[Weeks Before Markarth]
The fields outside Whiterun stretched wide beneath a pale moon, silvering the grass and casting long shadows over the camp. Bone clattered in the night air, punctuated by sharp bursts of magic and the hiss of shouts.
Gavhelus leaned against an old tree, a battered flask dangling from one hand. Across the field, Kin moved through a dozen skeleton warriors like a man dancing on knives.
Same drill. Kin versus a dozen "Skullions", as Gav liked to call them. No stopping until the last one is down.
Not so easy anymore—not without his right arm.
Footsteps crunched behind him. Gav didn't look, just held the flask out sideways.
Eradros took it without a word, drank deep, then coughed slightly as the bite hit his throat. "The boy's improved."
Gav smirked. "You don't say. He's been bustin' his arse for weeks. 'Course he's improved."
"I always knew he would," Eradros said, eyes scanning the fight. "But I didn't expect… this. He's in the air sometimes. Fast. Like a damned dragon himself."
Gav chuckled. "You shoulda seen him before the arm went missin'. He was a bloody menace."
They both watched in silence as Kin pivoted around a sword swipe, sliding low and coming up behind a skeletal mage. He whispered a soft Wuld Nah Kest—just a breeze of the shout—and zipped through an opening, dodging a volley of arrows before landing a perfect kick that scattered bones like dry leaves.
"Do you think it'll slow him down?" Eradros asked quietly.
Gav snorted. "Only if he lets it. But he won't. I mean, just look at him."
Kin was faster now. Smarter. There was no wasted movement, no wild swings or reckless lunges. He used his body like a weapon, measured and sharp. Everything was earned now. Cunning over might. Efficiency over ego.
"He's not just surviving anymore," Gav said. "He's calculating. Timing every step, every shout. That thing he does with the Whirlwind Sprint—just a whisper for a little burst of speed? He figured that out on his own. Learned to use the thu'um without blowing his damn lungs out."
A pause. Just the clatter of skeletons and the low hum of summoned magick.
"Have you noticed?" Gav asked. "He doesn't flinch when we talk about dragons anymore."
Eradros nodded, lips pressed thin. "Still doesn't sit right with me though. We're asking him to stop running. To face things none of us ever would've survived alone."
He hesitated. "I spent most of my life running, Gav. From prisons, from debts, from the Dominion. Hell, from myself. So when we asked him to stop... I don't know. Something about it didn't sit right. I wasn't ready to be the guy telling someone else to stand their ground."
Gav's brow lifted. "So that's it, aye? You vanished to go find yourself, did ya? Some soul-searchin' redemption tour, was it?" He gave a mock sigh. "You poetic types are so bloody complicated."
Eradros cracked a smile. "Meaning?"
"Meaning the lad never asked you to be some paragon of virtue, mate," Gav said, leveling him with a sideways look. "He just needed you to show up. Didn't matter if you were a criminal or a killer or just a glorified sneak-thief. You were all he had."
Eradros didn't reply. He just stared ahead, watching Kin dispatch the last of the skeletons with a sharp burst of flame and a final spinning strike. Bone dust settled in the moonlight.
Gav glanced at him again. "But that's behind us now, yeah? This quest we're on—saving Skyrim, protectin' the boy, all that heroic rot—it ain't just about him. We've got just as much to answer for."
Eradros nodded, his voice low. "Yeah... I hear you. No more lone-wolfing it."
Gav squinted. "You havin' a laugh, mate?"
A rare, genuine smile tugged at Eradros's mouth. "Maybe."
From across the field, Kin wiped sweat from his brow, panting lightly.
Gav whistled, loud and sharp. "Alright, lad! That's enough dancin' wiv death for tonight, yeah? Bring it in already. Soup's gettin' cold."
Kin gave a tired thumbs-up and began walking back, dragging his feet just a little.
Gav took one last swig from the flask and handed it back with a grunt. "Divines help us," he muttered. "We're really about to pick a fight with the World-Eater 'imself."
Eradros laughed, just once. Then the three of them made their way back to camp, where Minevi, Passha, and Taviiah sat around a crackling fire.
He watched Kin for a while—really watched him. The way he moved now. The way he carried himself, scars and all.
He thought about saying something. An apology. Maybe a promise.
But something in him said not to.
Kin didn't need words. He just needed him there.
[Current day - The Siege of Markarth]
A roar split the air as stone shattered behind Kin.
Kin dove, using Whirlwind Sprint to boost his speed, just in time to avoid the dragon's open jaws as they crashed into the side of a stone tower. The ancient masonry crumbled like stale bread, sending chunks of rock tumbling through the narrow street. Dust and flame rippled behind him.
He didn't stop running.
His boots pounded across cracked cobblestone, cloak fluttering behind him as the dragon shrieked and clawed its way through the ruins in pursuit. It moved with terrifying hunger—clumsy, but fast—its wings dragging through buildings, tail toppling carts and awnings in its wake.
Kin ducked under a low arch just as a gout of fire erupted over his head, blackening the stone. The heat kissed his skin, but he kept moving, leaping over debris and skidding around a shattered market stall.
Suddenly, a wall to his right pulsed—veins of red thorns pushed outward through the stone and whipped toward him like lashes.
Kin snarled, slicing through the first vine with his blade. The second he evaded with a graceful aerial roll, coming up in stride. Another vine lashed at his legs—he Shouted, a precise Wuld propelling him into a forward vault, just enough to clear the reach.
The dragon roared again, this time enraged. It tried to take to the air, but slammed its wings awkwardly into either side of a narrow corridor, losing lift and grinding along the alley walls. Sparks flew as its claws gouged stone.
Kin reached the edge of a broken stairwell and launched himself down it three steps at a time, twisting midair to land on a tilted balcony. He rolled, pushed off the railing, and sprinted across the wooden planks as the beast tore around the bend.
A shadow passed over him.
He glanced up just in time to see the dragon leap from a rooftop, wings flared wide, crashing ahead of him to cut off his path.
Without hesitation, Kin shouted again, "Feim Zii Gron!"—his body turned ethereal, and he phased through the collapsing wreckage as the dragon landed with a thunderous slam.
He emerged behind it, gasping, sweat pouring down his brow.
Still alive. But not done yet.
He turned and ran once more, the beast snarling as it spun to follow—its claws grinding against the stone like nails on glass.
The chase had only just begun.
The streets below were pandemonium. Steel met bone as Minevi slammed her shield into the face of a charging Forsworn, knocking him off balance. Taviiah swept in from the side, her curved blade catching the man's throat in one smooth motion. She swung around, dashing low as another blade sliced the air above her. Minevi stepped in to parry with her shield and then brought her mace crashing down on the enemy's head, sending the Forsworn warrior flying off the bridge.
They fought back-to-back atop a stone walkway overlooking the main street. Below them, chaos reigned—flames, arrows, and screams. More Forsworn surged through the gates, wild-eyed and painted in blood, and among them towered several Briarhearts.
"Getting a little crowded!" Taviiah shouted, slicing a spear haft in two. She pivoted sharply, her golden-plated shin arcing upward into the Forsworn's temple. The woman crumpled without a sound, a heap of feathers and blood already forgotten as the next wave charged.
Minevi grunted, glancing toward the stairs. "We hold them here. Too many civilians below."
As if summoned by the challenge, another horde rounded the corner—dozens strong. The Briarhearts among them let out otherworldly howls that chilled the spine.
Taviiah clicked her tongue. "Well. Shit."
Minevi's weapons dipped. "This is unreal. We can't possibly stop that many."
The mob surged closer—faces twisted with madness, weapons raised high, shrieking like demons set loose.
She braced herself, dread rooting her feet to the stone.
Then—a flicker of motion behind her.
Eradros— now cloaked in the obsidian weave of Nightingale armor, his crescent mask catching firelight like a sliver of the void.
"Allow me."
He stepped forward from the smoke like a phantom, blade already drawn. On the opposite side of Minevi, a second figure emerged—identical, spectral, and wreathed in mist. It mirrored his every motion, each step in perfect sync.
Time stilled. Mist surged outward like a tide.
In an instant, Forsworn ranks shattered. Shadows of Eradros blinked into existence mid-strike—on rooftops, behind enemies, even emerging from the stone itself. Each landed a fatal blow and vanished before the bodies could fall.
Minevi stood frozen as bodies dropped in synchronized collapse.
Her gaze tracked the carnage—until it landed on him. The real Eradros, untouched, walking calmly through the whirlwind of death. Hood low, blade at his side, dripping crimson. He never lifted it. Never needed to.
Minevi's breath caught. Not awe. Not entirely.
Fear.
In that moment, he seemed like a harbinger of death, his steps rendering silent judgment. Soon, dozens lay in bloody ruin. The field of corpses stretched the entire street. The mist then retreated to his heels as the final clone dispersed. He slung his blade, flicking the blood free, then sheathed it without a word.
"Eradros?" she whispered. "What… have you done to yourself?"
Taviiah tugged her arm. "Hey—save the sight-seeing for after the war. We've got blades to bury."
Minevi blinked, snapping out of it. The vision of Eradros lingered, like a nightmare not quite shaken. But there was no time. The smoke still choked the air, and the screams hadn't stopped.
They rushed the lower streets together, weapons drawn—ready for anything that survived.
Passha fought alone in the shadow of a half-collapsed archway, bladed fingers swiping and piercing as she ducked and weaved between Forsworn attackers. Sweat slicked her brow, and her breathing was sharp—measured, but strained. She spun low, slashing across a knee, only to be shoved backward by another screaming zealot. She was an assassin, trained for precision kills—not brawls against mobs.
Three more closed in. Her foot caught on broken stone as she backpedaled, and her arms lifted out of pure instinct. A Briarheart raised his axe overhead.
Then came the roar.
A deep, thunderous bellow echoed through the street like a challenge hurled at the gods. The Forsworn froze.
Pride of Hirstaang burst from the alleyway in a blur of fur and fury, scattering enemies like kindling. Gavhelus rode atop the ghostly bear, both arms glowing with bound axes.
Behind him trailed a motley troop of Skullions—four or five skeleton warriors with chipped bones and comically mismatched armor. One ducked a wild swing by removing its own skull, letting a blade pass through the empty space before slamming it back on with a wobble.
Gav howled a laugh. "Now this is a proper brawl!"
He and the bear barreled into the crowd, cleaving through Forsworn like wheat. Passha ducked as a Briarheart flew past her, launched by Hirstaang's paw.
Of course he was enjoying this.
But the momentum snapped. One of the larger Briarhearts slammed shoulder-first into the bear, sending it reeling. The summoned beast roared as it slid into a nearby wall, then dispersed into mist.
Gav hit the ground hard and rolled, cursing as he came up beside Passha.
She glanced sideways. "Was all that really necessary?"
"C'mon luv. Had to make me entrance." Gav twirled his axes. "Now let's ruin their day."
The two readied themselves as a new wave of Forsworn charged down the street toward them. The Skullions scrambled into a clattering formation, somehow managing a crooked shield wall of mismatched bones and scattered helmets. A mage Skullion jabbed a staff through the ribcage of another, the gem at its tip glowing ominously as a fireball charged within—turning its companion into a makeshift arcane cannon. It then stepped back, covering nonexistent ears just as the spell launched.
The resulting explosion was absurdly massive—sending Forsworn flying in every direction.
Passha blinked. "Did they just—?"
Gav grinned. "Don't question it. Just follow their lead."
Their blades were in motion before the smoke cleared, carving through the chaos. Somehow, in the middle of their brutally efficient assault, the Skullions followed suit—one even mimicking Gav's swing like an eager understudy. Their team, it seemed, thrived in the madness.
Far above the burning streets of Markarth, atop a jagged stone balcony etched into the mountainside, Madanach stood watching.
His eyes burned beneath the horned cowl of the Armor of the Old Gods, arms folded as the city groaned and burned. Flames devoured the outer wards. Forsworn banners rose over broken stone. Screams echoed upward like the howls of tortured souls.
It was nearly done. The city was in utter disarray. His vengeance, long denied, soon to be made manifest in blood and ruin.
But something was off.
As he watched, Madanach's satisfaction began to sour. His men were faltering—falling to steel and sorcery in troubling numbers. The dragon, meant to be the vanguard of their destruction, was off course—chasing something. This wasn't the vision. This wasn't order. Instead of submission, his forces met fierce resistance: mist-born assassins, a spectral bear crashing through formations, and two women who fought like strangers to death. His fists clenched, knuckles whitening beneath the leather wraps.
A hagraven murmured beside him, eyes shut, feathers twitching with each violent tremor below.
Madanach said nothing. He only watched—until something unexpected pulled his gaze.
Something moved—too fast to be natural.
A blur of black and red streaked through the lower district. A boy. Dodging between broken arches, leaping balconies, vaulting through clouds of debris. And behind him—the dragon. Slashing, roaring, spewing fire and thorns in frustration.
Madanach leaned forward, squinting.
"Who…?"
Then came the roar of a bear. Mist flooding the alleys. Shadows carving down Forsworn.
"What in Oblivion is happening down there?" he hissed.
He watched as Kin disappeared beneath a collapsing bridge—only to reappear atop it, shouting a Word that shimmered in the air like broken thunder. A wave of pressure rippled outward, forming a translucent barrier just as thorned vines lashed toward him.
The vines struck the air with a violent snap—but shattered harmlessly against the shield.
Madanach narrowed his eyes.
The barrier burst outward in a pulse of force, flinging the severed thorns aside. It was a new technique—an adapted form of Unrelenting Force, reshaped into a spherical shield rather than a blast. Kin had learned to bend the thu'um not just outward, but around himself.
He wasted no time. A purple gauntlet of bound magicka shimmered into being over his missing arm, humming with energy. He dashed forward, sprinting up the steep face of a crumbling roof with impossible momentum.
Then—Wuld Nah Kest!—he vanished forward in a blur, a perfectly arced sprint through the air. He wound the fist back, taking aim as his body curved and sliced through the sky.
He met the dragon mid-flight.
The gauntlet collided with the beast's jaw like a divine hammer, releasing a shockwave that cracked the sky and rippled through the entire city. Stone trembled. The fires below bent under the pressure.
Madanach took a step back.
"…What are you?" he whispered.
Not just strong—gifted.
Madanach's frustration cooled into fascination.
The boy was not part of the prophecy.
Not yet.
He smiled, slow and curious.
Beside him, the hagraven cackled. "You see it too."
"Indeed," he murmured. "Perhaps a finer weapon yet lay within our grasp."
The shockwave from Kin's strike rippled through the ruins of Markarth, knocking loose what little structure remained in the upper tiers. Dust clouds rose like steam from cracked stone. The battle paused for the briefest of moments—every head turning toward the sky.
Taviiah stumbled to a stop, bracing herself against a wall as the sound rolled through her bones.
"Was that… really him?" she asked, breathless.
Minevi's eyes were already skyward.
Above them, the dragon spiraled wildly through the air, its flight path shattered. It collided with a tall stone tower, breaking it in half before crashing down into a courtyard in a roar of flame and ruin. It landed on its back, limbs twitching, wings torn and smoldering.
Gavhelus and Passha arrived a moment later, still blood-slicked and breathing hard.
"Someone tell me that was the kid," Gav said, panting. "Because I think I just felt my soul leave for a second."
Eradros appeared beside them from the thinning mist, his hood down now, eyes sharp.
Minevi glanced at him—just a flick of the eyes—but something unspoken passed between them.
Before he could speak, Passha's head turned sharply.
"Wait… where's the damned cat?"
They all paused, turning in every direction. Bhishiir was gone.
Far from the chaos, just outside the ruined walls of Markarth, Bhishiir staggered down a rocky path like a man half-drunk and half-dreaming.
A skooma bottle dangled from one hand, the other tucked in his coat as he muttered to himself.
"Fools… all of them," he said with a wet laugh. "Throwing themselves into the fire for a city already dead. Already doomed."
He swayed with each step, unbothered by the distant screams or the glow of dragonfire behind him. At the crest of a ridge, he paused—just long enough to cast a final glance back at the burning city. The screams. The war cries. Desperation climbing into the sky like smoke. It didn't shake him. It made him laugh. A dry, broken sound as he nearly stumbled off the path. Then he turned away again, like it was all just noise in the wind.
"They'll all burn. Won't they Spindle?"
The tiny spider clung to Bhishiir's shoulder, its delicate legs shifting with each unsteady step he took. Unlike its master, Spindle looked back—its attention fixed on the burning city with eerie focus. It twitched, tense, as if it still cared what happened to those left behind.
But Bhishiir just took another swig and cackled, disappearing down the winding path into the trees.
The rumblings from the crash had begone to settle. The dragon writhed in the rubble, wings twitching uselessly against broken stone. Its body jerked and spasmed, trying to rise, but the damage was too great—ribs shattered, limbs twisted. In its undead state, it felt no pain, only the fading signal of purpose. It hadn't yet realized it could no longer fight.
Then a shadow moved above.
High in the sky, suspended for a breathless moment against the light of the moons, Kin appeared.
The bound gauntlet on his arm dispersed into arcane mist as he raised his other hand. A new weapon shimmered into being—an ethereal blade of black glass and violet fire.
Wind howled around him.
Kin inhaled deeply, steadying his body mid-air. Then, with focused fury, he released a final shout:
"FUS—RO—DAH!"
The force rocketed him downward, spinning headfirst like a falling star. His blade caught the light as he spiraled, descending faster than gravity alone could allow.
He struck.
The blade plunged directly into the dragon's exposed briar heart.
A deep, visceral crack echoed through the city like a death knell. The dragon's body arched and reeled, a roar of agony cut short as its undead soul was severed. The dark magicka that filled its lungs dispersed with a violent burst of energy.
The vines that had once pierced through the stonework—twisting, writhing with unnatural life—froze mid-motion.
Then fell limp.
The Forsworn's power shattered. The city fell still.
The dragon was dead.
Their revolution… undone.
Or so it seemed.
Kin stepped off the dragon's corpse, chest heaving. The silence was deafening, broken only by the distant rumble of stone settling.
Far above, Madanach watched from the cliff, eyes glinting with triumph—and hunger.
"If the beast will not serve…" he murmured, extending a hand toward the fallen dragon. A chill wind stirred the ash around his feet, rising as if pulled by his will. He slowly curled his fingers into a clawed grip. "…then you will."
The hagraven began chanting.
Then—without warning—something moved.
From deep within the dragon's chest cavity, a withered thorned vine twitched. The remaining dark magicka in its body pulsed faintly, stirred by a whisper in the wind.
The vine snapped forward.
It lashed out like a serpent, striking Kin across the leg with a shallow cut. He grunted, recoiling from the sudden sting. The wound barely bled, but a dull heat spread under the skin. Before Kin could react, the vine withdrew—vanishing into a narrow crevice in the earth, as if it had never been there.
Far above, on the mountainside, the vine emerged again—slithering up the cliff face like a summoned thread. It reached the feet of the hagraven standing beside Madanach, delivering a single, gleaming droplet of blood.
She collected it in her claws, whispering in the old tongue as she raised it to her lips. Madanach stood still, eyes closed, feeling the shift in the air.
"It is done," the hagraven rasped.
Madanach opened his eyes. "Good. Then let us begin."
Kin staggered as he walked back toward the others, one hand pressed to his leg. Gav turned to him with a crooked grin.
"Hey! Hell of a punch, lad!"
But Kin didn't answer.
His eyes went wide. He dropped to his knees, clutching his skull as a surge of pain ripped through him.
"Kin?" Minevi stepped forward.
He screamed.
Visions tore through his mind—flashes of black trees, blood moons, whispering voices that spoke in no language he knew but somehow understood. The world swam around him. They tried to approach, but Kin waved them off.
"Stay back!" he gasped, teeth clenched, sweat pouring down his face as veins in his neck began to bulge.
Far above, Madanach raised a hand, tendrils of black energy coiling around it. He closed his fist.
Kin convulsed, falling forward. Gav rushed to help—
Kin tried to fight it, struggling to form words through the pain. "Gav-don't..."
His eyes flickered, panic and resistance colliding behind them. But his mouth opened anyway—his chest heaved involuntarily, and a force surged up from within.
Then, his body jerked violently—like a puppet yanked by an unseen hand—eyes flickering pale as the shout tore itself free from his throat, a gust of wind spiraling outward with a sudden, unnatural chill that made the flames nearby shudder.
"FUS!"
Gav was hurled backward, slamming into the stone wall of a nearby building with a bone-crunching impact.
"GAV!" Taviiah screamed.
Minevi ran forward, shouting over the roar of wind, "Kin! Fight it!"
But he couldn't.
Dark veins pulsed under his skin. His hands trembled. His voice was no longer fully his own.
Above them, Madanach watched, lips curled in a satisfied sneer.
"Bend to my will," he whispered, flicking two fingers through the air. A sudden gust spiraled upward from the ground, scattering ash in a circle around Madanach—like the land itself obeyed his call. "So that they may yet witness the true rebirth."
Kin's eyes flickered with pale light. For a moment, something behind them fought—like a trapped breath or a scream behind glass. But it faded. His arms went limp as he stood up slowly. His body moved as if lifted by strings. Madanach had taken full control.
And Kin was now his weapon of retribution.
CHAPTER END—