood and ash.”

They screeched assent.

A third dragon, curious and ancient, stirred from Shearpoint.

Kassia smiled as she vanished into cloud and smoke.

*                                                                     *                                                *


The horns sounded.

Stormcloaks poured toward the gates of Whiterun with fury in their hearts. Kaelvar, still disguised as Thorek, charged at the front, axe gleaming.

On the other side, the defenders rallied. Balgruuf led from the battlements. Hadvar stood close, blade drawn.

Then the sky broke open.

Dragons fell upon them like the wrath of gods.

Fire consumed the gates and front lines. Lightning shattered the towers and ripped through catapults and trebuchets.

A third dragon joined the fray, turning the battlefield into Oblivion. Men screamed. Structures collapsed. The smell of burning flesh thickened the air.

In the chaos, Kaelvar found Hadvar.

They clashed for only a moment before Kaelvar drove his sword deep into the soldier’s gut. Hadvar gasped, staring at the traitor’s eyes as blood soaked the ground.

“Sorry, cousin,” Kaelvar whispered. “Wrong side of history.”

Elsewhere, Kassia found Ralof. The Nord stood defending a group of wounded.

“General Tullius?” he asked, confused.

“No,” she whispered, voice like silk. “Not anymore.”

The Blade of Woe opened his throat in one clean slice.

By battle’s end, Dragonsreach stood – barely. Balgruuf, alive but broken, surveyed the smoldering ruin of his city.

Half his garrison gone. Civilians dead. Whiterun in ashes. Only a few houses and buildings remained untouched by dragon fire. Jorrvaskr and the home of the Battle-Born clan as well as the Temple of Kynareth.

No one saw Tullius vanish. No one saw the bat that flew from the ruin.

Kaelvar melted away during the retreat, donning shadow and silence.

They rendezvoused in the dark, two predators grinning over the wreckage they’d sown.

Victory, after all, is just another word for manipulated survival.

 *                                                                     *                                                *

Beneath the jagged cliffs west of Solitude, a foul wind whispered through the gnarled mouth of Wolfskull Cave.

The torchlight flickered against the ancient walls, casting monstrous shadows. Gabriella of the Dark Brotherhood stood at the base of the ritual circle, her blades hidden, her role simple: watch and ensure Kassia was undisturbed.

Kassia moved like a dancer – fluid, precise. She painted ancient runes with a mixture of vampire blood, finely ground bone meal, purified void salts and crushed soul gem shards, whispering words of power taught only to the oldest children of Coldharbour. At the center of the ritual, a jagged obsidian totem pulsed with malice – Potema’s anchor.

“I call thee, Wolf Queen. Daughter of Pelagius, Scourge of Solitude,” Kassia chanted, voice echoing unnaturally. “Come, breathe again through fire and fury. Let Elisif feel your hunger.”

A shockwave ripped through the chamber.

The totem exploded in spectral light – white and violet tendrils coiling into a towering form. Potema’s spirit shrieked into existence, a storm of laughter and fury. Her voice slithered against the walls.

“Who dares awaken me again?”

Kassia smiled without flinching. “A daughter of night, seeking to give you vengeance long overdue. Solitude belongs to the dead, my Queen. Go claim it.”

*                                                                     *                                                *

Night settled like a funeral shroud over Solitude.

Inside the Blue Palace, warm firelight glowed from hearths and candle sconces. The usual bustle of attendants, guards, and nobles played out in the background.

Jarl Elisif the Fair sat quietly at her writing desk. Her hand trembled as she penned yet another appeal to Tullius for stronger protection. Rumors of the war’s escalation had reached her ears. Still no action had been taken on the plea to cleanse Wolfskull Cave.

Behind her, Bolgeir Bearclaw and Falk Firebeard exchanged quiet concerns. Sybille Stentor, the court mage, sipped wine from a jeweled goblet and idly perused the latest gossip sheet. Erikur and Bryling argued about trade tariffs and the war’s damage to coffers.

And then... the torches went out.

The walls trembled.

A shriek unlike anything mortal tore through the keep – the shriek of Potema.

The doors sealed shut.

Guards rushed to defend the throne room, but they never reached it. In a flash of light and shadow, Potema’s wrath exploded from the great hallway like a tidal wave of energy.

Jordis the Sword-Maiden fell first, thrown against the stone walls and broken in an instant. Melaran became a charred smear on the floor. Irnskar Ironhand turned to shield Bryling, but both were incinerated in an arc of necrotic flame. Falk Firebeard tried to draw his blade – too late. His body withered to a husk before it hit the ground.

One by one, they fell. Sybille tried to conjure a ward, only for her own soul to be ripped from her body. Erikur, ever a coward, tried to flee – his throat opened mid-scream by a spectral claw.

Elisif stood in shock, barely breathing, tears running down her face.

“You took my crown, girl,” whispered Potema, her spectral form coalescing before the Jarl – ghostly and luminous. “Now I take your throne.”

The last scream from the Blue Palace was Elisif’s.

When the city guard finally forced the doors open hours later, nothing remained inside but ash, shattered furniture, and blood smeared in spirals across the marble. The entire palace had become a tomb for nobles and servant alike.

The people of Solitude would never forget the Night of the Wolf Queen’s Return.

 *                                                                     *                                                *

The wind howled through the old battlements of Windhelm, as if mourning the end of something ancient. Snow flurried down like ash. The palace was quieter than usual. Too many had died at Whiterun – too many ghosts now roamed its stone halls.

Ulfric Stormcloak ascended the steps to his private quarters like a thunderhead made flesh, every footfall a tremor of barely restrained wrath. He was alone – no guards, no attendants, no councilors to shield him from his grief. His war-axe hung loose at his side, the haft splintered, the blade nicked by battles he hadn’t fought himself.

His face was a map of fury – tear-streaked, bloodshot, and silent. He had left the war table behind in the war room. It offered no comfort now – just the cold echo of a war that had slipped out of his grasp.

The weight of failure pressed down on his shoulders heavier than any armor. He hadn't been at Whiterun, but the reports had been damning: fire from the skies, blood in the streets, the ruin of his army scattered like bones. Even Galmar was gone.

Inside his quarters, Kassia waited – invisible, every movement silent, every heartbeat cold.

She stood near the hearth, watching him enter. His armor scraped against the doorway as he entered and threw his axe down on the stone floor with a clang.

“Cowards. Traitors. Every last one of them!” he bellowed to no one.

And then he stopped.

The air shifted. Thickened. A presence he could not explain. And then – Elenwen stood before him. Wearing her Thalmor regalia, her expression blank save for an amused smirk.

He didn't hesitate.

“FUS RO DAH!”

His voice thundered against the walls, blasting furniture apart. But Kassia – not Elenwen – was already three paces to the side, laughing coldly as her illusion shimmered.

“Krii… Lun… Aus.”

The words rolled off her tongue like silk over steel. Ulfric buckled as the Marked for Death shout ripped into him, his very lifeforce etched away in seconds.

“Gaan… Lah… Haas.”

His knees gave out, strength bleeding from his limbs.

“Rii. Vaaz. Zol.”

His soul screamed as it began to unravel.

Then came the Blade. The Blade of Woe, deep in his chest – piercing heart, pride, and legacy all at once.

“You old fool,” she spat in his ear. “You never should have turned your nose up at the Brotherhood.”

She worked quickly.

From her enchanted void-pouch, she withdrew the cold, lifeless body of Elenwen, carefully preserved and pale as a yellow mountain flower. Her armor removed, hair combed back with surgical care, Elenwen’s corpse was posed on the grand bed like a sleeping bride.

Next came Ulfric, stripped of armor and ego. Kassia dragged his still-warm body beside Elenwen, laying him into her arms. She positioned their heads on each other’s shoulders, limbs entangled.

An elven dagger protruded from Ulfric’s chest.

His war axe buried in Elenwen’s.

She scattered tattered love letters across the sheets, forged in both their hands – poems of forbidden trysts, declarations of loyalty, regret, and longing. Other letters she placed within their hands, clutched tightly.

At the foot of the bed, she set Elenwen’s dossier on Ulfric – pages of intelligence, obsession, weakness. It would tell the perfect lie.

Two simple rings, plain golden bands – slid onto their fingers.

Star-crossed lovers, reunited in death.

Kassia stepped back, admiring her work with the eye of an artist. A final illusion spell erased any trace of her touch. She collected the lovers’ clothes, stuffed them into the void-pouch, and dismissed the silence spell over the room one last time.

“Hail Sithis,” she whispered. And vanished into mist.

*                                                                     *                                                *

The stone halls of the Palace of the Kings had never been so silent.

Yrsarald Thrice-Pierced had felt a strange unease all morning. Galmar was gone – felled during the chaos at Whiterun – and with Windhelm’s ranks fractured and grief choking the air like ash, Ulfric had withdrawn to his chambers for the night.

He hadn’t emerged since.

The guards outside the Jarl’s room reported hearing nothing – no shouting, no pacing, no war cries muffled by stone. Just... silence.

Too much silence.

Yrsarald stood before the ancient door now, jaw set, knuckles white around the hilt of his war axe. He’d served Ulfric for decades. Bled for him. Believed in him. And something was wrong.

He gave the door one final warning knock.

“Jarl Ulfric?”

No answer.

With a nod to the guards flanking him, Yrsarald took a step back – and kicked the door in.

The massive wooden door burst inward with a groan. Dust motes danced in shafts of golden morning light from the narrow, high windows. And then…

Yrsarald stopped cold.

There, on the bed – Ulfric Stormcloak, High King in rebellion, lay entwined in the arms of none other than First Emissary Elenwen of the Thalmor.

Naked. Lifeless.

Matching rings glinted on their fingers. Ulfric’s war axe was buried deep in Elenwen’s chest, and an elegant elven dagger had been driven through Ulfric’s heart.

The two of them were posed in an intimate embrace – arms wrapped around one another, faces close, their expressions eerily peaceful.

Yrsarald’s mouth went dry. His grip on his axe loosened as the breath left his body. Scattered letters covered the bed. And at its foot lay a small stack of parchment. A dossier from the Thalmor detailing Ulfric’s recruitment.

Love letters, carefully forged, tattered and stained – one set in Ulfric’s hand, the other in Elenwen’s. They spoke of longing, regret, star-crossed romance… of a love that defied politics, race, war.

Of betrayal disguised as devotion.

A single goblet lay spilled near the hearth. Red wine stained the carpet like blood.

Yrsarald dropped to one knee, disbelief etched into every line of his face.

This couldn’t be real.

It had to be a trick.

But the craftsmanship of the illusion was flawless.

And rumors – like fire – need only a single spark.

*                                                                     *                                                *

By sundown, Windhelm wept.

At first, the whispers were only murmurs. But they spread like plague – carried on lips too eager, too stunned, too furious to stay still.

Ulfric Stormcloak had loved Elenwen all along. His rebellion was a lie, a façade for a doomed romance. He had died by her hand… or worse, taken his own in grief. They had died as lovers, united at last in death.

Stormcloak banners were torn down by those who had once marched beneath them. Sons and daughters of Skyrim spat on the ground where their Jarl once walked. Some, still loyal, called it a Thalmor trick – a dark magic illusion, a staged assassination. But the imagery was too powerful. The story too perfect.

The letters, the rings, the pose.

Everything screamed truth… or the kind of truth people wanted to believe.

*                                                                     *                                                *


In Solitude, the news broke amid the carnage left behind by Potema’s rampage through the Blue Palace. Jarl Elisif was dead. Her court, slaughtered. And now Ulfric, too? General Tullius had vanished. The Emperor had been assassinated not long ago. And suddenly, there were no clear leaders left in Skyrim. The Empire scrambled to hold onto what power it could, even as Dominion agents coincidentally began appearing in force across the holds.

Skyrim fractured. Again.

And from the shadows, the Brotherhood watched.

Down in the darkness beyond the Black Door, the sanctuary echoed with gentle laughter.

Kassia slipped from the folds of night, drenched not in blood – but in triumph.

The Listener of Sithis. The Architect of Collapse. The Widowmaker of Empires.

She knelt before the Night Mother, the scent of roses and death swirling around her like perfume.

“It is done,” she whispered. “The wheel turns. The world weeps. And soon… the void will sing.”

Her lips curled into a smile as she rose.

“Skyrim belongs to the shadows now.”

Chapter Text

“It starts with one

One thing, I don't know why
It doesn't even matter how hard you try
Keep that in mind, I designed this rhyme to explain in due time
All I know time is a valuable thing
Watch it fly by as the pendulum swings
Watch it count down to the end of the day, the clock ticks life away…”
 ~ “In The End” by Linkin Park

The great hall of Dragonsreach had not felt this full since the days of the Dragon Crisis.

Sunlight poured in through narrow windows, filtered through high banners of white and gold that hung limp in the still air. The jarls of Skyrim, what few remained, had answered the call. Not for a Moot – there would be no High King crowned today – but to prevent the realm from slipping entirely into chaos.

Jarl Balgruuf the Greater stood before the throne, hands clasped tight behind his back, every new wrinkle on his face earned by fire, blood, and betrayal.

“Skyrim is bleeding,” he said, his voice low, graveled, and weary. “We’ve all lost much. But if we let vengeance drive us now, we’ll lose everything.”

No one responded immediately. Eyes flicked to one another – suspicious, tired, hardened.

Below the throne dais, standing at the war table was Jarl Igmund of Markarth, his gold circlet dulled by age and grief. Jarl Idgrod Ravencrone, inscrutable as ever, hands folded over her cane. Jarl Laila Law-Giver of Riften, who looked ten years older than she had a fortnight ago. Jarl Skald the Elder of the Pale, who muttered half-hallucinatory curses under his breath. Jarl Siddgeir of Falkreath, younger than most, hiding nerves behind smug posturing. Jarl Korir of Winterhold, bristling with the bitterness of a neglected Hold. And Brunwulf Free-Winter, who had accepted the stewardship of Windhelm in the wake of Ulfric’s death.

A crack of armored boots echoed – Thalmor robes glided into view like ink across parchment. The Aldmeri Dominion had sent its emissaries. Ondolemar, high-chinned and satisfied with his importance. Estormo, the smooth-tongued. And Ancano, returned from Winterhold with the stench of ambition still clinging to his skin.

Ondolemar spoke first, a scroll in hand. “We come with... troubling revelations. The attack on the Blue Palace – once attributed to rogue necromancy – was far more deliberate.”

He unrolled the parchment and placed it gently on the war table. “This was recovered from the ruins of Wolfskull Cave. The Wolf Queen was summoned deliberately. And we have reason to believe her wrath was guided.”

He paused for effect.

“By mortal hands.”

A gasp came from Laila Law-Giver, who rose from her seat. “Maven and her family – Black-Briar holdings across Riften – were torn apart in the same week. Ingun is all that remains.”

Igmund’s brow darkened. “Coincidence is becoming less believable by the hour.”

Ondolemar continued, “We also recovered... a body. That of General Tullius.”

Estormo stepped forward, placing a blood-stained scroll on the table. “We found him in a Thalmor dungeon, Your Grace,” Estormo said with mock remorse. “There was... a message. Written in blood. Just one word.”

He pointed to the parchment. And there it was, scrawled with fury:

DRAGON

A stunned silence.

Legate Rikke, standing behind the gathered Imperials, turned her face to stone. But her knuckles whitened around the hilt of her sword.

“I served beside him for decades,” she said, voice raw. “He didn’t deserve that.”

“And yet,” murmured Idgrod softly, “this is the world we live in now.”

Then Jarl Skald rose. His mouth trembled as he spoke. “My guards found something... near Dawnstar. An old barrow. But not just any. One with a Black Door.”

Heads turned.

Idgrod’s voice was a whisper, but it cut through the air like a knife. “The Dark Brotherhood.”

“They’re dead,” Rikke growled. “At the hands of the Penitus Oculatus.”

“Are they?” asked Balgruuf, at last stepping forward. “Or are we looking at the work of something far more… methodical?”

Brunwulf, pale but resolute, nodded. “Ulfric didn’t kill himself. And the reports from Solitude... Potema’s return... Elenwen dead, Tullius found in chains…”

A heavy silence fell again.

Only the Companions – Aela, Farkas, Vilkas, and Harbinger Liesje – remained composed, flanking the room as neutral guards, not political actors. Warriors to the end.

The Wolf siblings exchanged glances.

“We as Companions have suffered a great loss,” Vilkas offered. “We were torn apart by the Silver Hand. Kodlak died due to an arrow through the heart. A silver arrow.”

“At first, we thought the attack upon us was retaliatory, but given recent events, I believe it was planned.” Harbinger Liesje spoke up. “Vilkas told me a former member of the Inner Circle was kicked out due to his methods being unsavory.”

“Arnbjorn… we learned after he left us that he found a new home in Falkreath,” Vilkas picked up where Liesje left off. “With the Dark Brotherhood.”

Dragonsreach stood heavy with silence, its great hall filled with voices now stilled by uncertainty.

The war table bore the scars of too many campaigns. A new map of Skyrim lay pinned beneath daggers and goblets, strewn with wax markers—many representing holds that now lay in ruin, cities left smoldering, thrones left vacant. The Jarls who remained stood around it in uneasy counsel, each face drawn and pale under the weight of loss.

Balgruuf had aged ten years in as many days. He leaned heavily on the edge of the table, voice rough.

“To rebuild,” he said, “we must root this out. Together.”

The gathered Jarls murmured agreement, though none looked reassured. Blood still stained some of their cloaks. Ash still clung to their boots.

Then Jarl Siddgeir of Falkreath leaned forward, voice tight like a bowstring near the breaking point.

“Skyrim is in flames,” he said quietly, “Where is the Dragonborn?”

A silence followed that struck deeper than any blow. Heads turned, searching the shadows, as if she might step from them once more, that grim heroine of song and shout.

But no answer came.

Until footsteps echoed across the stone floor.

They turned.

Yrsarald Thrice-Pierced stepped into the hall of Dragonsreach, his expression carved from granite. He walked with purpose, pausing at the edge of the gathering, gaze sweeping over them all.

“Gone,” he said. His voice was clear. Quiet. Deadly calm. “The woman we called Dragonborn has vanished. But I was there when she brought the head of the Emperor in a velvet box and set it before Ulfric like a gift.”

Murmurs erupted. Several Jarls paled.

“I heard his voice when he named her both Dragonborn and Assassin. I saw her eyes – red as Oblivion – when he ordered her arrest. And I saw her change… into something else. A cloud of wings. A curse made flesh.”

He stepped closer to the table, placing a hand on the map.

“She was at Whiterun when the dragons attacked both sides. At Solitude, when Potema rose and killed them all. At Windhelm… when Ulfric was murdered in his own bed. Posed alongside that Thalmor bitch.”

Ondolemar hissed indignantly. “That is First Emissary Elenwen to you, traitor.”

“Enough!” Balgruuf bellowed, his face a mottled mask of rage. “Continue.”

“And you believe she was behind all of it?” asked Jarl Igmund of Markarth, his voice skeptical but shaken. The Dragonborn was a Thane of his court. She owned property in his hold. He had assigned Argis the Bulwark to her as housecarl. How many other Jarls had made her a Thane? How many others had thought her honorable solely because she was Dragonborn?

Yrsarald didn’t blink. “I don’t believe. I know.”

Jarl Laila muttered, “Then the Dark Brotherhood has not only returned, but thrived beneath our very feet.”

Jarl Skald growled, “I told you. The Black Door outside Dawnstar... no one comes or goes, but we hear whispers on the wind.”

“Why?” asked Idgrod Ravencrone softly, as if to herself. “Why burn the world?”

No one answered.

Not the Thalmor representatives at the edge of the war table, faces unreadable.

Not the Companions standing nearby, hands resting uneasily on weapon hilts.

And certainly not the shadow perched silently in the rafters above, tucked between carved beams and golden banners, a pair of red eyes glinted in the dark. Kassia watched them all – faces upturned, jaws clenched, hopes fraying. The seeds of doubt she'd sown had rooted deep. Skyrim was divided. Leaderless. Burning.

She smiled, fangs barely visible behind a smug smirk. “Hail Sithis,” she whispered.

“We’ve all been played,” Korir realized.

Kassia crouched, one pale hand wrapped around a support beam, the other idly twirling a small silver ring.

The Dragonborn.

The Listener.

The Architect of Skyrim’s grief.

She watched them bicker. The jarls. The elves. The grieving Legate. The battered wolves.

You’re too late, little Jarls. The storm already passed. All that’s left now is the echo.

Kassia stood. A swirl of shadow enveloped her. A bat fluttered where a woman had been, and was gone before even the wind could whisper her passing.

Beneath her, the hall fell into debate.

Above them, the night laughed.

THE END