Chapter 2

Neldren lay motionless, her gaze fixed on the wooden ceiling of the hut. That night, people had come to see her father. She had heard their voices. One spoke in a deep voice, and the other she recognized immediately. It was the same man who had frightened her in the field the day before.

The hut was dark. Until her eyes adjusted, she could only make out the outlines of objects. Her father had left with the men during the night. She knew this because he had done it before. When she was very little, he used to return only early in the morning. For a long time, Neldren believed her father went off to fight monsters — fearsome dragons and terrible trolls. She liked to imagine he was a lone hero, not seeking glory, but noble in heart. She probably liked to think that way because all her life she had known only this hut and their farm, and she wanted at least one of them to have another life — a life full of adventure and feats.

Later, she learned that her father wasn’t a hero. He found things — for people who weren’t exactly good. But still, when people talked about him, they did so with respect. They said he could get almost anything. And Neldren was proud of that.

‘There’s nothing to be proud of,’ her father would say. ‘I don’t do this because I chose to. I do it because I have no other choice. One farm won’t feed us. But I want you to have a choice. One day.’

Now she understood what those words meant. Or at least, she thought she did.

With a rustle, Neldren slid off the straw mattress and walked over to the small, soot-stained window. Grey clouds blanketed the entire horizon, from the eastern fields to the western mountains. The lower edge of the clouds was starting to lighten, and Neldren realized that dawn was breaking. Her father usually returned before now.

Neldren stepped outside and made her way to the ramshackle shed. In the straw of a makeshift stall stood a donkey, head lowered.

‘Good morning, Bear,’ Neldren said, stroking the donkey’s long muzzle.

She had named him Bear when she was seven. Her father had insisted it wasn’t a proper name for a donkey, but over time, he got used to it.

‘Are you worried about Papa too?’

She cleaned the stall and forked in some fresh straw.

‘I’ll be back soon. I need to feed the chickens.’

The work took her all morning until midday. She tidied the house and made baked potatoes with onions, but the second bowl sat untouched. Her father didn’t return in the morning, nor even by noon. A growing unease formed a lump in her throat. She tried to push the thoughts away, but they clung to her like the venom of frostbite spiders — the more time passed, the colder they felt.

After noon, the sky turned pitch black. Neldren kept expecting rain to break, and the waiting was the worst part. She returned to the stall and led Bear outside. She had never hitched the donkey to the cart herself before, but she had seen her father do it many times. After half an hour of fumbling with the harness, she finally managed it and set off down the track toward the town.

Along the way, a few farmers passed by, returning from town with their goods sold. They gave her suspicious glances but, as usual, kept their thoughts to themselves.

After a few miles, the town rose into view beyond the hill. The cart creaked as it climbed the steep stone bridge and rolled up to the tall gates.

Several guards stood at the entrance. One of them, clad in iron armor, raised a hand, and Neldren pulled the cart to a stop. He stepped forward.

‘What’s your business in the town?’ he called.

‘I came for my father.’

He gave her a hard look and glanced into the cart.

‘What are you hauling?’

‘Nothing.’

He circled the cart, looked her over once more, and reluctantly nodded to the other guards. Neldren flicked the reins and entered the town.

Just inside the gates, market stalls stood crowded together — thinned out now, many half-empty. Farmers were packing up their goods. Neldren drove on, passing under several stone arches, guiding the cart up the slope. Here, the narrow stone-paved streets began, flanked by tall houses with low-hanging balconies. She and her father rarely came to this part of town.

‘Hey!’ someone shouted. ‘Hey! No carts allowed here. Leave it and walk.’

Another guard was approaching. This one wore steel armor, with the town’s crest emblazoned on a cloth over his chestplate.

‘Tie your mule and go on foot if you want to keep going,’ he called again.

Neldren obeyed. She put the cart against the eastern wall and tied Bear to a wooden post.

‘Do you know where I might find my father?’ she asked.

‘What?’ the guard grimaced. ‘Try the tavern. Probably lying in the muck somewhere, like a pig.’

‘My father isn’t like that,’ Neldren snapped.

‘I don’t care. All Morichi are the same,’ he muttered and spat on the ground.

She had heard that word before. That’s what they called her people — with contempt. She clenched her teeth but said nothing.

Climbing the hill, she reached the upper tier of the town. People bustled past without noticing her. What should she do? Where should she go to find her father? Neldren walked further down the street, reading the signs on the buildings.

“Saati’s Flowers,” “Dorm’s Forge,” the “Yellow Poppy” tavern.

Neldren stopped in front of the tavern door. She knew the guard’s words about her father were lies — but he was right about one thing: if something had happened, someone in the tavern might know.

She pushed open the shackled wooden door and stepped into the dim room. The half-empty tavern looked pitiful. Fat stubs of candles burned weakly on the broad oak tables. At this time of day, there were no regulars. Just a few farmers and a couple of city guards picking at a meager meal. Neldren walked to the counter, where a Redguard woman was dozing, and gently tapped the surface with her knuckles.

The woman slowly opened her eyes and looked at the girl in silence.

‘Excuse me. I wanted to ask if you’ve seen my father. His name is Naeros.’

The woman looked at Neldren for a long time, trying to make sense of the words, then finally spoke slowly:

‘No, child. No dark elves came here today. Or yesterday.’

Neldren lowered her head and was about to leave when the woman called her again.

‘Wait. Come here.’

Neldren stepped closer.

‘Go back outside, follow the street down past the crypt, all the way to the end. On the right, by the wall, you’ll see the barracks. If you're lucky, there’ll be a guard there — one with a thick black mustache. You’ll know him. Ask him about your father. Don’t bother with the others. He’s the only one who might actually help.’

Neldren looked into the dark face of the woman and, for the first time, saw compassion upon it. She did not know what had moved the woman to help her. Perhaps she had simply pitied a child. Or perhaps, being a Redguard, she too knew what it was to live as an outcast for being unlike the rest. Either way, Neldren was deeply grateful, though she said nothing in return.

She stepped out of the tavern and walked down the street as the woman had instructed. After a time, the crypt came into view — a small stone entrance adjoining the temple. Any other would have passed by without so much as noticing. But Neldren saw the ancient stonework, so different from the rest of the town, and felt the chill of elder days drifting in the air.

She did not know which god was venerated there, nor who lay entombed within, but the place invoked a primal fear. She passed it by and walked on toward the outer wall, turning right where the street bent past the sewers. Soon, the barracks came into view.

Only one soldier sat at the entrance, perched upon a barrel. He leaned on a short spear, head bowed to his chest, as if in a doze. When Neldren drew near, he stirred and spoke.

‘What is it, child?’

‘I seek my father. Naeros.’

The soldier gave her a long look, and his expression darkened.

‘Wait here.’

He left the spear by the door and stepped inside. Neldren waited patiently, but a heavy sense of impending disaster already clutched her heart. At last, the mustachioed soldier returned.

‘You will need to come with me.’

‘You know where my father is?’ she asked, hope trembling in her voice.

‘I cannot say for certain. I do not know the name. You will have to see for yourself.’ He took up his spear, and together they walked.

When Neldren again felt the wind that bit to the bone, the foreboding within her grew cold and solid. The soldier climbed the short steps to the crypt and knocked several times upon the heavy door with the iron knocker. After a moment, the door creaked open and a priest stood before them — bald of head, with a short grey beard.

‘Procyon, we need to look upon the Dunmer,’ the soldier said quietly.

The priest’s eyes flicked fearfully to Neldren, then he bowed his head and led them inside.

The entryway was small and dim. The ceiling hung low, and the air was thick with the scent of embalming oil and something else — something foul, that turned the stomach.

‘This way,’ the priest said curtly, leading them to a stone table covered in rags. ‘I have not yet begun.’

The soldier stepped forward and lifted one corner of the cloth. He looked at Neldren with a grim face, then stepped aside. Only then did she see that a body lay upon the table.

He uncovered the face of the deceased and waited for Neldren to come closer.

The flickering candlelight danced upon the hollow cheeks. Neldren approached slowly and gazed into the lifeless face. She knew at once the black hair, matted with dried blood. The sharp, strong features. The arched brows. Her father's body lay before her.

A dark stain had spread across the cloth upon his chest. Without thinking, Neldren reached for it. The priest made as if to stop her, then withdrew his hand.

She pulled back the covering, and the gash was revealed — a deep, cleaving wound from throat to belly. The room was filled with the smell of rotten meat. The soldier turned his face, covering it with a sleeve, but Neldren didn't notice the smell or the horrible sight of the wound. She stared into the pale, grey flesh, the clotted blood, the broken ribs that jutted from the ruin of his chest. She said nothing.

Around his neck, she saw the ash-grey stone — her father’s amulet. She reached for the embalming knife and, with a steady hand, cut the cord, clasping the stone in her palm.

‘I shall prepare him for burial,’ the priest said at last.

‘No,’ Neldren replied, her voice low but firm. ‘I will take him.’

The soldier looked into her face and saw no child in front of him. There were no tears on Neldren's face, no shadow of confusion, only steely determination. She remembered her father’s tales of Veloth, of their people’s history and their gods. She knew well where they buried men like her father — in the hard, dry earth beyond the town wall, where the river’s waters washed the crumbling slope. He had shown her that place. She would not allow him to be forgotten there. Neldren could not bury him in Necrom, but she would lay him to rest in a place known only to her. To keep part of his soul close. To let him return one day.

‘My cart is on the lower tier. May I ask one last thing of you?’ she said, her voice near a whisper, and for a brief moment, the soldier saw again the violet eyes of a defenseless child.

The soldier turned to the priest.

‘We will help you,’ the priest said.

They wrapped the body in linen and lifted it onto a bier. The corpse was heavy, and the priest had to call upon a young acolyte for aid. Together, they bore him out of the crypt and down the road. Neldren followed behind, blind to the curious stares of passersby.

It looked, from a distance, like a small and silent funeral procession.

They passed the tavern, turned right, and descended the hill. Neldren caught sight of the guard who had barred her from driving the cart. He stood upon the wall, mouth slightly open, watching as the priest and men laid the body upon the cart. Neldren cast him a scornful look, and her eyes were aspic-black.

When all was done, the girl climbed into the cart and took the reins.

‘I thank you,’ she said quietly, then fell silent. Her voice at last began to tremble and break.

The priest stepped forward and gently took her hand.

‘I know you honor other gods, but I can't help it,’ he pulled a long amulet from the sleeve of his tunic that looked like a rosary. It was strung with beads carved from redheart wood, ending in an eight-pointed star. In its center lay a red agate, dark and cloudy like blood. ‘Please — take it.’

Neldren took the amulet and snapped the reins. The cart rolled down the slope with a creak, heading for the main gate.

She passed the now-empty market stalls, rode past the guards, and crossed the stone bridge. The dark sky at last broke open, and heavy drops began to fall — beating down the dust of the road, watering the dry fields.

Neldren watched the birds darting across the plain and listened to the gentle shifting of her father’s body in the cart. She was taking him home. He had cared for her all these years. Now it was her turn to care for him.

The rain came harder, washing the tears from her face.

She brought him to the eastern edge of the field. The earth was softer there, and a tree grew nearby — the same tree that had often shaded him from the burning sun while he worked. Neldren took a shovel from the house and dug until nightfall. Under the driving rain, she worked until her hands bled. Then she dug like a beast, clawing the black, wet earth, breathing in the raw scent of death.

Bear, still harnessed to the cart, waited patiently, silently watching her labor.

***

Three nights later, a knock came upon the priest’s door. Procyon opened it, expecting to see Vantius and to give him a good scolding, but froze with his mouth open. In the doorway stood a Dunmer girl. Procyon knew her at once.

‘What is it you seek, child?’ the priest rasped. He was ashamed to admit it, even to himself, but the child frightened him. Her violet eyes gazed at him, steady and appraising.

‘I came here three days ago. I took my father’s body,’ Neldren said calmly. ‘You gave me this.’ She held out the amulet with the red stone.

‘The Amulet of Arkay,’ Procyon nodded. ‘Would you come inside? I’m alone here.’

Neldren scanned the small antechamber of the crypt, her eyes wary, as though she did not trust him. Only then did she step within.

‘Let us move to my quarters,’ Procyon said as he shut the door behind her. ‘The scents here are ill-suited for a proper talk. I’ve just made some stew. You must be hungry.’

Neldren gave no reply, but followed him nonetheless.

They entered a yet smaller room, and Neldren took the chair nearest to the door. She did not trust the priest, and though Procyon saw this, he made no show of it.

In the far corner stood a cot with a stone nightstand and a low wooden cupboard. At the room’s center burned a hearth. A cast-iron cauldron, set upon a rod, simmered with a stew of carrots, onions, and rabbit meat. Procyon ladled a portion into a clay bowl and offered the steaming broth to Neldren.

‘It’s not the finest brew, but I do what I can,’ the priest offered a sheepish smile.

‘I’ve come to speak of this,’ the girl said firmly, again holding out the amulet.

‘It is but an amulet,’ he shrugged. ‘If it is Arkay you wish to know, I will tell you what I know. But only once we’ve eaten.’

Neldren studied the priest a moment longer, then nodded.

The stew scalded the tongue, yet she ate quickly. Too greasy, scarcely salted, it reminded her of the food she had once cooked herself, back when her father left her alone while he worked the fields. In time, she’d come to cook better than he ever had. She drank the burning broth so the priest would think her tears came from the heat. Neldren wiped her eyes with her sleeve and placed the bowl on the floor, nodding in thanks.

‘Tell me of Arkay,’ she said at last. ‘Is it true he discovered the Elixir of Life?’

Procyon was taken aback by the question, but then understanding dawned, and his face darkened.

‘I do not think your father—’ he began, but the girl cut him off.

‘If you will not tell me, I will leave.’

Procyon saw the resolve in her gaze and relented.

‘Very well. The amulet I gave you serves only as a ward. It may shield you from harm or divert a small danger—but not always. It cannot restore life. But should you worship Arkay, he shall watch over you.’

‘I worship none,’ Neldren said firmly.

‘None at all?’ the priest was surprised. ‘Your father—surely, like all…’ he hesitated, ‘like all Dark Elves, he worshipped Veloth. And you do not?’

‘Father said Veloth taught mortals to bargain with the gods. That was a mistake.’

‘There are good gods, and there are evil ones,’ Procyon offered.

‘You are wrong,’ Neldren said with equal firmness. ‘There are no good gods. You think them above us only because they possess more power?’

‘They do possess far more—and they use it to aid us.’

‘Then why did they not aid my father?’ Neldren looked at the priest without flinching. She sought no answer, no rebuke, nor to shake his faith. She asked the question that has burned in mortal hearts for ages. Few dare to speak it aloud.

‘They care nothing for us. They help only when we give them something in return. How is that not trade? There are no good or evil gods. They are all Daedra.’

Procyon gave no reply.

‘I worship no gods. I have no gods,’ Neldren continued in that same unwavering tone. ‘Tell me of Arkay.’

‘Very well. Arkay is the son of Akatosh, the great Dragon of Time. He is the god of the cycle—of life and death.’

‘Is it true he discovered the Elixir of Life?’

‘No.’

At that, Neldren’s eyes flashed with hatred.

‘You lie?’ she asked quietly.

‘Why would I lie to you, child? Arkay never discovered the Elixir of Life. He came close to unveiling the secret of life and death.’

‘What do you mean, “came close”?’

‘Once, he was not a god. He was mortal, as we are, and studied life and death until he found himself upon its threshold.’

‘He was not a god?’ Neldren leaned forward, intrigued. ‘Then where did all his power come from?’

‘There are many lesser gods who once were mortal. Veloth, whom your father followed, was once but a man. In mortals, there lies power no less than in some of the gods. One must only know how to wield it.’

The fire returned to the girl’s eyes.

‘Then we, too, may become gods—and wield their power,’ she whispered. ‘So he never did learn the secret of life and death?’

‘That, only he could answer. But mortals cannot meet the gods too soon.’

Neldren was made to speak, but Procyon raised a hand.

‘I understand you, child. I understand your longing. But I fear neither I nor any god can aid you. The teachings of Arkay’s priests are not of elixirs of life. They speak of life and death. Without death, there would be no life—and without life, no death. We come into this world to learn, and in the end return to whence we came. Without that precious experience, our souls would never grow. And I fear that is the very secret of life and death that you seek.’

Neldren thought for a moment. Her gaze seemed to fade for a moment, but then rekindled again.

‘There are more than gods in this world,’ she said with conviction. The words displeased the old priest.

‘Aye, much else there is,’ Procion said.

‘What do you say to this?’ Neldren asked, removing a stone from her neck.

She held it out in her open palm. Ash-grey, bound with a worn cord to be worn as an amulet, it looked like a cheap Moriche trinket. But the moment the priest held it, he understood the power sealed within.

‘An empty soul…’ Procyon murmured. He meant to close his hand—but the girl pulled the string, and the stone was hers again.

‘What do you mean, “empty soul”?’ she demanded sternly.

‘A rare soul gem,’ Procyon said without thinking.

Afterward, he would reflect that he should never have told the girl all he knew. He still could not believe the treasure he had just held.

‘An ordinary gem can hold but one soul of a certain kind. This one may take in any number—be they of creatures, or…’

‘Men,’ Neldren nodded, finishing for him.

‘Where did you get it?’ the priest reached again, but her gaze—black as nightshade—stopped him. Procyon snatched his hand back, as if he'd reached for a serpent.

‘From my father,’ Neldren said softly.

‘It is a priceless thing. For those who study the higher mysteries of magic, it is beyond value. I can help you sell it—’

‘I will not sell it,’ Neldren said at once. ‘It is mine. It holds power—and now that power is in my hands. Not the gods’. Not the Daedra’s. Mine.’

Procyon stared at the girl, unsure whether he still spoke to a child—or something older, far wiser.

‘That is all I wished to know,’ Neldren said as she stood. ‘I thank you.’ She bowed to Procyon in respect and, before the priest could cast another greedy glance at the gem or speak a word more, she left the crypt.

That night, the priest made his way to the old farmstead at the town’s edge. Procyon knew the place. There, he brought two others. In the dead of night, with dark thoughts and blades in hand, they entered the girl’s home.

But Neldren had left it behind. She had seen the hunger in the priest’s eyes when he looked upon the stone—had read his thoughts. She had left her home and her father’s grave, but only for a time.

She would return.

***

He approached unseen. In the art of stealth, few could rival a Khajiit. Softly treading the dew-laced grass, Ra’Jah slipped past the guards, skirted the nursemaids seated beneath the stone arch of the balcony—too enraptured by their tomes to notice him—and came to a halt just behind the maid and the child.

‘A fine day, is it not?’ he said with a courteous tone.

The dark-haired maid turned, her gaze landing on the Khajiit—startled, yet resolute. Ra’Jah did not miss how she raised her hand ever so slightly, palm open and turned toward him. All the while he had watched her from the shadows, she had appeared meek, subdued—a servant unable to call for help out of fright even in times of danger. It took Ra’Jah a moment to see that this impression was deceptive. Now he was certain of it. In the face of peril, the girl transformed before his eyes—from a wretched creature to a warrior.

He glanced at her hand and smiled. A swordsman, in danger, reaches for his blade. A mage has no such need. Their weapon is always with them.

‘Forgive me if I startled you, Neldren,’ Ra’Jah said gently. ‘My step is oft silent, a quirk of my nature.’

The fierce expression melted from the girl’s face, replaced first by surprise, then with a deliberate cordiality. The Khajiit studied every movement she made, from her face to the smallest motion of her limbs. She was afraid—of that he was sure. Her eyes betrayed it still. A moment before, she had been ready to attack. Only now did Ra’Jah notice how she stood between him and the child—the count’s daughter. From behind her shoulder, he caught a glimpse of the girl’s frightened grey eyes.

Then, Neldren smiled suddenly—so broadly that Ra’Jah’s suspicion stirred anew at the change.

‘Yes, my lord. You did give me quite a fright. Your stealth is remarkable,’ she said, tossing her black hair back to reveal the line of her neck.

Ra’Jah understood then what she was doing.

‘Thank you, though you seem well-versed in such arts yourself.’

Neldren tilted her head in confusion.

‘Last night, you returned to the keep rather early,’ the Khajiit began. ‘The sky had yet to fully lighten when I glimpsed you slipping through the kitchen courtyard. I noticed you because I, too, am fond of walking in the early hours. You move deftly, though you lack caution. Why were you out? The servants are forbidden to leave the keep, are they not?’

Now the fear returned to her eyes. She cast a wary glance at the stone benches, at the guards stationed in the far corner. Her flirtatious smile faded immediately.

‘You must be mistaken, my lord. I do not leave the keep. That is the count’s order. And I’ve no reason to disobey. I came here as a girl, and for seven years have served his family.’

Ra’Jah did not answer at once. His gaze fell once more upon the child, who watched a butterfly dance above the zinnias. Would the one he hunted risk themselves to protect a child?

‘It is the eyes that feed a Khajiit first,’ he said, lowering his voice. ‘And I’ve seen no other Dunmer within these walls. But do not fear—I shall not betray your secret. Every girl should have secrets. Especially one as lovely as you.’

Before she could answer, Ra’Jah bowed, and, returning to the keep, ascended the eastern wing of the tower. He took his place by a window overlooking the garden, not far from Lord Sylvan’s study.

He stood at the stained-glass pane, watching the glittering waters of the moat, the golden fields, and the grey line of the road beyond. Morning light shone through the carved panels and spilled in golden flecks upon the garden paths. The Khajiit waited. He watched the girl and her maid with ash-grey skin and black hair. The child strove mightily to catch the butterfly, and Neldren pretended to help her.

At last, he heard the heavy footsteps echo down the corridor. The ones he had been awaiting.

‘When do you depart, Lord Ra’Jah?’

The Khajiit pretended to flinch in surprise and turned.

Three men approached. All three wore dark armor and walked as fast as if they wanted to attack. Sylvan still had his right hand on the hilt of his blade.

‘Lord Sylvan,’ Ra’Jah bowed. ‘I had hoped to depart by this evening, should the count give his leave.’

‘As you wish. Shall I assign you an escort?’

‘Thank you, no need. My companions await me near the borders of Cyrodiil.’

Sylvan nodded, about to move on, but Ra’Jah spoke again.

‘Is the count unwell again?’

Sylvan stopped at once. He turned sharply to the Khajiit.

‘And how would you know of that?’

The question confused Sylvan so much that Ra’Jah saw fear flicker in the man’s eyes—fear, as though for one breath he had forgotten that he was second only to the count in this town. The man who decided everything. From whom to trade in the city market, to which of the captured criminals should be executed. But now he seemed not a noble, but a cornered beast.

‘I noticed he was not in the garden today,’ Ra’Jah said calmly, as though blind to the shift.

Sylvan approached the stained-glass window cautiously, as if waiting for a trap, and looked out into the garden. waited a moment before speaking.

‘You are correct. The count is unwell again. He remained in his chambers through the night and still rests. The healers say he shall recover soon.’

‘I shall pray to the Nine on his behalf,’ said Ra’Jah solemnly. ‘May Auri-El keep him.’

A feral glint sparked in Sylvan’s gaze. He looked directly at the Khajiit, his lips trembling.

‘You mean “Akatosh,”’ he said hoarsely.

‘Beg pardon?’

‘May Akatosh keep him,’ Sylvan repeated.

‘Ah, yes. Of course,’ Ra’Jah smiled.

This was why he had waited here this morning. Akatosh—the chief of the Nine. The Great Dragon of Time. The High Elves called him Auri-El.

***

How far will we go for those we love?
For some, such a question will remain forever only a question. But Neldren knew the answer all too clearly. For her, it was not just words. It was her life. A life she gave to seek justice and bring back the one she loved.

In the middle of the night, she rose from her bed and dressed. This time, not in the familiar dress of a servant. Tonight she wore traveling boots, tight goatskin trousers, and a jacket over a linen shirt. Neldren tied her hair tight and hid it under her hood. She did not wear gloves — they would only get in the way. With a final motion, she fastened a short dagger at her belt and quietly left the room. Today, she would not return to the castle.

Neldren moved along a familiar path through the silent stone corridors and counted. She always counted when she walked this path. The priest Procyon was the first she killed. Many years had passed since her father’s murder, so the old man did not even remember her. No matter — it was not important. She killed him because she saw his men come into her home with the will to kill. And he also knew about the stone. She was not able to take his soul. She had been too young and had not yet fully mastered soul magic.

Neldren descended a spiral staircase in the western wing and stepped onto an unguarded rooftop. She froze for a moment, listening. In her recent outings, Neldren had felt as though someone was watching her. She heard crickets singing in the garden and smelled the fading scent of marigold. She stood still for a minute and moved on. Climbing down a ladder set by the kitchen wall, she kept counting. The second was the giant Darm — her father’s murderer. He died quickly, and his soul was not as large as his body. She had to kill two more then, but she never knew their names. She took their souls, too.

She slipped through a hidden passage into the castle and found herself in the empty kitchen. Then came Arkold and Vikram. The leader she found at the far edge of the province of Cyrodiil. He died easily — too easily for a man who had ordered her father’s death. Now his soul belonged to her as well. The last of them was Vikram. The smuggler had hidden better than the rest, and she found him almost by chance in one of Bruma’s brothels.

This time, Neldren didn’t need the way to the town. She made her way to the kitchen and stood before the cellar door. She would not even need to break the lock — the soldiers had not bothered to put it back. She descended the steep stairs with ease and entered a dark room. Extending her hand, Neldren conjured a small orb of light and sent it ahead. From the darkness appeared the outlines of barrels and sacks piled on each other. It smelled of onions and rotting potatoes. Neldren walked quickly, trying not to lose the trail. The small door at the end of the cellar was also unlocked. She did not like that. They had grown careless, and that could not mean anything good.

Neldren slipped through the door without a sound and crept down the steps. This passage led to a rather wide corridor stretching far ahead. The catacombs did not look abandoned. On the contrary, they were clearly in regular use. Neldren stood up straight, unafraid of being seen. In such places, footsteps echoed for many yards, and if someone followed or approached her, she would hear. She would hear — unless they crept better than she did. Neldren turned sharply toward the black doorway behind her, but saw no one.

She walked through the catacombs for no less than two miles before she heard voices. The soldiers were speaking of food. Their words were casual and relaxed. Clearly, they had been here before. Neldren extinguished the light and crouched, peeking carefully from behind a rusty drainage grate. There were two soldiers. One stood, leaning against a table with his sword laid beside him. The other sat with his head on his chest, seemingly asleep.

She had enough souls already — yesterday she had finished her task, taking the last one. There was no need to tempt fate. Neldren carefully moved forward, turned the corner, and passed the soldiers with ease. After the guard post, there was one more mile to walk. Half an hour later, she stood on withered autumn leaves. The cold night wind brushed across her face. After the stale air of the catacombs, it was more pleasant than ever. Neldren listened to its sound playing in the crowns of the black forest, like the sound of distant rain, and at last, she felt free.

Far off, on the slope of a hill, an owl hooted — and a voice spoke.

‘You move well.’

Neldren turned, raising her hand, but the pursuer did not show himself, hiding in the forest’s shadow.

‘If I wanted to kill you, I would have done it already,’ said the Khajiit, stepping forward.

Neldren said nothing. She needed time to understand how to fight him. A sword hung at the Khajiit’s belt, and he was dressed quite differently than at the castle. She noticed small rings of chain beneath his leather jacket, and a knife in his hand.

‘How long have you served Boethiah? Yes, I knew it was Boethiah — from the descriptions of the Hungering Ones I’ve heard again and again in this town.’

Neldren stayed silent. She already knew how she would strike first. No doubt the Khajiit would parry — but she had something else.

‘You haven’t summoned them yet?’ The Khajiit smiled, showing his fangs. ‘I must admit, I lost your trail for a moment back in the catacombs. But I hoped to reach you before the summoning. The Hungering Ones make for unpleasant foes — especially if there’s more than one. And where is Lord Sylvan? Are you carrying out his orders alone?’

Neldren was ready to attack, but something stopped her. Something stronger than herself. Her pride. She raised her hand. The Khajiit reached for his sword. But instead of attacking, Neldren said:

‘I serve no gods or Daedra. And they are no gods. There are no Aedra, no Daedra. All is all. And nothing. They are gods to you only because you call them so.’

And though it sounded foolish and cost her the chance to strike first, Neldren could not restrain herself. She loathed all gods—those who walked and those long perished. That pride was what saved her. Her voice brimmed with scorn and arrogance so fierce that the Khajiit’s golden eyes changed.

He withdrew his hand from the hilt of his blade. The haughtiness on his face faded, replaced now by wary attention.

‘You do not worship Boethiah? Then why commit all these murders? Why gather souls at all?’ He nodded toward the gray stone embedded in the Amulet of Arkay hanging around her neck.

‘I have killed no one,’ Neldren said. Then added softly, ‘Here. The stone is mine, and what I claim is mine alone.’

‘Then I have the right to take it from you,’ the Khajiit replied.

For several heartbeats, they stood motionless. Each waited, watching, striving to read the other's next move. A gust of wind stirred the treetops and carried with it the soft, rhythmic sound of quick steps through dry leaves. The Khajiit’s ears turned toward the sound, but his gaze remained fixed on Neldren’s hands. Now both stood waiting for something more.

They were not alone. Something was coming—beings whose name few knew, but Ra’Jah recognized at once what manner of foe they faced. The scuffling ceased. Slow, deliberate steps followed. Four figures emerged from the woods. Neldren could see only shadows, but the Khajiit’s eyes caught the glint of dark armor and swords at their belts.

‘A fine night, is it not, Master Ra’Jah?’ came Sylvan’s voice—hoarse and hollow, as though the night had wearied him with grim labor.

His eyes passed over Neldren without pause. Clearly, he had not expected a servant to be present, but had no time to question her presence.

‘I’ll not lie—I expected you here tonight. The moment you arrived in Kvatch, I knew you bore no word from the Jarl of Windhelm, though all your papers were in order. The Thalmor have long watched Kvatch and its count. And when you spoke of Auri-El in the tower… all doubt was gone.’

As Sylvan spoke, the other three began circling slowly. The Khajiit did not object. Let them take their places. When the fight began, he would fall back and guard the catacombs’ entrance. It would break the rhythm of the battle when it started.

But even before Sylvan’s words had faded, a brilliant flash of blue sparks lit the forest. The Khajiit shut his eyes just in time, but from the screams and curses, he knew the soldiers behind him had not. The autumn air was filled with the sharp scent of ozone. A heavy thud followed—the sound of a lifeless body hitting the ground. Ra’Jah drew his blade and turned swiftly. Blue runes flared along the steel.

One soldier thrust forward, but Ra’Jah parried and drove him back. Another stood dazed, swaying—blinded, no doubt seeing only flickering white lights. Without pause, Ra’Jah struck beneath his cuirass. The man screamed, clutching his wound, and slumped against the stone wall.

The first soldier lunged again, but this time Ra’Jah evaded and finally saw what was unfolding behind him.

Neldren was hurling lightning bolts at Sylvan, who struggled to shield himself with warding magic. One of the soldiers lay dead beside her, felled by the first spell that had blinded the others. Sylvan did not strike back—he knew his foe and waited for her power to wane, believing his chance would come then.

But terror interrupted his plans.

A piercing, anguish-laced scream shattered the clash of battle. Something approached—something the Khajiit had come to the forest to find. The soldier raised his blade again, then froze. Ra’Jah caught the horror dancing in his eyes—and the smile on Sylvan’s face.

The creature burst from the trees so suddenly that Neldren barely leapt aside in time. It stumbled into the clearing, striking trees and unleashing a torrent of golden leaves upon the fighters. With a groan, it collapsed, writhing in agony, churning the earth and foliage.

Ra’Jah saw Sylvan retreat into the forest's shadow. There would be no reaching him now. The soldier who had fought moments before stood frozen. The creature tried to rise, was seized by a violent spasm, and black blood spilled across the ground. Then it straightened—just barely—and Ra’Jah saw what it was.

Slick, black limbs in place of arms. Misshapen, twisted feet. And part of a human face—light-skinned, narrow, frozen in horror. The face of the count.

The Khajiit covered his face with his sleeve, shielding himself from the stench. He glanced at Neldren—but it was unnecessary. A storm atronach already hovered at her side. The first bolt passed through the beast into the damp earth, seemingly doing no harm. But the second caused it to convulse, vomiting more of that vile daedric blood.

It lashed out blindly, flailing with its limbs, but Ra’Jah and Neldren evaded with practiced ease. Fire bloomed in the Khajiit’s hand, and the creature was soon wreathed in flame.

‘Don’t let its blood touch your skin!’ Ra’Jah shouted.

Neldren gave no reply. Both her hands and the atronach unleashed lightning bolts. Her magic was weakening now, and Ra’Jah noticed it. He took a risk—struck wide to keep distance—and sliced deep into its leg. The thing gave no sign of pain. Its attention was locked on him, and it lunged with a spiked limb.

That was the opening Ra’Jah had waited for.

He dodged with ease, burned the limb with fire, and cleaved it away in one clean strike. Another surge of magic from Neldren sent it into spasms once more, until it toppled backward and shattered a tree trunk.

Then Ra’Jah heard it—footsteps. He had hoped this moment would not come. Two Hungering Daedra streaked toward Neldren, necks extended. She downed one with a final, weak burst of lightning, but the second shattered the atronach with a single swipe. The scent of charred stone filled the air.

‘Finish the first before it rises!’ the Khajiit called.

Neldren dashed toward the fallen creature, drew a dagger mid-run, and drove it beneath its pale ribs. Ra’Jah expected the second to chase her and readied a spell, but the pale shadow veered toward the frozen soldier instead. The man fled, but the creature’s claws tore through his steel plate with ease, spilling his entrails. A daedroth obeys only its summoner.

Ra’Jah cast banishment, and they returned to the Eleventh Plane of Oblivion.

A second tree cracked—the beast, risen again, lunged at him. A blow—and Ra’Jah slipped aside with feline grace. Another—and he dodged anew. It flung muck at him; he warded it away and struck forward, burying half his blade. Again he danced, dodging and retaliating, fire at his fingertips, steel in his grip. After the seventh blow, the beast faltered. Its mass slumped, and it moved no more.

The clearing looked as though an entire village had plowed it under.

The Khajiit stood over the ruined body of the daedric count, chest heaving, blade dripping black blood. He turned to Neldren. She knelt beside the shattered stones of the fallen atronach, sorrow shadowing her face. Her hands gathered the dust—like coarse salt—and she poured it gently into a pouch.

Ra’Jah surveyed the field one last time. One soldier lay bloodied near the catacomb entrance. Another lay twisted and torn by the daedroth. The third had been felled by Neldren’s lightning. Sylvan was gone.

***

They rode in silence until dawn. Only when the horizon began to pale did Neldren speak first. She did not love the night as Naeros did. Though it was easier for her to survive in darkness, she always longed for the light. It awakened in her something more than grief and the unending ache to bring her father back.

'She remained with him,' Neldren said softly, as their horses reached the main road, heading south toward the borders of Valenwood.

The Khajiit gave a silent nod. He knew of whom she spoke. The child was alone now. Neldren had been her shield, and now the town belonged to Sylvan. Her safety hung by a thread.

'I must return,' she said, yet did not turn back. She knew well—returning now meant death.

'You cannot go back. The greater threat has been dealt with. What comes next, only the Thalmor may know. We must uncover why Sylvan sought Boethiah’s favor, and what he plans to do.'

Neldren looked at the Khajiit with hate and scorn, but said nothing. That kind of blind loyalty was foreign to her, something she neither understood nor desired—but she saw no other path either. Only great power could stand against the power that had been unleashed. And in all of Tamriel, only the Thalmor wielded such power.

They rode on, hurrying to cross the border of Cyrodiil, until the green hills appeared ahead—hills that would give way to more hills, to rivers and lakes. The forests of Valenwood would not rise for many days yet. Beyond them lay endless villages, woods, and the town of Arenthia. And beyond that, across the mountains and the tropical swamps of Malabal Tor, lay the sunlit shores of the Summerset Isles.