It had been two and a half months since Delphine's letter arrived—cryptic, urgent, and sealed with her mark. In that time, Kin and his companions had scoured taverns, bribed guards, and shaken loose every rumor they could from the shadows of Skyrim's western wilds. It wasn't easy tracking a man like Bhishiir; harder still when his trail led straight into Markarth's stone belly. Eventually, the truth surfaced: he'd been captured and imprisoned in Cidhna Mine, the city's infamous prison carved into the bones of the Reach. Now, with tensions in Markarth simmering to a boil, the party had enacted their plan—break in, retrieve the Khajiit, and get out before the city caught fire.
The grind of gears echoed through the walls of Cidhna Mine, feint and irregular—like a machine trying to breathe. The air was damp and metallic, thick with the scent of sweat and stone dust.
Kin pressed his back to the wall, heart pounding in his ears as torchlight wavered down the corridor. The guard's footsteps came slow and heavy, boots scraping against the rock floor, unaware of the three shadows clinging to the dark.
Across from him, Passha moved—quiet as smoke, quick as thought. She lunged forward, her bladed fingertips catching a glint of firelight before slipping into the guard's neck. He let out a strangled sound, more surprise than pain, before crumpling to the floor.
"Clear," she whispered, already dragging the body into the shadows like it weighed nothing.
Eradros exhaled through his nose, blade half-drawn as he stepped over the blood trail. "You sure he's even alive down here?"
Kin nodded, eyes sharp. "He'll be in the deep cells. They don't waste regular iron on someone like Bhishiir."
They pressed deeper into the mine, shadows curling around them as the tunnel narrowed. The walls were streaked with soot and old blood. Hollow-eyed prisoners, who weren't Forsworn, stared without seeing as they passed, no words—just the scrape of chains and the hollow sound of hope long gone.
"Here," Kin said, stopping at a rusted iron door bound with rune-charred locks. He reached for the key he'd taken off the overseer's belt—then froze.
The door was already open.
Inside, Bhishiir sat cross-legged on the floor, ankles shackled, arms bound in cold-forged steel. He'd escaped on his own before, forcing the guards to use sturdier equipment. They weren't happy about it either. His face was bruised, one eye swollen half shut. But his grin still worked.
"Look, Spindle… this one has visitors," he said, head tilting like a curious bird. "What an odd assortment, too."
Eradros raised a brow. "Right. Unstable... checks out."
"Oh! This one is reminded of a joke," Bhishiir said brightly, snapping his fingers like a showman. "How did it go…?"
"He's out of it," Passha hissed, already checking the corners of the cell. "We're on our own. Let's get to it."
"A Redguard, a Bosmer, and an Argonian walk into a pub… no, wait." He tapped his chin with his bound wrists, lost in thought. "This one never heard the punchline. Apologies."
Eradros shot Kin a glance—a silent signal. Plan B might be needed.
Bhishiir's eyes drifted upward, past the roof of the cell, past anything physical. He wasn't seeing them. He was somewhere else.
Eradros knelt anyway, pulling tools from his belt. "We're getting you out. Do you understand?"
Bhishiir blinked once, then focused. "This one needs his coat." His voice was calm, almost distant. "It is crucial to my work. Do you understand?"
"A coat?" Kin echoed, brows twitching. "Seriously? Now?"
Bhishiir shrugged, the chains rattling. "Evidence box. Northeast wing. Second level. Labeled 'Dangerous.' This one is flattered."
"Don't be," Passha said flatly. "They probably meant the stench."
Bhishiir chuckled. "You'll sing a different tune once this one is dressed. Here—Spindle will show you the way."
From the shadows crept a small, gleaming shape—an automaton spider no bigger than a skeever's skull. Its bronze legs clicked delicately against the stone as it pointed a spindly limb down the corridor before skittering off.
"That thing your pet or something?" Eradros asked, helping the Khajiit to his feet.
Bhishiir grinned through bloody teeth. "He is more like a son. Look at him—same dashing features."
Passha rolled her eyes as she slipped out of the cell, scanning the corridor. "We should hurry… or we'll lose the damn spider."
The four of them made their way through the prison using the anarchy of the Forsworn revolt to hide their steps. The prison was in chaos, leaving most of its posts unmanned. Guards were scattered. Sounds of them clashing with the prisoners echoed loud through every corner.
A sharp hiss of steam filled the room as Bhishiir threw open the locker, tugging the heavy garment from its hooks. It was more armor than coat—stitched leather crisscrossed with copper piping, pressure valves, and humming Dwarven gyros. The sleeves ended in twin collapsible crossbows, which he primed with a single flick of the wrist.
"Come here my sweet…," he whispered, slipping it on like a priest donning holy robes.
Eradros watched him work. "Remind me why we we're risking all this for a coat?"
Bhishiir clapped the final pressure gauge into place, the needle twitching into the red. "Because none of you know how to rig a thermal trap, defuse tonal locks, or kill a man with compressed steam. Not that this one holds it against you."
Eradros shrugged. "Fair enough."
Bhishiir adjusted a valve, and for once, the room was quiet.
Then—footsteps. Fast. Heavy.
"Company," Passha muttered, already stepping toward the door.
It burst open before she reached it. Two guards rushed in, blades drawn and faces wild.
"Prisoners—stop right—"
But Bhishiir was already moving. He lifted two fingers and pointed at the first man, the crossbow on his sleeve flaring out with a sharp mechanical snap. He pulled one finger back like a trigger—thunk—a thin bolt fired, burying into the guard's shoulder.
The man stiffened mid-charge. His body locked rigidly in place before toppling over like a dropped wooden doll.
The second guard hesitated—just long enough.
Thunk.
Another bolt. Another body hitting the floor in eerie, frozen silence.
Bhishiir casually blew a wisp of steam off his wrist. "Just a paralysis agent," he said, stepping over the guards with a smirk. "Won't hold long. Time to go."
He walked out first, unbothered, his coat hissing with every step. Spindle followed behind, hopping neatly over the stiffened guards with mechanical grace.
Passha glanced at the frozen guards, then at Bhishiir's back as he strolled away. "We're definitely going to need a leash for that one."
Eradros snorted. "The spider or the mad scientist?"
"Yes." She replied, following behind Bhishiir.
Eradros and Kin glanced at each other as Passha exited the room, slightly confused by her answer. They both shrugged, then made their exit as well.
Just as they neared the exit, a sound rolled through the mine—deep, wet, and unnatural. A thunderous crash, like the mountain itself had cracked its ancient spine. The walls shuddered. Dust rained from the ceiling. The torches along the corridor flared and flickered violently.
They froze.
"That… wasn't a cave-in," Kin said.
"No," Bhishiir murmured, eyes narrowing. "That came from above."
They emerged through a maintenance shaft clinging to the edge of the city. The sky was veiled in thick smoke, and the clamor of violence rang like a bell in a canyon. Markarth was in flames.
Stone terraces burned orange and red. Forsworn war cries echoed from the rooftops. Arrows rained from above. Screams echoed in the choked air.
Forsworn banners whipped in the wind, splattered with blood.
But that wasn't what stopped them cold.
Something massive moved along the mountainside—something scaled and ancient. A shadow passed overhead.
Then it landed.
A dragon.
Its wings cracked the sky like thunder. But its chest bore a wound. Where fire and fury should've lived, there were thorns. Thick, pulsating briars coiled around exposed ribs, their tips glowing with an unnatural red light.
Its eyes gleamed with madness.
It opened its maw and roared.
The sound was wicked. Like a hymn gutted and rewoven with barbed wire—sacred made profane, and then forced to howl.
Passha didn't move. "…That's not one of Alduin's."
Kin's mouth went dry. "Then what the hell is it?"
Bhishiir didn't speak. Not at first. His grin was gone.
Then, softly:
"Madness…They've given it a briarheart."
Earlier That Day
The sun was warm but the wind was chilled with eeriness.
It bit beneath Gavhelus' armor like a whisper through a graveyard, dry and hollow and full of something unspoken. The stone veins of Markarth were pulsing today—he could feel it through his boots, like the mountain itself was holding its breath.
Besides the clinking of his armor, he moved quietly behind Minevi, who was clad in gleaming steel plate with a red sash trailing like a banner. Her gaze was sharp, her posture alert, as if she could feel the city bracing for impact. Taviiah walked beside her, lean and observant, dressed in white cloth trimmed with gold. Her short golden dreadlocks were braided tight against her scalp, and a fur-lined cloak hung from her shoulders, matching the trim of her boots. A neat row of knives lined her belt, each one balanced for use.
The three of them stood on the upper tier of Markarth, watching the city simmer beneath its stone arches. Tension laced every corner—merchants barked half-heartedly, guards patrolled in pairs, and civilians kept their heads low. The Forsworn had been haunting the city with escalating acts of rebellion—random stabbings, sudden explosions, brutal ambushes. Each strike felt like a drumbeat to something louder.
Now it felt like something bigger was coming. Like the pressure was too high and the cracks were beginning to spread.
They waited in silence, hoping for word from Eradros and the others. The infiltration of Cidhna Mine had already begun. Either Bhishiir was free by now—or they'd all be buried beneath stone and steel.
Minevi stood with arms crossed, her weight balanced on her back foot. Taviiah said little, idly tapping the pommel of a knife while tracking a pair of nervous locals haggling too aggressively in the alley below.
Gavhelus couldn't shake the feeling crawling up his spine. Not just the tension of a city ready to ignite—but something colder. Deeper.
"Something's off," he muttered, almost to himself.
Minevi glanced back. "You look like you're about to puke."
"I need a minute."
Taviiah tilted her head, concerned. "You alright?"
"Yeah," he lied, already peeling away toward a narrow side street. "Just gonna get some air without all the... people."
Minevi let him go with a wave, but her eyes lingered. She trusted him to return—but not without trouble.
The deeper Gavhelus walked into the city's pathways, the quieter everything became.
He passed shrines, fountains, and guards with sharp eyes—but not a whisper of spirit stirred here. That was the part that rattled him. For hours now, the dead had been restless. Whispers in corners. Cold spots where none should be. He'd felt them everywhere today—lurking just behind the veil.
But here?
Nothing.
Like the spirits avoided this place.
He turned a corner and found himself standing before an old house wedged into the cliffside. Its wooden frame sagged against ancient Dwemer stone like a corpse slumped on a throne. Windows boarded. Door half-rotted. The kind of place rats went to die.
And yet… it called to him. Quietly. Patiently.
He leaned against the stone wall opposite, rolling his shoulder and breathing through the headache pressing behind his eyes. The buzzing in his ears had almost settled when—
"You there!"
Gavhelus opened one eye.
A man in Vigilant robes strode up, panting, clutching a mace tight in his gloved hands.
"You're not from here," the man said. "I can tell. The corruption hasn't touched you yet."
"Flattering." Gav straightened. "You always run up on people like this?"
The man didn't blink. "This house—I've been asking around about it. I'm Tyranus, Vigilant of Stendarr. I've been watching it for weeks. Screams, shadows, doors that open on their own. No one stays long."
Gav's expression flattened. "So naturally, your first idea is to go inside."
"I wasn't going to. Not alone. But then I saw you."
Gav frowned. "Me? Oh no…you've got the wrong—"
Tyranus took a step closer, eyes feverish. "You have... a presence. You look like you can handle yourself in a scrap. I need someone like you."
Gav snorted. "Look…I'm just a guy trying to enjoy the silence. Pick someone else."
But the house door creaked open.
All on its own.
Gavhelus turned toward it slowly. The dark beyond the threshold seemed to breathe.
Tyranus looked at him, almost pleading. "Please. Just help me look. If I'm wrong, we walk away."
The headache returned—sharp and sudden.
"Fine," Gav muttered, against his better judgment. "Let's get this over with."
Inside the House
The door groaned shut behind them, sealing out the light. A pulse of cold swept through the air, carrying with it a scent of rot and rusted iron. Gavhelus stepped carefully over cracked floorboards, his eyes narrowing in the dimness. There were no windows. No wind. Just the whisper of old wood breathing.
He stepped ahead of Tyranus, drawn by something he couldn't name. His footfalls slowed as the shadows thinned around a jagged stone altar jutting up from the floor like a broken fang. There was no dust. No cobwebs. As if something had cleaned the space for a guest.
That's when he heard the voice.
"You've found me, little wolf. I am Molag Bal... Prince of Domination.... The Harvester of Souls."
It wasn't sound—it was sensation. Like oil poured directly into the crevices of his mind. Gav's fingers twitched. His breath fogged, even though the room wasn't cold enough for that. He knew, in that moment, that this was what the souls were avoiding.
"You, wolf-blooded. You will serve."
Gavhelus scowled.
"Kill him."
He turned to see Tyranus lingering near the door, mace still in hand.
"Excuse me?" Gav said aloud, blinking.
"Offer him to me. Break his bones on my altar."
"Hard pass," Gav said firmly. "Try hauntin' someone less allergic to orders."
Tyranus took a step forward, gaze flicking to Gav's eyes. He froze. Suddenly terror was written all over his face. His lips quivered as he struggled to find words.
"What... what are you?"
Gav didn't answer. He didn't need to.
The mirror behind the altar warped, revealing a reflection that wasn't quite his own—elongated fangs, slitted golden eyes, black claws curving from his fingers.
Tyranus gasped and stumbled back. "You're a beast!"
"Let him see you for what you are. Let him fear it."
Tyranus raised his mace. "You tricked me! I should've known!"
Gav backed off a step. "Calm down would ya? It's this bloody house. It wants you to be afraid."
Tyranus couldn't hear reason anymore. Gavhelus suddenly looked like the monster he was train to hunt. His survival instincts had taken over. With a panicked shout, he charged.
Steel whistled through the shadows. Gav ducked the first swing, caught a glancing blow to the ribs with the second. Pain flared hot. The beast inside him snarled in response.
He growled through gritted teeth. "I said STOP DAMMIT!."
It happened fast. One sidestep. A grip on the cloak. A vicious shove. Tyranus crashed headfirst into the altar with a sharp crack. He collapsed without a sound.
Silence.
Gavhelus stood still, eyes to the heavens in frustration. He'd played right along with the voice's will.
"Beautiful." The voice coiled with pleasure. "Even when you resist, you still serve. That's the nature of my gifts."
The altar groaned. A panel slid open, and from its depths, a mace rose—twisted and dark, covered in etched faces frozen mid-scream. It pulsed with a deep crimson glow.
"Take it, Gavhelus. You've earned it."
Gav stared at the weapon, then at Tyranus' still form.
"Accidental murders are the worst," he muttered. "But I guess this'd happen anyway with a vigilant. Quicker still had he been a Silverhand."
He reached out, grasped the mace.
It was cold. Too cold. Yet it fit his grip like it had been waiting for him. He could feel the weapon's thirst. It almost pined for souls in his hand. He knew this was no ordinary mace.
"Sweet," he muttered, voice flat.
He slung it over his back and turned toward the door.
Later...
He rejoined the others in the upper plaza, the mace wrapped in cloth and slung low. Minevi was the first to notice.
"That's new," she said, eyeing the bulk beneath the cloth. "Don't tell me you bought that."
"Definitely paid for it. Wasn't with gold."
Taviiah tilted her head. "What does that mean?"
Gavhelus didn't slow. "Rather not talk about it."
Then his steps halted.
A shadow swept over them. The sun vanished.
They looked up.
A dragon—wings massive and grey as lifeless flesh—broke from the clouds above Markarth, circling once like a vulture.
Then it dove.
And all hell followed.
Above the chaos, where the stone terraces narrowed into jagged ridgelines, a figure stood silhouetted against the firelit sky. Madanach, the Forsworn King, raised his arms before the panicked masses below. His antlered crown caught the light of the flames, making him look every bit the god of vengeance the Reachmen claimed him to be.
Around him stood Forsworn warriors, painted in blood and warpaint, and beside them, hunched and crackling with dark magic, stood a twisted Hagraven. Her claws curled around a briar staff, and her voice whispered incantations into the air.
Below, the people of Markarth screamed. Rocks tumbled from above as the dragon's weight shook the mountainside. Kin and the others could see it all from the prison's hidden exit, the elevation giving them a perfect view of the nightmare unfolding.
Bhishiir's focus shifted. He stepped forward, narrowing his eyes at the man atop the ridge. "It's him," he muttered. "That old wolf. This one always knew you were stirring something… but binding a dragon to your own hatred? It's lunacy, even for you."
"What aren't you telling us?" Eradros stepped to Bhishiir's side. "Who is that man?"
Bhishiir turned to the three of them, all sobered up now, face deadly serious.
"We were cellies, briefly. The man you see… is known as Madanach, King of the Forsworn. And all of this… is his doing."
Madanach's voice rang out—as if magically amplified, and strong enough to cut through the panic.
"People of Markarth! Do not mistake this for chaos. This… is justice!"
He pointed a finger down at the city, eyes alight with righteous fury. "For decades, you've lived fat in your stolen stone halls, drinking silver-blooded wine while my people rot beneath your boots!"
The Hagraven turned to him, hissing softly as she raised the twisted breastplate of ancient bone and bark. She fitted it over his chest with gnarled fingers—the Armor of the Old Gods—a symbol of the Reach's darkest, oldest strength.
Kin's fist clenched. The screams of the people rattled through every bone in his body, echoing the day Alduin first attacked. But this time was different. He wasn't shaken, or fearful. Even Passha noticed the boy's calm despite the hell unfolding in that moment.
Madanach lifted his arms as the wind howled and the dragon roared above. "Tonight, the Reach remembers its name. Tonight… we take it back!"
From the mountain ridges, Forsworn warriors screamed their war cries and descended like a flood.
The dragon loosed a second roar, and with it came something far worse—thorns. Great, blackened vines burst from the stone streets and cracked marble walkways, twisting up from beneath the city like roots reclaiming a corpse.
Gavhelus stood frozen amid the scrambling crowd, his hand hovering near the hilt of his new mace. "This isn't a revolt," he muttered. "It's a bloody genocide."
Beside him, Minevi scanned the chaos with wide eyes. "Where in Oblivion is the Legion…?" she whispered.
A merchant shoved his own daughter aside to scramble under a broken cart. A priest of Dibella stood frozen, whispering prayers through bloody lips.
Markarth was no longer under siege.
It was being razed.
And somewhere deep in its crumbling bones, the Reach remembered its name—and made the city bleed for forgetting it.
Eradros stepped forward, eyes locked on the firelit skyline. "We've got to get down there. Gav, Minevi—they're probably trapped in the chaos."
Bhishiir's brow furrowed. "Why is the plan not to leave? Have you seen that thing? What exactly are we meant to do against their undead pet?"
Then—a gust of wind.
It rolled over them, sharp and unnatural, like the breath before a storm. They turned to see Kin, engulfed in spiraling winds, cloak billowing as he gripped the hilt of his sword.
"Leave the dragon to me," he said, voice quiet but cutting through the noise like steel.
Bhishiir blinked. "You can't be serious. You'll be incinerated before you even—"
"I'm afraid he is," Passha said, stepping forward, cracking her bladed fingers one by one. "But fear not, old man. The one standing before you isn't just a boy—he's Dragonborn. And we follow his lead."
Eradros gave Kin a look and nodded once. "Jobs changed. We make our way into the city and stop that army. Kin… the rest is up to you."
Kin didn't answer. His eyes stayed locked on the dragon as it circled again.
He muttered under his breath, the words lost to the wind—but his stance said the rest.
No more fear.I've seen fire before.
This time, it sees me.
CHAPTER END—